The Gospel According to Luke E-Book

Emily Maguire

• Herausgeber: Lightning Books
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

'Maguire is a master of her craft' THE AUSTRALIAN BOOK REVIEWAggie Grey is a jaded sexual health counsellor who finds herself having to defend her business against the attacks of a radical new fundamentalist sect. Pastor Luke Butler is young, idealistic and out to capture the hearts and minds of Sydney's disaffected youth; his first order of business is to shut down Aggie's clinic.Caught in the crossfire is 16-year-old Honey – pregnant, battered and ready to cling to whatever hope is offered. As Aggie and Luke fight over the fate of Honey's unborn child, they discover a deep and surprising connection. But as the war between the secular and religious intensifies, Aggie, Luke and Honey find themselves in moral and physical danger.Against a backdrop of religious terrorism and social decay, The Gospel According to Luke is a contemporary love story about belief, family, grief and hope.

Leseprobe

Published by

Lightning Books Ltd

Imprint of EyeStorm Media

312 Uxbridge Road

Rickmansworth

Hertfordshire

WD3 8YL

All rights reserved. Apart from brief extracts for the purpose of review, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without permission of the publisher.

Emily Maguire has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as author of this work.

Contents

Prologue

PART ONE

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

PART TWO

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

39

40

Prologue

Luke begins preparing for Sunday’s sermon on Monday morning. He scans his bible, picking passages which relate somehow to world events or local concerns. There are always a few; the bible has something to say about everything. It’s the instruction book that people are always exclaiming they need and don’t realise they already have. Luke decides on a scripture, prays about it, studies it, thinks hard, reads what others have said about it. He puts the bible aside and gets on with the rest of his week’s work – interviewing ministry candidates, inspecting the building site, proofing advertising copy. But the passage is always on his mind. He notices everything, seeking a connection. He searches for illumination in every face.

By Tuesday he is wild with joy or crushed by despair. The text is ridiculously abstract, contradictory, irrelevant. Or it is brilliant, vibrant, containing the greatest wisdom, inspiring the most profound thoughts to have ever entered his mind. He is humbled by God’s wisdom in guiding him to this scripture or frustrated at his own obtuseness in misunderstanding God’s will.

On Wednesday he considers dumping the passage and picking a new one. It is the only way. This will never work out.

On Thursday he realises the passage is not the problem. It never is. He walks for hours, talking to himself, to the trees, to the Lord, trying to find the words that will make the story as alive to his congregation as it is in his heart.

Friday, he writes it all down, prays, puts it aside while he door-knocks another five streets to spread the word about the youth centre opening next month. When he reads the sermon again on Saturday morning he knows exactly what needs to be fixed and he does it easily and joyfully. He reads it to himself, over and over, adjusting his tone, altering his gestures, slowing down this section and speeding up another. He cannot sleep with the fear he will forget it all if he does not repeat it just one more time.

Sunday morning, early, he stands in the church alone and preaches to the rising sun. His heart beats too fast, he feels queasy and unsteady on his feet. He wishes it was eight already. He wishes it was over. He wishes he had never been called to do this, to submit week after week to this torture, this crushing self-doubt.

And then suddenly, it is OK. He can see in their faces that they want to hear what he says; they are attentive, rapt even. When he is self-deprecating they laugh affectionately; when he is raw and transparent, they cringe and look away, but just for a second. Their eyes always return to him, searching for the truth they know he will give them. By the time he is finished, he is bathed in sweat and love. It is the only time all week he does not feel lonely.

***

Sunday is Aggie’s only day off, but she goes in to the clinic anyway. Malcolm and Will spend Sundays sleeping late, brunching at some chic inner-city café, then making love in the antique four-poster bed Aggie gave them when they set up house together. The bed had spent eighteen years in the service of her parents and then ten years as a spare bed which was slept in only once, by Aggie’s ex-husband, the night before he left her. So she was pleased for the bed; it must be delighted to finally be used as a love nest after all those empty years.

Mal, Will and the bed are together on this Sunday, and although Aggie’s own bed is sinfully comfortable, it is also depressingly large for just one woman. Even an unusually tall woman like Aggie. She cannot bear to lie in bed, contemplating the size of the empty space all around her. Instead, she goes to her office where there is almost no space at all.

