He had rebaptised himself, ‘Rain’.

It wasn’t a nickname because because friends give you nicknames, and he had none. No, he had rebaptised himself, ‘Rain’. He was a loner, lived with his mother but they rarely spoke. She knew him as Ray. And he did have friends, once. His best friend, Col, was killed trying to break up a knife fight at the Dell Valley Central KFC two years ago. He tracked the killer down to outside the  new Down House Academy he attended and put him in hospital for three months.

But that wasn’t enough – his revenge was not complete.

Those Acadamies taught dangerous liberal ideas, mocked religion and they didn’t teach respect. They filled the students with ideas of self-expression, sex before marriage and openly ridiculed Creationism. Rain knew God had created the Earth, the Sun and the Stars, he just knew it; ‘How could you explain the beauty of a snowflake or the wonder of the Grand Canyon or the cleansing power of  –  the Rain? It will wash  all the scum and dirt in the world away. The Rain – God’s pressure washer’.

So, he rebaptised himself, ‘Rain’. Two years on and tonight is the eve of his mission to fully avenge his friend and strike a blow for the silent, Christian, majority.

He had been over the plan again and again but Rain’s biggest concern was not making a mistake tomorrow morning. He needed somewhere to practice so this is why he was walking through the disused industrial estate near the station looking for a suitable hideout for the night. Since Dell had moved into the area, computer assembly and distribution were the only games in town. This all took place in University-campus-style grounds on the outskirts. Small lock-ups and industrial units backing on to the railway line just lay empty – the businesses bankrupted long ago. No need for light engineering in Dell Valley anymore.

He had been here before, killing time skiving. Pushing open the door to what had been the offices of a small factory making satellite dishes, he spied a corner, protected by a wall of empty metal filing cabinets, so he sat down, hidden from view, and unzipped his bag. He ripped the plastic bin liner off the Ruger, unfolded the buttstock and nearly cried when he felt how it fit snugly inbetween his hard pectoral muscle and his round, sculpted shoulder. There was another bag inside that had the clips; he had bought three but didn’t think he’d need more than two. One fired from his hiding place, empty that then jump down with a freshly loaded gun to finish off his prey and then turn the weapon on himself.

He had to practice manipulating the magazine release and flicking the safety on and off. Above all, he needed to get the feel for the gun with his eyes shut. At least with a foldable stock he didn’t need to assemble the thing while up in his eerie - in the rafters above the Down House Academy assembly hall. So he set to work, ramming the magazine in place, releasing the safety, putting on the safety and removing the magazine, over and over again. He started enacting his part as though in a play, imagining the mayhem as the submachine gun spat bullets into the bodies of the Down House pupil - first formers running in circles like frightened rabbits, teachers ducking down behind piles of dead bodies, and some older kids bravely shouting for him to stop, ‘For the love of God’, he liked to think.