Alleluia! Alleluia!, my friend Roland rattled his tambourine at me like a whirling dervish. ‘Alleluia! I am saved. I am saved.’
We were in my bedsitting room with me curled on top of the duvet and every corpuscle of my body aching, my tongue stuck on the roof of my mouth and eyelids glued.
‘Alleluia!’ Roland leaped around the crowded space before barking his shin on the chair.
The story he told was of his life transformed by seeing a Christian in town. The Church Street Christian is well-known. He stands alone shouting into a microphone as people with lives ignore him, even as his amplified voice chases after them. I wonder how many kinds of loneliness must one man suffer before he takes to the streets to rant at strangers.
‘I am saved. I am saved,’ Roland hopped around, simultaneously rubbing his shin. ‘I shall sin no more.’
I knew this last remark to be untrue. We had just spent 48 hours straight touring the fleshpots of Liverpool, ingesting cocaine and drinking alcohol by the bucketload. And more besides: the welts on my buttocks continued to throb each time they connected with a hard surface.
‘I have seen the light. I have taken The Lord Jesus Christ into my heart,’ Roland rattled the infernal tambourine with increased vigour.
I felt pity for the Church Street Christian. He must have praised the Lord that at last he had made a convert. I knew better: Roland was still blitzed on cocaine.
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Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 