Malcolm’s desk is crammed into one corner, Aggie’s into its diagonal opposite. A couch for waiting clients and three rotating stands holding pamphlets about disease and pregnancy and dangerous pleasure, take up the rest of the main room. There are two small rooms out back: one is for confidential counselling sessions, and is just big enough for three folding chairs; and the other is a combined kitchen/laundry/toilet, which is far from hygienic, but what can you do? It’s not like the government is throwing money at sexual health clinics in these ultra-conservative times.

Aggie spends Sunday in her tiny locked office, answering emails, reading last month’s journals and health department reports, drinking instant coffee and eating cornflakes from the box she keeps in her filing cabinet. No one knows where she is or what she is doing. She never has to tell anyone where she’s going or what her plans are or why she is eating dry cereal instead of going next door for a sandwich. She wonders whether this is independence or isolation, powerful or pathetic and she would like to ask her mother – that expert in power and independence – but has no idea where she is or how to find her. Aggie bets her mother is not sitting alone in an unheated office reading about genital herpes.

***

To get the party started, rocket fuel. They spend a couple of minutes searching for a big enough bowl, before giving up and mixing it all in the kitchen sink. They can ladle it out with their glasses. It’s a mix of white rum from Rex’s place, Jim Beam Black Label and Johnnie Walker nicked from Steve’s old man, two casks of Moselle purchased with a pile of scrounged-up change, and half a case of Guinness that Honey stole from her step-dad while he was sleeping. If he finds out she took it, he will rip her hair from her skull.

It’s a lot of booze for three sixteen-year-olds. Honey thinks they might die if they drink it all. But then some others arrive, friends of Rex’s, slightly older guys who have pot and cigarettes which they give to Honey and the boys in exchange for access to the brew. The blokes are all over Honey, which she is used to, but she’s there for Steve and he knows it. He pushes the hair out of her eyes when she bends her head to suck back on the bong. She hands him cigarettes lit between her lips. At some point, she kisses him and it’s like pushing her tongue into the neck of a rum bottle.

Honey loves parties like this. Someone’s parents’ house. Communal booze and drugs. Touching and laughing and kissing. No sense is talked. No unanswerable questions asked. Music videos playing and the radio on and a CD blasting and some German thrash metal band screaming from a computer which is flashing pictures of women in leather collars being assaulted by Alsatians and men in masks. Honey is cool with the noise and the porn and the smell.

The boys are shouting at each other, but Honey can’t follow the argument. Something about cars or maybe boats. Engines, anyway. Steve’s hand is inside her shirt, his tongue in her ear. On the TV, a girl rides a mechanical pony, her face twisted in ecstasy. At least, Honey thinks it’s ecstasy; she has never experienced it herself, just seen it on others. Her glass clicks against her teeth and the booze dribbles down her chin, making Steve laugh.

Time has passed. Honey is on a bed in the almost-dark, and Steve’s wispy blond fringe is in her eyes. Someone is pounding on the door.

‘It’s locked,’ Steve shouts, his voice cracking with the effort. ‘It’s locked,’ he whispers, breathing hot rum in Honey’s face.

‘You and Ricky broke up, right?’ Steve is removing her jeans.

‘Aha.’ She struggles to stay awake.

‘So you’re single, yeah?’

Honey says she is and his teeth flash white in the moonlight. She closes her eyes, aware of hands and moans and pounding on the door, in her head, on her skin.

She wakes up. Steve is gone and her thighs are sticky. She jumps up; her head hurts. Fast, she opens the window behind her and yaks into the darkness outside. She hears the splash as her vomit hits the ground below. Her throat and vagina burn.

Blankness, blackness, a dizzy walk through empty halls and rooms. Then she’s smoking a cigarette in the living room. More boys and a couple of girls have come. They stare at Honey as though she is still naked and vomiting.

The rocket fuel is gone, but someone has produced a case of beer. It’s Toohey’s New, her mother’s brand. At this moment, Honey’s mother is probably also drinking a Toohey’s New and smoking a Winfield Red. She has also probably just been fucked. Honey does not want to think about that, so she starts a conversation with the boy beside her. She tells him her name is Mary; he kisses her hand and says he is Jesus.

All around her, people are shouting, their faces caught between laughing and crying. She thinks it’s three in the morning, but the numbers on her pink plastic Swatch keep blurring, so she can’t be sure. Steve is asleep, his head on her stomach, his mouth open. He looks like he fell and landed that way. He looks like it hurts to sleep.

