Laurence snapped all at once. He was transformed from the figure of a meek and mild janitor he’d cultivated so well, into a figure of more power and strength than his age would suggest he could possibly hold. His breath rasped as it came in a frenetic, shallow pulse, and his eyes narrowed into slits. The muscles in his reddened neck contorted and the large screwdriver in his right hand was brought up to chest level as he stomped forward in fury.
‘I’ve had enough of what this bitch has to say.’ The words were poison as he shoved past Father Alberto’s seat and lunged at Angelina.
The attack came quickly, but Angelina’s suspicious focus on the man since he’d entered the room already had her on alert – perhaps not for this, but for something. When he pushed through the chairs and thrust the flat-head end of the screwdriver at her, she had just enough time to lunge to her right and avoid a blow that would have caused it to pierce through her lower neck. Instead, the flat blade rammed into the wooden backing of her chair and knocked it over as Angelina sprang to her feet.
Laurence’s body followed the motion of his outstretched arm and he nearly toppled over the chair, but he caught himself and spun back at Angelina’s new position. He was beyond words now, his anger vocalised only in bestial grunts that roared out of him, white spittle clinging to the corners of his lips.
He shot forward at Angelina in a second attempt, this time swiping the screwdriver in front of him in a face-level arc. It whipped the air with an audible whoosh each time he sliced it back and forth.
Angelina thrust herself backwards, a manoeuvre that slammed her spine against one of the metal bookcases, which in turn rattled vigorously as books leapt off its shelves and flew to the floor. The position was as far back as she could get, and she wasn’t sure it would be enough. The blade of the screwdriver flashed by her face mere centimetres from her eyes, so close that the whoosh of air forced her to blink, and all at once she couldn’t see what was in front of her.
For an instant, Angelina went blind.
Ben couldn’t comprehend what had suddenly transformed the peaceful janitor he’d come to know over the past months into the raving madman attacking the woman next to him. But there was one thing Ben knew well: the servants of God didn’t act like this. And though he wasn’t sure whether at this point Angelina Calla counted as a colleague or friend, or perhaps, given her antipathy towards his faith, subtle enemy, he knew she was in danger and that he had to do something.
Ben burst out of his chair and ran at Laurence. The surprisingly vigorous old man had just attempted to slash his oversized screwdriver across Angelina’s face and missed, but her slam into the bookshelf had winded her and she didn’t appear to be in motion as Laurence drew back his elbow for a thrust straight into her stomach.
Ben didn’t have time to say anything. He simply roared as Laurence’s arm flexed and the screwdriver started to move directly forward.
Ben threw all his weight forward and ran at him.
Clarity returned to Angelina’s watery eyes just in time to see Laurence’s blurred form take shape in front of her. Her breath was hard to draw in, but she knew she had to move.
Then she glanced down. It was too late. Laurence’s weapon was pointed directly at her stomach, his arm already in motion, less than a metre away. She pushed strength into her legs to sidestep the attack, but she knew she wouldn’t be out of his reach in time. Sweat seemed instantaneously to form and go ice-cold across her entire body.
Then, without warning, Laurence lurched to the side, his arm still extending but suddenly out of her range. Ben had slammed his whole weight into the man, and with a deafening clank of metal the two men crashed into a bookshelf on the wall to Angelina’s right.
She righted herself, took a deep breath in. By the time she’d swivelled towards their new position, both Ben and Laurence had recovered from the crash, Ben pulling himself quickly away to avoid a counter-swing from the older man. Laurence’s rage had transferred, for the moment, to his new opponent, and there was bloodlust in his eyes as he sprang in Ben’s direction.
Angelina realised they had to end this, and quickly, or this man would kill them both.
Ben could see Laurence preparing his next attack, lining up his position, massaging the shoulder where Ben had landed on him, then readying his makeshift weapon for the subsequent strike. Ben was near a corner of the small room and therefore at a decided disadvantage – something Laurence appeared to recognise.
‘You fucking religious nut,’ the old man fumed, the words as poisonous to Ben as the janitor’s rage. ‘I’ve had as much of your kind as I can tolerate.’
Laurence shot himself forward. He raised his arm high, already yanking the screwdriver downwards in a kill strike as he raced to Ben’s position.
All Ben could do was duck. As Laurence threw himself at him, he dropped at the last instant to knee level and rolled forward.
Ben hit Laurence’s left knee as the man’s arm swooped down to end him, and the motion knocked him off trajectory. Laurence wobbled and spun, his arms instinctively rising to keep him from toppling over, but he couldn’t completely control his motion. He swerved to his left, spinning, the screwdriver flailing.
That it landed in Father Alberto’s chest had not been his intention.
The flat blade of the screwdriver tore effortlessly through the priest’s woollen robe, given the mass of thrust behind it, and its eight-centimetre shaft sank into his flesh, colliding with ribs and ricocheting through his body.
For an instant, the world stopped. Motion stopped. Laurence’s expression widened.
Surprise.
He hadn’t intended the priest to be his victim here, and the blood that suddenly poured out of Father Alberto’s chest on to Laurence’s hand, still clenched around the screwdriver’s handle, horrified him with its pulsing warmth.
Behind him, Angelina and Ben had frozen in their steps. In the far corner of the room, Thomás cried out in abject horror.
A second later, Laurence’s features hardened. The shock of stabbing the priest had halted him, but it wasn’t enough to deter him from his course. All his anger and rage returned.
With a great yank he pulled the screwdriver out of the priest’s chest, and with blood still dripping from his hand, he turned to face Angelina and Ben.
‘Now, to be done with the two of you.’