Gavin Eugene O’Toole is a writer and freelance journalist in London. He earns his living as a newspaper sub-editor but nurtures the hope that one day he can earn his keep as a writer of fiction.

He enters story competitions regularly, and has won a number of credits since he began doing so in 2016, including: Listowel Writers Week short story competition(winner 2019) and humorous essay competition (winner 2020); and the Ovacome prize (winner 2021).

He has published two novels for young adults (Molly Path, 2022) and children (Land of Waves, 2024) with the independent publisher Hawkwood Books. Land of Waves tells the stories of young unaccompanied refugees making perilous journeys to a new life, and was shortlisted at the Wells Festival of Literature Book for Children Competition in 2021. In June 2024, he toured schools across England in support of Refugee Week to talk about the book.

He has written for the Morning Star about obstacles faced by working-class writers.

He is not yet represented and is actively seeking an agent.

He is married and has three daughters.

Links to his work can be found on his website: geotoole.uk.

You can follow him on Twitter at: @GOTwrites

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Church of Rage

I was lost but now am found.

The pastor pauses during his sermon. The air in the church is still with expectation. It is intoxicating to anticipate his electric words, what he will say next. I survey the backs of the heads in the rows in front of me, shaven necks, tattooed napes, scars and weals across drooping shoulders. A bulbous scorpion creeps up a half-covered spine, sting poised to do the Lord’s work. A snake bares its fangs, venom dripping from its jaws. A wolf yowls at a full moon.

I close my eyes and repeat the words of my favourite prayer. It speaks to me like no other, an explanation as well as a comfort.

I was lost but now am found …

The pastor resumes his speech. He has waited for dramatic effect, to build anticipation. It is a method he employs that I understand. It explains why the congregation grows with every passing week. Soon we will need a new place of worship as this one is full. I hear a gasp behind me as he begins again, an inhalation. The holy man is revered.

And thence came the angel of death, the bloody one dripping the vengeance of our Lord, hungry in his mission to cleanse this world …

There are sighs of ecstasy. I see a woman two rows ahead swaying, as if in a trance, her hair flopping from side to side across a floral blouse.

The pastor holds out his arms. He is not as young as I am, but his sleeveless tunic reveals their perfect muscular form, tanned sinews, the product of a lifetime’s discipline. Exercise, fitness, training. These are the virtues that bring us closer to God. The pastor is a leader who practises what he preaches.

At that moment a ray of sunlight bursts through the stained glass window behind us. It illuminates his form with striking brilliance, and he basks in it as if he had intended this to happen.

The light casts a shadow of his outstretched arms from the dais over the cross behind him like a wound opened by the slash of a sword. The polished automatic weapons from which our divine symbol is made gleam with such allure in that instant that I am struck with awe. The Lord shines on this virtuous man. God confirms his mission. The Almighty blesses the shedding of blood.

Praise the Lord!

The shout spreads like an infection and soon the entire flock is chanting in exultation.

Praise the Lord! I cry.

The pastor shuts his eyes to revel in this moment and filter the bright glow directly in his eyes. He has whipped us up for our sabbath rage and we are ready to do his bidding, carry out the Lord’s will. I will take the lives of the non-believers. I will ignore their pathetic pleas for mercy. I will cleanse the filth as I am bid by divine writ.

Then a cloud passes to block the sunray, and the pastor calms us down. He lowers his arms and nods until we are silent.

Let us pray. I was lost but now am found …

I repeat the words, but my concentration soon wavers because I cannot help but reflect on my good fortune, what brought me here. It is the meaning of this prayer that is so important to me.

I see myself in a darkened alley, shivering beneath soiled carton, empty in body and soul. I am an outcast, unwanted, unloved, alone. I am a failure among the non-believers and they have abandoned me to my decline. I must steal to eat and pay for drugs. That means I must kill, yet I have neither a weapon nor the strength of body and mind to take this step. I am fading.

It is raining and the carton will soon be sodden. My belly aches with hunger. I have sores on my skin from malnourishment. I have an injury on my face from an attack that will not heal. I hear the rustling of a rat among rubbish that catches the flickering light of a lamppost. I fear that the smell of my blood will lure vermin, and resist the compulsion to close my eyes and sleep.

In the distance, silhouettes enter my field of vision. Three people lope in my direction. They swagger, their arms swinging with sticks or clubs. I sense danger and withdraw into the shadows between overflowing bins, now accustomed to the stench. Then I hear them and strain to make out what they say. Did they see me shuffling? Will I die tonight? They stop and I hear voices. They know I am here.

Are you hungry, brother?

I have no brother. It is a ruse to draw me out. I will be beaten to a pulp by the marauders who are turning the city into Hell itself. I have learned of the new rites spreading like wildfire. I remain silent and am aware of my entire body quivering. Warm liquid wets my crotch.

Come out, brother. We will help you.

No one can help me. I am lost. That is why I have been banished to the shadows. I remain hidden, frozen. There is no escape, for there are three of them and I cannot possibly outrun them.

A stick is poked into the darkness and touches my leg, its rounded end causing only anxiety but not pain. It then rises and prods me in my empty gut.

We know you are there. It is time to join us.

What does this mean? Why are they hounding me? What use am I to them other than easy prey for their bloodlust? Then, in an instant, hands are reaching into the void and dragging me out into the half-light, and I am staring into their pale faces, mute from terror, before I close my eyes and await certain death. Please let it be quick.

