A sizeable crowd began to gather outside the church, neighbouring houses alerted by the discordant clarion death call as the heavy bronze bell rang a final descent. It was an irony that would not have been wasted on the minister, had he still lived, the last sounding of the bell bringing the largest congregation for many years.

Within minutes the fire brigade responded to the first garbled emergency call. The undulating siren was unnecessary on the quiet town roads but served to attract an even larger audience, as an otherwise uneventful Sunday turned into a free sideshow. Even as the firemen began applying the jacks and cutting tools to the ancient belfry door, the rumours of the minister’s violent end spread through the assembled crowd in hushed exclamations. People stood gawping at the stone tower, as if by observation alone they could make sense of the minister being struck down by his own bell. Some cast a worried look towards the sky, fearful that perhaps this was the first stage of a divine judgement that had found the minister lacking. Others enjoyed the spectacle, an unexpected circus in living high definition, literally on their doorsteps – the trick was to keep the enjoyment from showing on their faces. The young didn’t host such inner qualms and ran and jumped with the excitement of it all, oblivious to the opprobrium of their elders.

Two of the firemen were detailed to move the crowds back, their own worried glances towards the bell tower indicative of the danger the structure now presented. They were joined by the young constable, panting with exertion as he arrived on foot, arms spread wide as if herding sheep. The flock obediently moved, ripples growing wider as the danger the tower presented was made known.

In the distance another siren could be heard, the doppler shift lowering as it approached the church. An ambulance slid to a halt on the gravel, not expecting to be impeded by the growing crowds, and honked impatiently to be let through. The vehicle crept forwards towards the church doors with the crowd parting in a suitably biblical manner before it parked between the gravestones. The crew exchanged brief words with the firemen and turned off the flashing lights. This was going to be the second body bag of the week.

PC Lamb stared at the crimson puddle already congealing under the bell tower door. Bloodied footprints led the way to the church porch doors, held wide open to allow access to the compressed air hoses powering the saws, cutting through the hinges and lock holding the door in place. It seemed like sacrilege to him, destroying the medieval door, and each attempt to force it open caused greater damage. A floodlight cast an unforgiving illumination on the scene, catching the crucifixion in stark outline where the figure of Christ appeared to be dancing in the firemen’s shadows, bringing back visions from his first MDMA-fuelled rave. A loud crack from splintering wood brought him back to the present as the recalcitrant door timbers parted and his stomach contents forced their way up his throat in response to the charnel house now revealed.