It would be safe for anyone to assume that Bartholomew was uncomfortable. He didn't understand the policemen's logic in treating him this way, like a criminal. He'd done nothing wrong. Had he? Despite his discomfort, his mind couldn't help but wander back over the previous weeks. No, months. Or could it possibly be years? What had set these events into motion? He didn't know exactly what had caused them, only that he played a part in it all.
It was a small, gloomy room, completely engulfed by the morose blue paint that clung to it's walls. In the centre of the room stood a small table surrounded by three chairs, all of which were atop cold white tiles. Bart had occupied one of the chairs as he fidgeted restlessly, haunted by memories, wishing the policemen would return with their final judgement and their intentions.
Mid-fidget, the door to the room had opened with a shove and a grunt. Two men entered in silence and sat opposite Bart. Silence persisted. The man on his left, earlier introduced as Doug, was large in every sense of the word and Bart instantly had him pegged as the over-used, yet true to life, dough-nut-eating, dim-witted American cop stereotype. Something about the man to his right, on the other hand, made him feel very uneasy. His seemingly empty, brown eyes appeared dead, denying entry to his soul. They complemented his enigmatic, edging on macabre smile.
The contemplative silence was broken. It was the chief, the man on his right. "You're expecting us to believe this... this... drivel?" Bart hastily swung back on his chair's hind legs as the chief slammed his hands hard against the tabletop. "It's absurd! All this talk of flying chairs, Apostle reincarnations, church conspiracies and forgotten gospels." The fat man chuckled and was ignored. Bart replied as calmly as he could but still gave off an air of aggravation and fear. "Look, I'm not expecting you to believe me. After all, I wouldn't believe me, had I not seen what I have seen. All I'm expecting..." he paused "...hoping for, is your protection. I'm in trouble, big trouble. People want me dead for crying out loud!" Doug laughed again.
"Half the cons in Rhode Island State Prison want us dead, eh Chief?"
"Shut up Doug" The chief shot him a disapproving glare that sent a prickly heat down his spine. "Yes boss. Sorry boss."
The room was beginning to get to Bart. It's physical and aesthetic coldness grinding away at his very being. He wanted out. The chief fixed his gaze onto Bart, fully aware of his discomfort. His eyes had Bart captivated, he couldn't figure them out. There was something discerning about their emptiness, something sinister. Unholy?
"We'll get to the matter of your protection later" Chief stated plainly. "For now we need you to tell us your story again. We need it on tape, you know? For the record." He winked at Bart causing goose pimples to spread up his arms and across his back. To Bart it was the visual equivalent of nails on a chalkboard. "Okay, okay!" He stammered. "But can we move to another room? Maybe somewhere warmer?""Here's fine! Besides, the heating's broken and it's mid-winter. There is nowhere warmer." He peeled the cellophane from a blank cassette, opened it's case and slotted it into a tape recorder that was sat in the middle of the table. It closed with a click and the chief pushed the record button with a long and slender index finger.