PART ONE

1

Luke had been interviewed by the city dailies, the local weeklies, several university papers, a teen pop magazine and a local small business journal, and sooner or later, the same question always came. It was coming now, from the sweet red-headed reporter from Parenting Monthly. She was apologetic, shuffled in her seat, tucked her hair behind her ears, frowned as though she was about to deliver terrible news, and then nodded. ‘And what is your, ah, ethnic background, Mr Butler? Are your parents recent immigrants or …?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you.’

A line appeared between her eyebrows. Her pale cheeks turned pink. ‘Oh. I’m terribly…I didn’t mean to be – it’s just our readers are from diverse backgrounds and I thought it would –’

‘Kerry, please, you misunderstand me.’ Luke smiled and touched her hand. ‘I’m not refusing to answer, I simply can’t. I haven’t the slightest idea where my parents are from. Or who they are. I was raised in a children’s home.’

‘Oh!’ She clutched at his hands.

Luke continued to smile although he was squirming in his skin. ‘Could you do me a little favour?’ he asked.

‘Of course. Name it.’

‘Could you not make a big deal out of this in your article? It’s just that I don’t want my personal story to detract from my role here.’

‘Oh, but …’

‘It’s sort of private. I don’t know why I told you, I just…well, I’m new at this being interviewed business. When I get asked a question, my instinct is to answer it. I should have said “off the record” or something, right? Or “no comment?” I’m not used to being secretive.’

Reporters rarely wrote about the mission of the Christian Revolution or the nature of the Youth Centre. It was all about Luke’s ‘olive skin and deep brown eyes’, his ‘astounding youth’, ‘dark good looks’, and his ‘tragic past’.

Pastor Riley said this was a good thing. What he referred to as Luke’s ‘charisma’ would get the teens through the front door, and what was happening inside would ensure they stayed. And then as they danced and sang, ate and drank, played football, tennis and basketball, took cooking classes and mechanics workshops, formed friendships with each other and trusting bonds with the leadership team, the Lord’s message would get through, and young hearts would be changed.

So Luke smiled and charmed and shook hands and answered awkward questions. He held information nights for parents and good-naturedly shrugged off the flirtations of suburban mothers and silent suspicions of suburban fathers. He led city councillors and community leaders through the brand-new, six-million-dollar centre and defended the Christian Revolution’s purchase of twenty-one acres of prime real estate in the heart of Parramatta’s central business district. He hung out in movie theatres and game arcades, handing out brochures and spreading the word.

Having graduated top of his Christian Revolution Ministerial College class; having done the requisite year as a roving missionary, during which he was responsible for more conversions than any other missionary in the history of the Christian Revolution; having spent eighteen months as a fundraiser, and in that time received more and larger donations than any other fundraiser; having served four years as a Junior Pastor, in which he tripled the under-25 congregation; and having dedicated more than half his life to ensuring the success of the Christian Revolution, Luke felt he deserved to be treated as something more than a glorified spokesmodel. Patience, he told himself for the thousandth time. Patience. God had gifted him with this opportunity and he must patiently endure the trials required.

‘I’m afraid I have another appointment in ten minutes.’ He tried to look genuinely sorry. ‘Can I take you on the grand tour before you go?’

‘Oh, yes, please. I’d love that.’

The complex comprised a three-hundred seat auditorium, two meeting halls, a recreation room, a lecture theatre, an industrial kitchen and ten self-contained cottages which would initially house the five-person leadership team and allow for guests and growth. The main auditorium was fitted with state-of-the-art sound, lighting and media equipment, and the recreation room featured computers, game consoles, a wide-screen television and a DVD player. In the grounds were a tennis court, sports field, and a picnic area, and under the building was security parking for one hundred and twenty cars.

As they walked, Luke talked, making sure to pause often enough for the reporter to make notes. What’s unique about the NCYC, he said, is that it’s a church which is not a church at all. There would be no sermons, ever. In fact, the centre would not even operate on Sundays – if you want to go to church, hook up with your parents, right? Here (he spun around on the vast back lawn) we’ll have sausage sizzles and rock concerts. Over here (he ran fast, ahead of the reporter, making her laugh and pant) we’ll have football matches, mini-Olympics, water fights and funfairs. He showed her the rooms for bible studies, workshops, one-on-one counselling, small-group meetings, dance classes, cooking classes, guitar lessons and computer games.

