To Kill the Christ! - Chapter One: The Oxford Bookstore Affair

       The tall American in dark grey tweeds, a concession to living in Oxford, paused before the theater marquee advertising a remake of Back to the Future. The February rain, which Brits considered a mist, increased in intensity. Huddled in the theater entrance, he read the poster, tempted to take a break and dip into the theater to relax. But he couldn't imagine the remake being as good as the original. He resisted the temptation. His doctoral studies were too pressing.

       The rain finally eased, and he walked on to Blackwell's, one of Oxford's famed bookstores. Now, if I could only travel back to 1066, that would be primary research! He smiled inwardly at the thought, unaware it foreshadowed events to come, fantasy soon to become reality, although he would never see the Norman invasion. As he stepped through the door of the store, he stepped onto an invisible path from which there was no turning aside, no retreat.

       He browsed among the hunting magazines. Hunting animals once had been his hobby; hunting humans, particularly Islamic terrorists, once had been his job. He kept his shooting eye by practicing on the rifle range of an aristocratic classmate, a former British SAS specialist he had met in Afghanistan.
Although attentive to the magazines he became aware of a presence in the crowded bookstore. He looked up, amused to see eyes raised from books and magazines, even the girlie magazines, to follow the movements of a beautiful, stylishly dressed redhead in tight jeans as she made her way to the specialized magazine rack. All but Carl slowly returned their eyes to their personal business. He covertly kept her in sight, fascinated by the rich, dark copper of her swept locks. She was tall, up to his ear lobes, with hair brushed back like Lady Di, though this woman was fully rounded without the downcast look
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       She moved close to where he was thumbing through rifle publications. Stepping back, he allowed her to browse through the archery magazines, a magnanimous gesture done for selfish reasons, for it allowed him a better view without being obvious.

       A crash in the back of the store, the result of a falling rack of paperbacks, caused startled browsers to look in that direction, but Carl had not yet filled his eyes with the lovely creature who stood so close. He was not distracted.

       Thus he noticed a short brunette quickly raise the loose flap of the redhead's shoulder bag and lift a wallet sitting near the top. The thief was deft, but before she could slide the wallet into her own bag, Carl's left hand grasped her wrist in a grip that stopped the blood from flowing to her fingers.

       She gasped involuntarily: "Oh!" Then immediately added, "Ouch, you're hurting my wrist!"

       The redhead whirled at the first gasp and quickly stepped away from the scene. Carl could see her dark green eyes widen in surprise, and he relaxed his grip on the thief just a touch—a mistake.

       The would-be pickpocket dropped the wallet, offering a further distraction. With lightening-like reflexes, she slammed the hard heels of her right foot into Carl's left shin, simultaneously twisting free as he dropped the handful of magazines in his right hand. She raced from the bookstore into the busy street.

       People shifted their attention to Carl, who knelt to his right knee and raised his pant leg, revealing a bruise that was quickly discoloring. He picked up the fallen wallet and held it up for the redhead to retrieve. Then he vigorously rubbed his shin.

       He didn't believed in the baseball adage that a batter should never rub a bruised shin after a foul-tip had slammed into it. That was stupid. He didn't care if everybody knew his shin hurt like blazes. Besides, the would-be thief had kicked him on the scar from a serious wound. The scar was white against a livid red.

       Suddenly a pair of green eyes met his at the same level as the redhead knelt to talk with him. "Thanks for stopping the pickpocket. I'm afraid I was careless."

       "I don't think so. That was a professional operation, with the distraction timed for her to reach into your shoulder bag."

       He grimaced, partly in pain and partly from embarrassment, remembering how quickly the thief had reacted. "She certainly surprised me the way she reacted. She must have rehearsed that move."

       Green eyes took in the welt that was enlarging and discoloring. "You'd better get medical attention before it swells too much. It'll take longer to heal if it isn't treated properly, and blood clots sometimes develop from simple bruises."

       Carl stood up, but the pain was enough to emphasize his slight limp.

       The redhead grabbed his elbow. "Here, let me help you. I have a flat two blocks away, and I can pack ice on the ankle to keep the swelling down."

       Carl's first impulse was to refuse, but he kept his counsel to himself. What better way to get acquainted? "Thanks. I'll take you up on the offer. My apartment, I mean flat, is six miles out of Oxford."

       She started toward the entrance when Carl grabbed her elbow. "Don't forget your magazine," he said. "I've got a couple down here, somewhere." He looked at the sea of magazines scattered around his feet.
Carrying their purchases in separate bags, they walked in a lessening mist along Broad Street to Cornmarket, then turned on to St. Michaels. The redhead, wearing a translucent head scarf, introduced herself as they walked. "I'm Rebecca Byng."

       "I'm Carl Senders," he replied, "and I'm pleased to meet you, despite the circumstances." His limp was pronounced.

       Rebecca gave a low, throaty laugh. "I hope you don't mind, but you did have a startled look when she kicked you."

       Carl smiled at the image. "I should think so. A kick in the shin will do that."

       "You're American?"

       "Yes, I'm studying England during the Norman period. This is my second year in Oxford."

       "You aren't an undergraduate?" His looks disclosed his age.

