15 Church Street
by Gary Hewitt.

 

 

‘There’s another one outside. You said you sorted this out.’

‘You’re joking.’

J.C’s girlfriend hurled herself into her settee.

‘All right, I’ll have a word.’

J.C. slung on a jumper. The December air embraced him with frosty warmth. A decrepit figure wearing a pork pie hat along with a black trench coat hopped to and fro on J.C’s doormat.

‘Can I help?’

The stranger’s face brightened. He offered his hand.

‘You’re J.C. aren’t you? Pleasure to meet you.’

JC sighed, accepted the handshake.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t know you. Why are you here?’

The stranger offered J.C. a sealed bottle of Highland water.

‘To see a miracle. Elsie Barnes said you cured her arthritis.’

‘Who? You’ve lost me.’

‘Visited you three days ago. She’s chubby, limps and is well spoken.’

J.C. scratched his chin.

‘Oh yes, I remember her. A confused old dear who said I was the second coming. I asked her to go just like I’m going to ask you to leave.’

The pensioner shook his head.

‘Don’t you realise you’re Jesus?’

J.C. thrust the plastic container back into the intruder’s hand.

‘My name’s John Chartway, not bloody Jesus. Go home and the water isn’t holy before you ask.’

The old man waved at J.C.’s retreating figure. He slipped open his bottle of sparkling water and savoured the taste of finest Shiraz.

 

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