Out of love with Jesus- Parisa Nobahar

The man stood in the shop doorway, his shoulders hunched beneath the sodden
wool of his full length Army coat and his fingers drawn up to his mouth where he
blew steamy breath on them for warmth. His long, dark hair curled in damp
tendrils over the coat collar and his long black eyelashes blinked droplets of
melted snow onto his gaunt cheekbones as he stared at the small building across
the street. The chipped blue painted sign above the doorway announced Help
the Homeless and amidst the scrawling graffiti on the old metal shutters was
another sign, beautifully handwritten French Script in glossy black against the
silver pitted aluminum, which said Donations gratefully received. The elegance
of the writing seemed to the man to be totally incongruous with the shabbiness
of the shop and that thought made him smile. The girl had written the sign; the
same girl he had come to see and her name was Fran. The girl, he realized, was
as incongruous to her surroundings as her pretty handmade sign was her
vibrant chestnut curls, her dancing freckles and her throaty laugh all bringing a
rare warmth to the cold, lifeles s London Street where she managed the Charity
shop.
The man felt anxious. Fran had invited him to join her for a morning cup of tea
and he didnt want to seem too enthusiastic by arriving early because she might
find that strange. Normal people, he felt sure wouldnt stay up all night, hardly
containing themselves about the prospect of having a cuppa and a chat with a
friend. Normal people would eat their morning toast, read the daily newspaper
and watch a bit of Jeremy Kyle on TV before sauntering down the High Street to
have a brew and a natter with their mate.
But, as the man acknowledged, he wasnt normal. He knew now that he hadnt
been normal for years and it Fran who had made him understand this. Fran,
with her apple cheeks and flaming hair, bouncing around like a circus clown in
her over-sized harlequin dungarees, who hadnt shied away from him when he
bumped into her outside the launderette on a hot afternoon in July. She had,
instead, apologised for being so dopey and her husky voice and throaty giggles
had lured him unknowingly into conversation with her. She never scoffed when
he told her of his fervent Christian beliefs but one eyebrow arched in an
endearing but comical way and although he never determined whether this
expressed surprise or humour he felt instinctively that there was no malice, just
acceptance.
There had been more conversations over a period of some weeks albeit mainly
one-way conversation with Fran doing most of the talking and the man just
nodding and throwing a few words in when it seemed just too rude not to, whilst,
in truth, he just liked to drink her in, watch those lips like rose petals open and
close, revealing small, even white teeth, one embedded with a ruby Coloured
gem which fascinated him. She didnt even know his name; she called him Jesus.
Fran had told him she didnt believe in his God but she thought that, Jesus
seemed like an o.k. kind of bloke to her and he surprised himself that he wasnt
offended by her remark and was even quite flattered that she thought he looked

that the Son of God. As time went on her honesty and integrity seemed to pierce
him like arrows of truth pricking some sleeping memories he had forgotten
existed, dusty recollections of a life before he was Jesus the strangely dressed
man with the haunted face who shared his bread with the birds and muttered the
scriptures as he wandered aimlessly around the grey streets of south London. In
her guileless ramblings Fran had never once realized her witticisms, her
liberalism, and her street wise cynicism were all keys to opening Pandoras Box
for a man who had stopped thinking for more than two years, a man who had
been like a sheep following who he trusted as his shepherd. Today, he would talk
and he had many things to tell. Today he would have his cup of tea with his
friend, Fran, and he would watch her shiny hazelnut eyes widen in disbelief. He
would tell her that she might think of him as her Jesus but to him she was his
saviour.
Frances Mary Donnelly placed an old chipped enamel kettle on the stove and
with fingers still numb with cold shakily struck a match and lit the hob. The
small kitchen of the Charity shop also housed a decrepit but perfectly functional
calor gas heater and the room was warming up nicely. A cheap, plastic clock,
hanging on a protruding rusty nail against the yellowing anaglyptic covered wall
indicated the time was nearly eight thirty, almost time for her guest to arrive.
Fran hastily set out a couple of mugs and arranged some digestives on the one
decent plate from the cupboard. She had spotted the man she called Jesus
backed into the shadows of the shop doorway and knew he wouldnt make an
appearance a minute earlier or a minute later of their arranged time.
Fran mused. She thought of the strange young man she had met only months
earlier who had stared at her with large nutmeg brown eyes that were alert with
suspicion when her conversation approached anything that he deemed to be of a
personal nature. With time those same eyes slowly began to reflect trust, even
the odd glint of humour. Before too long even his mono syllabic grunts had
progressed to the occasional full sentence; well-modulated tones with the slight
trace of some undetectable foreign accent. His vocabulary was rich and he
spoke with the easy fluency that comes from a privileged education, a fact that
had shocked and intrigued Fran with the unexpectancy of it. For over a year he
had been a part of the local scene, referred to by all as a bible bashing weirdo,
his dark maniacal appearance causing people to avoid crossing his path and
children to become giddy with mock terror when his black clothed body came
into sight, muttering prayers under his breath whilst his long, bony fingers
counted off beads from a Rosary.
Fran had never given him a chance to preach to her and instead bombarded him
with her own views on politics, womens rights, music and religion. Like a
wrecking ball on a demolition site she smashed to smithereens any small effort
he made to argue his Christian beliefs by constantly condemning the leaders of
all organized religions as, vultures who fill your head with nonsense whilst
emptying your pockets before picking the flesh off your bones to satisfy their
own greed. It was this outburst that had provoked him to quote chunks from