‘And make sure you let the caring parents reading your magazine know that from nine in the morning to ten at night, six days a week, we’re here to take care of their precious children. All our pastors and volunteers are trained in first aid and the centre is under constant security surveillance. Parents need never hire a babysitter again! Drop the kids off on a Saturday night, we’ll entertain them, keep them out of trouble and maybe teach them a little something about God. Everyone wins.’

The reporter smiled, touched his arm, shook her head. ‘Wonderful,’ she said. ‘Just wonderful.’

‘Nine to eleven, Monday to Saturday,’ Luke repeated. ‘We’re here for the kids.’

2

The frosted glass doors of the Northwest Christian Youth Centre opened onto a tree-lined semicircular courtyard. Teenagers in jeans and brand-name sweat-tops stood in groups of three or four, talking and laughing in the winter sunshine. Soft rock music wafted into the courtyard through speakers built into the walls. A cart loaded with cans of soft drink and baskets of chocolate bars and fruit stood to one side. The only indication that this was the headquarters of a fundamentalist group was the bronze lettering on the far wall which read: Start a Revolution, In His Name.

Aggie approached a table covered in glossy pamphlets and pastel-coloured information sheets. Get Jiggy For Jesus!, Safe and Sound – Our Security Guarantee, The Christian Revolution – A History, and NCYC - This is Not a Church! lay alongside The Truth About Safe Sex and How Far is Too Far?

The leaflet that had inspired Aggie’s visit was not on the table. Clearly, the propaganda designed to recruit children was different to that intended to stir up hatred and prejudice in the general community. Besides, they knew as well as she did that had they told a bunch of teenagers that Aggie’s office was ‘distributing pornography to children’ those children would have been queuing up around the block to get some.

A girl of about twenty wearing a fitted fuchsia jumper and a swinging blonde ponytail bounced up to the table. Her name tag said: Hi! I’m Belinda. ‘Welcome to the NCYC. Are you interested in signing your kids up to one of our programs?’

Aggie smiled down at the girl, who, like everyone out here, was at least half-a-foot shorter than her. ‘Actually no. I was hoping to speak to the manager.’

‘The manager? Oh, well we don’t really have a manager. Each member of our Pastoral Team is responsible for various aspects of the Centre’s operation. For example, I –’ the girl pointed to her name tag, ‘– am Belinda Swan, and I oversee the Learn and Praise Program, organise the Girls Only and Teen Spirit groups and act as Personal Assistant to the Senior Pastor. I’m also the unofficial cleaning lady, laundress and kitchen hand. Not that I mind. It’s all God’s work. Even scrubbing pots. Right?’

‘So this Senior Pastor…he’s the boss?’

Belinda giggled. ‘Technically, I guess. But he’d turn red as a beetroot if anyone called him that. He’s our leader, sure, but –’

‘Is he in?’

‘I’ll check if he’s available. Your name?’

‘Aggie Grey.’

Belinda nodded, taking a mobile phone from her belt and punching the keys. ‘What is the visit regard– Luke, hi. There’s an Aggie Grey here to – yes, yes…. you’ve been…yes, sure, I will. Bye.’ She returned the phone to her belt before looking back up at Aggie. ‘Pastor Butler said to tell you he’s been looking forward to meeting you. He’s in the kitchen. Just go on through these doors, straight to the end of the corridor and it’s the last door on the right. I’d show you the way but I have to stay here to meet and greet.’

Aggie thanked her and made her way through the courtyard. She noticed a few of the teenagers smiling at her like they knew her, but she was pretty sure she had never seen any of these kids before. Freshly-scrubbed, expensively-dressed teens rarely ended up in Aggie’s office. Not because they never needed help, but because they had somewhere better to go to get it.

She pushed open the frosted-glass door, stepped inside the building and stopped, momentarily stunned by the change in environment. There was no sound except her breathing and the distant hum of the air-conditioning. The air was warm and clean, and the low lighting illuminated only pale walls and dark doors as far as she could see. She headed down the corridor, aware, with every step, how loud her footsteps were. They were not loud in the way that stiletto heels clicking against tiles are loud, but in the way that a giant’s footsteps are loud, even when that giant is attempting to move lightly across the carpet in her rubber-soled sneakers.

Aggie paused outside the kitchen door. She heard the tinkling of a teaspoon in a teacup and a tuneless humming. She took three deep breaths, imagining a piece of string running up her spine and through the top of her skull, pushed her shoulders back, sucked her stomach in and ran a hand over her head to ensure her hair was not sticking up.

