A Poor Man's Messiah

At the height of my weekly guilt cycle, whilst waiting for mass to begin, he asked me for change. I think he meant coins rather than a cultural shift. Sorry, I said, referring to both. He asked me again. I refused. When I said no on the third time I saw something snap, just beneath his eye. He raged at me, spraying me with flecks of spittle, his eyes bulging. I watched and walked away. Twenty-four hours later, outside Brixton tube I'm offered a shot at redemption so I pull the trigger. I empty my pockets into an outstretched hand, all £3.78 of it. The guy receives the coins like the host and I think he’s about to weep. Thank you brother, he says, and wraps me in his arms. But I don't know who saved who.