He saw the Preacher standing waiting with his glass. It was the local doctor’s prescription for any anaemic with a strong stomach. The Preacher was tall and thin with the Adam’s apple of a vulture and skin that was made even paler, if that was possible, by the light reflected from the white tiles. He cycled the countryside on his breadcart of a bicycle with a small ladder strapped to the bar and a clutter of tools in the saddle-bag, nailgin tracts made from tin lids to trees and telegraph-poles. The Wages of Sin is Death. Romans 8:5’ was on a sycamore tree on the Magherafelt road; and further out ‘I am the Resurrection and the Life. John 11:25’.
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