He wasn't my pastor, but he stood at the front of that small community every Sunday as if he carried the truth. he was the pastor at the pentecostal church in Snells Beach. Arsehole hippocrit. People trusted him with their money, their secrets, their hopes. Then one morning he was simply gone ' slipped overseas with funds that were never his and with rumours clinging to him like smoke. I was there on the day he left. He rushed through the building with two suitcases, sweating through his shirt, pacing on the phone like a man cornered. While he argued outside, I dragged his bags behind the shed and emptied everything into the rubbish pile ' suits, papers, all the pieces of the reputation he polished so carefully. By the time he reached the airport, he had nothing except his passport. Do I regret it? No.