The Blasphemer by John Ling

Author:John Ling [Ling, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Thriller
ISBN: 9781469951218
Google: i4uwuAAACAAJ
Amazon: 1469951215
Barnesnoble: 1469951215
Goodreads: 13335836
Publisher: CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform
Published: 2011-12-26T18:30:00+00:00

CHAPTER 34

Maya watched the woman burn on the television. It was the most gut-wrenching, soul-destroying sight. And the knowledge that came with it was worse. Knowing that it was all happening in real time, but not being able to do a damn thing about it.

Sweet Jesus.

All she could do was watch.

People were scrambling to help the woman. Whipping her with their jackets. Splashing her with bottled water. Trying to smother the flames. But their efforts only made things worse. The blaze danced and sizzled like a living beast, growing, blooming, exploding, forcing everyone to stumble back.

Maya winced, her stomach cramping up.

And that’s when the news network decided to cut to a commercial break. It was sudden. Jarring. And incredibly dumb. Of all the adverts they could have chosen to play out, they went with one for dog food, featuring a bouncing golden retriever, a laughing family and a cheerful jingle.

Damn it.

Maya raised the remote. Aimed it at the television. Killed the broadcast. She shook her head. Felt rage and sorrow pooling behind her eyes like a burning itch. That woman was someone’s wife. Someone’s mother. Someone’s child…

Damn it.

Blinking hard, she turned and studied the Khans as they sat on the sofa behind her. Belinda was cupping her mouth and trembling, her face bleached of colour. Abraham, though, looked remarkably placid. Hands on his belly. Fingers braided. Near expressionless except for a minor twitch at the side of his mouth.

The contrast between husband and wife was stark.

Not just physical, but psychic.

Maya hesitated before setting the remote down on the coffee table.

The weight of the moment stretched. Marked by the ticking of the clock on the wall. The ebb and flow of their collective breaths. The wailing of sirens on the street below. The buzzing of a chopper overhead.

Eventually, Abraham cleared his throat and straightened, his hand clutching the sofa’s armrest, squeezing. ‘Turning and turning in the widening gyre, the falcon cannot hear the falconer. Things fall apart. The centre cannot hold. Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world. The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere, the ceremony of innocence is drowned. The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity...’

Maya stared at him. His delivery of the poem was strong. Earthy. Passionate. And the allusions and parallels were unmistakable. As was his intent. He was reaching back into the past, evoking a narrative, a parable, in order to make sense of the present and the future.

That was his moral compass, and Maya needed to play along. So she nodded, choosing to go with positive reinforcement. ‘William Butler Yeats. The Second Coming.’

Abraham sighed, his eyes dithering on the television even though there was nothing on the screen. ‘I must admit, I have never quite fathomed Yeats’ pathos until now.’

‘He couldn’t help it. He wrote it in the year after the First World War. A time of great sorrow and grief.’

‘And foreboding. Frightful foreboding. He knew that the conclusion of that conflict was simply setting the stage for another one.

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