the Sermon on the Mount that centered on giving away all your worldly goods
and rich men having as much chance to get to Heaven as a camel through the
eye of a needle and as he spoke his eyes glazed over and his brow creased with
the fervor of his words. Whoa! Fran had said, Calm down, Jesus old mate. Its
not as if the likes of us two have anything to give away so dont waste your
breath on me, and to that he had paused and asked in a soft whisper, But if
you were rich, Fran, would you not give all you had to those in need? and Fran
had smiled and reached for his hand. What I wouldnt do, my friend, is give all
my dosh to a Church that is decked out in gold and marble or to one of these
Evangelical ministers wearing a check jacket and a toupee who drives a Rolls
Royce. Neither would I give my hard earned cash to one of these cult leaders
who tell me to live on a diet of brown rice and dress in rags whilst they find use
for my money jetting to Vegas with the best looking hooker they can buy.
And Jesus had looked at his shoes for a very long time with a very disturbed look
on his face.

Fran was wakened from her reverie by a piercing whistle from the ancient kettle
which made her jump in surprise. As she poured the boiling water into a blue
striped teapot with a badly chipped spout she heard the shop bell ring and she
called out, Come through to the back Im just brewing the tea! Stirring the
black leaves Fran crushed a cardamom pod into the amber liquid and, sensing
some movement behind her she smiled as she turned to greet her guest but as
she did so a hand reached for her throat and her words were crushed into a
stifled scream of terror. The face in front of her resembled a piece of old Spam;
pink and sweaty, with small watery blue eyes staring at her beneath the palest of
ginger lashes. The mans nose was snout like with large, flared nostrils and his
mouth was small from which a snake like tongue licked a thin upper lip
constantly. As his grip on Frans throat tightened he leaned even closer to her
and spoke, his breath smelling of stale tobacco and bacon fat. You talk too
much, Lady, he hissed, and weve invested too much time and effort into our
little project for you to mess things up for us now. Frans arms were trying to
claw at her attacker but with every second that passed she felt the hand grip her
throat even tighter and as her energy died and her last bit of breath gave out her
eyelids started to close and her legs buckle. The world around her turned into a
gray mist but suddenly everything started to clear and, as she felt the pressure
lifted from her throat she found herself gasping for air, gulping great pockets of it
in through her mouth greedily. Within seconds Fran became aware of all the
movement around her, movement that was accompanied by bangs, thuds,
crashes, whimpers and, finally silence.
Strong, forceful arms enveloped her and a familiar voice said soothingly, Its
over, Fran, he cant hurt you now. Frances slowly lifted her head, met Jesuss
eyes and then turned to look around her. The man who had tried to kill her was
lying, not moving, on the floor next to the stove, his head steaming with hot tea,

his pink face covered with black leaves and a smashed teapot embedded in his
skull.
They will be coming for us, Fran, Jesus went on, We have to leave right now
because if they catch us they will kill us. Come now, you must put your trust in
Jesus.