She pushed open the door and was greeted by a smiling boy with dark curls and a blinding lime shirt, holding aloft a yellow teacup. ‘Hello. Tea or coffee?’

‘Neither, thanks. I’m looking for Pastor Butler.’

‘You’ve found him.’ He motioned toward the enormous timber table that stood between them. ‘Pull up a pew. I’m just brewing a pot. Sure you won’t have a cup?’

Aggie stayed in the doorway. ‘You’re in charge here?’

‘No, no, no.’ He carried the pot and a cup to the table, then slid onto the bench behind it. He motioned for Aggie to join him. She stood her ground.

‘Can you tell me please, who is in charge?’

The boy pointed to the ceiling. ‘God, of course. I’m just doing his bidding. Now please, Aggie Grey, sit down. Let’s talk.’

Aggie sat down. He smiled; she did not. ‘You know who I am, so I’d appreciate it if –’

‘Luke Butler. Senior Pastor.’ He put down his cup and offered her his hand, which she shook the way her father had taught her: fast and firm. Luke Butler did not look surprised at this; he matched it with his own. Aggie withdrew her hand wordlessly.

‘So,’ he said, clasping his tea cup. ‘So.’ He held her gaze, smiling as though he had a great secret he couldn’t wait to tell.

‘I’m here to talk about the leaflets.’

‘Yes, I thought you might be.’

‘Your leaflets are defamatory. If you don’t stop distributing them, we will sue.’

Luke Butler’s smile remained. He topped up his teacup. ‘You deny carrying out the activities listed? Encouraging illegal activities such as drug injection and under-age intercourse? Promoting homosexuality and promiscuity? Distributing pornography to children?’

‘We encourage and promote nothing except health and safety. If you believe any of our activities are illegal, you’re free to report us to the relevant authorities. You are not free, however, to distribute defamatory literature. It stops immediately or you’ll be hearing from our lawyers.’

Luke sat back in his chair and ran both hands through his curls. ‘Better get your PR staff involved too, then. Imagine how much fun the tabloids will have with this.’

Aggie shrugged. ‘Maybe. Maybe not. If we can communicate to the community the importance of what we do, then –’

‘Forget communicating to the community for a minute. Communicate to me. Tell me why you should be allowed to continue operating.’

‘Listen you arrogant little prick. I’m not justifying the validity of my work to you.’ Aggie stood up. ‘If the harassment doesn’t stop, I will call the police. Then I’ll call a lawyer. And you may have the Telegraph and the talkback shock jocks on your side, but I can stir up every progressive in the country if I call in the ABCand the Herald.’

Luke stood and came around to the other side of the table. He placed a hand on Aggie’s shoulder, which was even more alarming; she’d been hit often but held by the shoulder rarely. ‘I’m sorry I upset you,’ he said.

‘No, you didn’t. It’s fine.’ She shrugged, but his hand remained.

‘I didn’t know you’d get so upset. I was just…I hadn’t meant to be arrogant. I only wanted to understand why you do what you do. You seem like such a nice –’ His hand fell, and he stepped back. ‘I just wanted to understand how such a nice person could be in the business you’re in.’

‘This isn’t about me, Mr Butler.’ Aggie stepped sideways and made for the door. ‘Stop the leaflets or you’ll hear from our lawyers.’

‘Let me show you out,’ he said, but Aggie’s long, fast strides left him finishing the sentence from the kitchen while she had already reached the front doors.

Malcolm was out the front of the office smoking when Aggie returned. She pulled a face at the cigarette, but he was already grinding it into the ashtray and didn’t see.

‘Thought this week was quitting week?’

Mal followed Aggie inside. ‘Quitting at home week. Next week I’ll stop smoking at work, and the week after that, I’ll stop altogether.’

‘And does Will know about your three-step program?’ Will had been on at Mal to quit smoking and lose weight almost since they’d met. It was bad enough, he said, that Mal was fifteen years older, without having to worry about him dropping dead prematurely of a heart-attack. Will’s fears were behind the stash of chips and lollies in Mal’s desk drawer, the gym bag thrown onto the filing cabinet every Monday morning and taken home unopened every Friday night, and now, the cigarettes kept in a drawer alongside peppermints and deodorant spray.

Mal put a finger to his lips. ‘You don’t tell him about the ciggies and I won’t tell him about the smoked salmon at the Red Cross fundraiser.’