       "No, I'm working on a doctorate."

       "Where're you from in the States?"

       She turned into the building so Carl delayed his answer.

       "Here we are," she continued. "I'll have ice on that in a minute. My flat is on the first floor." Carl had learned long ago that the first floor in England was the second floor in the U.S.

       "I share this two-bedroom flat with a friend, Angela Roth, who's also a nurse. Only her hours are conventional. I work at the hospital in what you call the 'swing shift.' Is that right?"

       "If you work the late afternoon shift to midnight."

       As Rebecca wrapped an ice pack around his ankle, she noticed again the large scar. "How'd you get that?"

       "A skirmish in Afghanistan." He was reluctant to say much about his army career, at least until he had a chance to probe her views. The Brits were in Afghanistan and Iraq with the Coalition, but many of the civilians didn't like the idea.

       She lightly rubbed the scar without following up.

       While she puttered around the kitchen making tea and heating scones, he devoured her with his eyes. She was tall, about five-nine or so, and slender without being thin, and she moved gracefully, without wasted motion. When she went into the WC, his gaze shifted to take in the flat, which was tastefully but sparingly decorated. Several pictures of men in uniform were hung together, all in black and white.

       They ate the scones at the kitchen table, an informality he appreciated. Carl first layered his scone with jam then, using a large spoon, he layered again it with clotted cream. He, too, could be informal. He pointed to the photographs between bites, mumbling through the crumbs in his mouth.

       "Those yours or Angela's?"

       "Mine. Every man in the family through the last four generations served in the Army. My father was disappointed when he got a girl," she paused lightly for effect, "but he got over it." The last was said with a knowing smile.

       "I believe it," Carl responded. "What's he do?"

       "He retired five years ago and runs an Independent pub in Kent, where I spent most of my life. My father was from Wales, originally, and my paternal grandparents and their parents before them were Welsh."

       "So you speak Welsh."

       "Some. I understand more than I speak, but I spent much of my childhood on my grandparent's farm, and since they refused to speak English with me, I had lots of practice. After they died I seldom used it."

       "That may account for the cadence in your speech and the broad vowels."

       "Thanks. I hope that's a compliment."

       "It is," he affirmed.

       "It was said of Richard Burton" she said, "that his speaking patterns owed a great deal to his Welsh background. I'm afraid the influence isn't so dramatic in my case."

       He change the subject. "You an archer?" A large trophy of an archer on a bookshelf reminded Carl of the magazine she had bought.

       "Yes. I practice regularly and keep up with the latest equipment." She nodded in the direction of the trophy. "I don't compete anymore."

       He ruefully shook his head. "I'm afraid I've never learned archery, even in the Special Forces. Others were experts with the bow, my expertise was with the rifle. Did your father teach you to shoot a rifle?"

       "He started to teach me when I was ten, but my mother objected." Rebecca's voice mimicked her. "'You'll no be makin' a son outa 'er now, Fenton,' she told Dad." She paused, partly to reflect on the memory. "He didn't."

       "I'll vouch for that," Carl quipped, then waited for the blush to disappear. "Your mother isn't Welsh."

       "No, as you can guess, she's Irish."

       "How'd you learn archery?"

       "My parents sent me to a Catholic school. The archery team was practicing after school one day when I delivered a note to the coach. I hung around, watching. She had me try a couple of flights, and I was hooked." Then Rebecca turned pensive. "But I wish I'd learned to shoot the rifle—I think Dad'd be pleased if I did well."

       "Look, if I don't have any 'complications' from this crack in the shin, why don't we exchange lessons? You teach me the bow; I'll teach you the rifle. Then, one of these days, you'll surprise your father—and your mother, if she won't mind."

       "I don't think she worries about my becoming a tomboy."

       Her giggle captivated Carl, and he felt uneasy, for he was falling for this striking woman. Love was a dangerous emotion for him. He had neither time nor inclination to get involved with a woman. His studies took all of his time, or so he felt. There wasn't room—or time—for an emotional involvement now.

       A cuckoo clock chirped four times, causing Carl to glance at his watch. Time had fled. "Sorry, I've got to run. I've a session with my adviser at five-thirty, and I need to refresh my memory on the material. May I have your number? A friend at Trinity has access to an impressive firing range on his father's property. They also have archery facilities, so we could learn both techniques during one-day sessions."

       "I'd love that, but I'm a nurse at Radcliffe Infirmary, and I've only Tuesday and Wednesday off each week. I could go mornings if the range isn't too far."

       "I'm afraid it is, but we can make do on those days."

       Carl folded his napkin and removed the ice pack from his ankle. The throbbing had tempered. A frown brushed his face as soon as he put weight on his ankle. Rebecca gestured as though to help, but he waved her off.

       "Thanks, I'm all right. It'll loosen up as I walk." He saw her expression and hastily added, "I'm parked on Longwall, it's only a few blocks away. Thanks for the ice pack."

       "Thank you for stopping the pickpocket." She nodded, picked up a pad from the telephone stand, and wrote name and number. "I really would like to learn to shoot the rifle, and I'll be happy to teach you the bow."

       Lessons were a wonderful reason to get together again.

Ted C. Smythe - To Kill the Christ