Father Bisset’s brow furrowed when he saw that the bald men, the newcomers, were no longer sitting in their pew, but had moved to the doors of the main entrance, where one of them was wrestling with what appeared to be a length of chain. Usually wide open and welcoming, the oversized oak entrance doors that were as old as the church itself had been shut. Bemused at first, the priest studied the men, a few of the congregation also turning in their seats to see what the commotion was.

‘Excuse me,’ Bisset called loudly. ‘What are you doing?’ Though murmurs rose from the congregation, the men said nothing and carried on as though they hadn’t heard the priest at all.

‘Excuse me! Excuse me!’ the priest shouted more loudly. ‘Who are you and what are you doing back there?’

The men looked up this time, but still didn’t respond. Instead, one took up a position in front of the closed doors as if guarding them, while the other stepped forward into the aisle, reaching into a backpack as he did so.

The priest’s stomach turned when he saw the gun. ‘No!’ Father Bisset boomed, dropping his missal, the holy book forgotten as the word ‘gun’ swept through the congregation and terrified cries began to erupt from the pews.

‘Silence!’ the man yelled in French as he waved his gun. He was holding a hunting knife in his other hand.

As the priest strode down the aisle, one arm outstretched in an attempt to pacify him, the intruder raised his gun and aimed. ‘Shut up! Or I will shoot,’ he screamed, pointing the scratched and scuffed weapon at the priest’s chest.

Time slowed right down and silence returned while the congregation took in the scene. As he closed the distance between them, Bisset could see that the gunman had shaved more than his head. He had no eyebrows, no eyelashes. No hair at all.

THE GUNMAN was soaked in sweat. His heart was pounding, his pulse racing: the dextroamphetamine – a pharmaceutical-grade amphetamine, usually prescribed to narcolepsy sufferers – had kicked in. He felt euphoric. Gun in one hand, knife in the other, he was doing Allah’s work.

‘Get back, get back!’ he roared, stalking towards the priest, his adrenaline pumping, almost feeling like a god himself.

The priest backed up, stumbling on the steps as he reached the altar, before retreating as far as he could.

‘Don’t move,’ the gunman said, gesturing to his gun as he made it to the altar and then swivelled to face the people.

The cries started up again, some parishioners cowering in their seats, others frantically scanning the nave for a means of escape or defence.

‘Shut up!’ the attacker shouted, this time in English, as he fired a round into the ceiling. ‘Sit down and shut up, or die!’ He turned back to the priest. ‘Tell them!’ he demanded in English. ‘You understand what I am saying?’