Having seen Maughan’s reflection, I’d normally have been able to dodge his onslaught with ease, but with some kind of poison coursing through my veins, my body is refusing to co-operate. I manage to move a little to one side, so although the Madonna clunks into my skull, it’s only a glancing blow.
But still, the statuette shatters and I’m knocked from my chair. My shoulder hits the oakwood table and sends it crashing over. The figurine of the horse, that symbol of friendship given in another time, smashes as it hits the floor.
I land on the carpet and roll over, trying to push myself up and onto my feet. But the priest is nimble and vicious. Circles me. Delivers a right-footed kick to the side of my head that sends me sprawling.
My arms feel so heavy, but I have to find a way to—
Maughan brings the heel of his shoe down onto the side of my head, grunting with exertion as he repeats the attack twice more. Now he stands back. I look up at him.
The Reverend Thomas Maughan is wearing the traditional garb of a Church of England vicar. A white smock over a black cassock. There’s a dark tippet – the long linen scarf-like item of clothing – around his neck and, of course, an ivory-white dog collar circles his throat. He also wears a silver crucifix on a heavy chain. It’s large and ostentatious, with the body of Christ on the cross, gazing forlornly down, as if he’s looking at me with a degree of sympathy.
Maughan is breathing heavily and there’s a sheen of perspiration across his boyish face, now rendered a deep, angry red. His assault has taken it out of him, but adrenaline floods through his system and he’s fired up. All in.
I manage to gasp, ‘Don’t do this! Don’t cross this line, reverend.’
‘I crossed the line a long time ago, Novak.’
He straddles me, effectively sitting on my chest, his knees either side of my torso. I feel his weight pressing down and although I struggle, I’m far too feeble to shift him a single inch. He removes his tippet. Coils one end around his left palm. Repeats the process on his right hand and then loops it around my throat.
I try to stop him, clawing at the linen, but he’s strong, confident and resolved to finish this thing. He pulls the material sharply so it digs tight into my windpipe. I can’t breathe. I manage to plead, ‘Please . . .’
But looking at this crimson priest, I know there is no chance of mercy. Either I overcome him or I die, and whatever he drugged me with has left my body hopelessly weak. I try to strike Maughan’s face and see my clenched fist barely makes any impact worth a damn.
My head throbs from the kicking and lack of oxygen. My vision blurs.
I turn my face to the left. On the carpet, inches from my eyes, I see the weeping Virgin Mary. Half her face is missing. I reach for the statuette . . .
Maughan shouts, ‘Bastard!’ and, relaxing his grip on the tippet, seizes the Madonna and tosses her to one side, far out of my reach. My fingers try to pull the material from around my throat, but the priest is too swift. Too committed. He tightens the ligature. Now I can’t fight him. I’m just fighting for breath. My skull pounds and my vision gives me nothing but blurred, sliding colours.
I feel myself slipping away, and as if he senses my powerlessness and defeat, Maughan urges me to, ‘Get this over with . . . Just die . . .’