There is only silence as they wait for my fear to pass.

You must eat, brother. And to eat, you must kill. Come, we will show you how.

That was it, the beginning. I was lost then I was found. They put a weapon in my hand that very night, a rusty metal bar, and egged me on as I smashed it repeatedly upon the head of my first sacrificial victim, blood and brains from within the old woman’s fragmented skull flecking my face in a baptism of uncontrolled fury.

Take her money, they told me, smiling with pride. Take anything you want, brother. It is the Lord’s bounty. We will eat at the same table and then you will return with us to our home. You are one of us, now. Praise be!

It was, of course, only the following morning that I learned whom I had met. I had awoken at the refuge, washed, shaved, combed my hair for the first time in months, eaten, dressed myself in the clean clothes they had given me, and joined them in the church to a smiling welcome and applause. There he was, the man who found me, the pastor, standing before the cross, a hospitable grin stretched across his face. I was led to him.

Let us welcome our brother. He has killed in the name of the Lord. He was lost and now is found …

The chant awakens me as if from sleep. The flock begins to recite the prayer. Its words roll from my tongue with automatic ease, so often have I spoken it since my salvation.

I was lost but now am found …

This is the preamble. The pastor calms us again and gestures for us to sit. The hum of worship fades with a cough and the screech of a bench being edged back on parquet flooring.

Let us read the word of the Lord.

He opens the large black volume on his lectern. Fingers the page. Coughs.

A reading from the Book of the Executioner.

The crowd answers.

Praise be!

He begins, pausing between sentences, his laser stare scanning the eyes of his congregants.

And so it came to pass that we embraced the nature that God gave us in his divine wisdom. You are the ferocious one, the Lord said upon creating the first man, and you will dominate the lands with your violence. I do not command you to plead like the bleating deer. I do not command you to pause in the face of weakness. Mercy is for the frail and you will be unforgiving of the weak. I command you to fulfil your fate …

At this point, the pastor turns his back to the audience and kneels before the cross of guns. He knows this passage by heart and does not need to consult the book.

… You will pick up the tools I have given you, for you are the weapon of my celestial will …

He bows his head.

… You will erase the non-believers. Destroy the false gods. Burn down their palaces of corruption. Take your reward in their bodies. Cleanse our soil with their blood. Plant their bones to seed my new, everlasting kingdom. Bring me their heads. No one will be spared. Mercy is for the frail!

The disciples rise to their feet. A volcanic outburst of cheers and adulation fills the hall. I am swept up in the hymn of destiny. I can feel the blood pumping throughout my body, my lungs straining, fit to burst, my skin tingling with the prospect of the climax to come. For the first time during the service, I smell the incense smoking from a brass censer on the altar. Every sensation is at a peak. I shall rape, kill and steal for the Lord today with more zeal than ever before.

Mercy is for the frail! Mercy is for the frail!

This time the pastor waits for the mantra to subside without cutting it short. I watch him as he studies the herd with his piercing blue eyes. I love this man. I know the Lord speaks through his prophet. I know that he is doing God’s bloody will. He has been chosen to lead, as I have to follow.  

As if on cue, another stripe of sunlight slashes across the guns of the cross. They are Kalashnikovs and Armalites. I know that because the pastor told me when I joined his flock.

Guns from all the nations, he said, to aid us in our mission. When you become an elder, after many years of catechism, you will use these in the sabbath rage. Until then, you will practise your devotion with simpler arms. It is the Lord’s will.

The cries subside. A woman hushes those around her. She puts her finger to her mouth. There is silence once more. We await our instruction, the pastor’s decision. It is the highlight of our weekly service, the moment we live for. The sabbath rage.

I feel the perspiration on my palms, imagine the weapon I will hold in my hands, what they will allocate me as I leave the church.

The Lord has determined that we will cleanse anew, the Pastor continues, repeating the familiar words from the order of service, waiting again for effect, knowing that the fervour of his audience is reaching boiling point. Our sabbath rage this week … will be conducted … from block ten down to the turnpike! Follow me my children!

The crowd erupts, all eyes on the pastor as he steps from the platform and walks down the central aisle towards the doors with steadfast intent, head held high. They file out from the front rows after him, drunk with bloodlust, faces glowing with excitement about the coming frenzy. Volunteers stand beside a table piled with weapons: baseball bats, crowbars, claw hammers, kitchen knives. They hand them out according to a strict hierarchy. Women and children are given blades; the older they are, the longer. Men are handed blunt instruments, their size determined by the stature of the worshipper. A mound of rifles is reserved at one side for the elders, who choose and fondle their weapons with affection.

I am eager to proceed, for the day has been approaching that I shall be allocated a heavier, more powerful instrument of God. My standing has risen. I have killed many already for my creed and cherish the thought that, one day, I shall join the elders and wield a firearm.

As I edge forward in the queue, the doors of the church are thrown open, bathing us in light. Those at the front clutch their weapons and step outside to pursue our mission with zeal.

My turn comes. As I reach the table, the curate smiles at me. He senses my enthusiasm, my desire to serve the Lord. He caresses a baseball bat then passes it to me with a pleasing grin. It is a long, sleek club weighted to swing and batter with perfect control. It is my reward for devotion.

I cannot conceal my joy. He pats me on the shoulder, and I turn to join my companions as we march into the Lord’s new dawn.