‘I was drunk and it was dark.’ Aggie had known after the first bite that the tiny cross-shaped sandwiches contained salmon, and she had not only swallowed the morsel already in her mouth but had proceeded to eat five more. Mal, who was vegetarian only when Will was looking, had been delighted to smell salmon on the breath of Aggie, the only person he knew who was more sanctimonious about her intake of animal products than Will.

‘No excuse for slaughtering innocent salmon, Ag. None at all.’ Mal took a Mars Bar from his desk and unwrapped it slowly, lovingly. He grunted and half of it disappeared in one bite. He chewed with his mouth open and moaned with delight. If it wasn’t for the receding hairline and waistline blubber anyone would think he was fourteen years old.

She took a soy protein bar from her desk drawer and bit into it with theatrical relish. She chewed and swallowed, pretending it did not taste like cardboard soaked in vinegar and nutrasweet.

‘Do you want to know about my meeting with the Bible Basher or what?’

Mal mumbled something through a mouthful of chocolate and caramel.

Aggie put the protein bar back in her drawer. She wasn’t hungry enough for the taste not to bother her.

‘The head bloke is, like, ten years old, dressed like something out of Young Talent Time. He talked tough, but he’s just enthusiastic about his shiny new grown-up job, I think. If he doesn’t settle down in a week or so, we’ll go over his head. Send a letter to the head office threatening legal action.’

‘Why wait?’

‘Goodwill. We have to live with them right across the street. No point getting into a legal stoush if it’s not absolutely necessary.’

‘Aggie Grey talking about goodwill toward fundies and eating smoked salmon at balls,’ Mal said. ‘Your mother would disown you.’

3

Joe lived in the covered doorway of a long-abandoned drycleaners in the same street as Aggie’s office. Over the years Aggie had known him he’d been placed in homes and hostels a dozen times by various religious and government social workers, but he was never gone from his doorway for more than a week or two. He drank, which was no surprise, but unlike many of the street alcoholics who drank for warmth and rest, he was a mean, filthy drunk. He drank and cursed, drank and threw bins through windows, drank and defecated on picnic tables. Joe was the first person Aggie introduced work experience kids to; meeting him killed any romantic notions about the nobility of homelessness or the warm-fuzziness of working with the destitute.

Aggie checked on Joe every night. If he was conscious she would ask him how we was and if he needed anything. Invariably, he would tell her to go fuck herself. If he was unconscious she would hold her breath and bend in close to check if he was breathing. She always hoped for an unconscious but breathing Joe; even the foulest of human beings were loveable when asleep.

Tonight he was on his side, his legs curled up toward his stomach, one arm stretched out in front. Aggie steeled herself for the stench of vinegar wine and unwashed flesh and crouched down. The stink was fouler and stronger than normal and his outstretched arm was convulsing.

‘Joe?’ Aggie picked up his arm and felt something warm and sticky. ‘Shit! Joe, can you hear me?’

She reached for her mobile, but then remembered the battery was dead. She yelled out for help, but had no expectation of being heard. All the shops and offices had closed hours ago.

Bile spilled from Joe’s mouth and onto Aggie’s leg. His arm continued to spasm between her hands; if she put it down he would injure himself further on the concrete. She glanced up and down the street, but it was late and no one walked through here after dark. Joe’s convulsions were intensifying and she was afraid he’d fracture his skull. Aggie kept hold of his arm and lifted his head onto her leg. He was a dead weight but her office was close. She thought she could make it there and call an ambulance.

‘Joe? I’m going to lift you up, OK? It might hurt for second, but I promise it will be better soon.’ Aggie slid out from underneath him. Immediately, Joe’s head thumped into the concrete. He reared up and fell down again, falling heavily to the ground.

‘Have you called an ambulance?’

Aggie spun around. The boy pastor stood, phone in hand. She shook her head and he began punching the keys. While he talked to the emergency operator Aggie set to work making Joe more comfortable. He was small and withered but heavy with unconsciousness, and his convulsions made him difficult to move.

‘Slide over.’ Luke Butler lifted Joe’s legs and placed them on his own lap. The man lay like a plank across Aggie and Luke’s laps, their four hands holding him in place. ‘Ambulance is on its way.’

‘Thanks.’ Aggie pulled a tissue from her pocket and tried to staunch the bleeding from Joe’s elbow. The tissue was quickly soaked, but Luke pressed a handkerchief into her hands, and while she held that to the wound, he worked his right shoe off with his left foot, raised his shoeless foot up over Joe’s legs and removed his sock.