Saviour

by Christopher Gallagher

  The Saxons were, for the most part, benign oppressors, but could demonstrate a ruthless streak when it was required to keep order. Crucifixions, while not common, occurred often enough for it to be a constant reminder. Bocus shuddered at the thought.

  Life was good for the majority of citizens, there was no incentive to agitate for separation, and it was always a risky business, raising the subject of the Union. It was a long, slow process, a word here, a hint there, reactions gauged, assessed. A word out of place to the wrong person could lead to a visit from the Polizei.

  There had been tentative contact between some members of the ancient faith and the underground Northumbrians. A reaching out, see if they could join together and help each other. A strange bunch, Bocus thought, despite being here for the best part of two thousand years they still kept themselves apart, with their odd customs. Live animal sacrifices to appease their god, their annual pilgrimage to the Temple at York.

  A message box popped on the screen. It was from his manager, Mayer, another Saxon. A summons - my office, now!

  Bocus read it with a faint feeling of disquiet. Was this it? No, first indication wouldn't be a summons for a chat, more like a snatch squad would lift him on the street, whisk him away to State Security HQ in York.

  Mayer, a neat, precise man, close-cropped hair, middle aged, was at his desk, writing notes on a pad. Smoke from a cigarette curled up from the ashtray. He waved at Bocus through the glass, beckoned him to a seat. Bocus sat, waited, resisted the urge to fidget, and wondered if cameras were recording. He looked around, couldn't see any.

  After a while, Mayer placed his pen on the blotter, took a last pull from his smoke, stubbed it out, and looked at Bocus over his glasses. He picked up a piece of paper, 'Memo from State Security.' He explained, waving it at Bocus, then placed it on the desk, squared it up. 'There's been a threat from a dissident group,' he shrugged, 'apparently they're threatening to cause disruption to the water supply.'

  Good.

  'How?'

  'Non-specific.' Mayer shook his head, frowned. 'We're already struggling without this,' he gestured to his screen. 'But, of course, you know the levels are way down.' He shrugged. 'Climate change, global warming, call it what you will. It's having an impact.' He paused. 'What do you think is causing it?'

  Not enough rain you Saxon cretin.

  'Too many sun worshipers, not enough rain dancers.' Bocus said.

  Mayer stared.

  Bocus, feeling uncomfortable, said, 'I am joking.'

  'No, no.' Mayer said, lighting another smoke, 'you may have something. Do you know, according to the last census returns, twenty percent of the population of the four kingdoms put sun worshipper as their official religion compared to five percent as rain dancer.'

  Bocus, surprised it was that high, said as much.

  Mayer, broad grin, pointed his finger at Bocus, 'Gotcha.' He chuckled. 'You Northumbrians are so gullible.’ He blew smoke, continued, 'I've got a little project for you.'

  Bocus nodded, tried to look eager, failed. As if he didn't have enough to do.

  'Yeah, I want you to make a tour of all our facilities, check the security procedures at each one, and make recommendations.'

  'Why me?' Bocus asked, surprised.

  Mayer spread his hands, his mind made up. 'Why not? Someone has to do it. Why not you?'

  Why not arse-licking Grauber?

  'I don't know anything about security.' Bocus protested.

  'Now's your chance to learn.' Mayer stood. The meeting was over. 'I'll expect your report on my desk within four months.'

  'That's a lot of sites to get round in that time.' Bocus protested. 'What about my day job?'

  'Relax Bocus,' Mayer told him, 'I've got Grauber to cover for you.'

  ✝

  Whitby, Northumbria.

  Andrew watched as the congregation left the MUFWOC. He'd been intending to go in, sit at the back, be anonymous, but there hadn't been enough of a crowd to hide him. He waited till everyone had left, before walking away. He headed for the seashore having some vague notion of looking for Baptiste, perhaps he could talk to him, see if he could throw any light on the way he was feeling. Andrew wandered up and down the beach without seeing any of the crowds that the prophet attracted. Disappointed at not finding Baptiste, he stood at the edge of the sea for a while, staring, and thinking. Twenty-eight years old, what had he achieved. A successful self-made man, part owner with Peter, his brother, of Whitby Fish. He was married to a beautiful, loving woman. They had three children, who Andrew adored, but, it just wasn't enough, and he didn't know why. There was something missing. It wasn't money. It wasn't stuff. It was just a vague gap that needed filling. Truth be told, he was lost.

  It might be worse mind, he thought with a wry smile. He could be living Peter's life of dissolute debauchery. Peter, drunk every night, sleeping with a different woman every few days. A lifestyle understandable in your late teens shouldn't be the same when you reached maturity. It was all too prevalent though. There were a lot of broken, empty people in the world, necking anti-depressants by the ton.

  Andrew searched for a suitable pebble, skimmed it, pleased as a bairn to make six bounces. That's what he found so exciting and refreshing about Baptiste. So what if most folks thought him a nut job? He had something, a vision, a hope, an idea, call it what you will. And if he was right, there was an even greater one to come.

  Andrew stood on the beach until the last rays of the sun faded, then skirted that day's sand castles and climbed the steps to the road. It was still early season, not many holidaymakers about, the cafes, pubs and restaurants all with a trickle rather than floods of customers. He walked through the narrow streets, avoiding people, made his way to the pub where he knew he would find Peter.

  ✝

  The Rising Sun, an old-fashioned pub, beer on draught, was full to heaving. Peter was buzzing. It'd been a good day. A reciprocal fishing rights agreement had been signed with representatives from East Anglia, Mercia and Wessex. It would ensure work for the Whitby Fish processing plant for years to come. Well, as long as there was fish to be caught, but that, Peter thought, was a problem for another day.

  He signalled to the barmaid. Why couldn't Andrew have come for a drink to celebrate, instead of going off on his own? Wouldn't put it past him to go along to the service at the MUFWOC. Load o' nonsense that was. What had God ever done for him?

  The barmaid set his drink down, Peter looked her up and down, 'Keep the change love,' he said, slipped her a note and forgot all about his brother as the woman in the flame red dress he'd been eyeing for most of the evening came out of the ladies. She looked familiar, where had he seen her before? Did she work at the plant?

  'Hey.' He touched her arm.

  The woman paused, saw a man in his thirties, not unattractive, but far from sober. 'Yeah?'

  'Do I know you?'

  She smiled. 'Is that what passes for a chat up line round here?'

  Peter grinned. 'No, I do know you from somewhere.’

  Shrug. 'Maybe you do.'

  'Where do you work?'

  'If you need to ask you don't know me.' She turned to go.

  'That dress you're wearing.'

  The woman half turned, stopped, 'You like it?'

  Peter gave a crooked little smile. 'Look better on my bedroom floor.'

  The woman leaned towards Peter, her perfume sweet, subtle. He anticipated her lips. She whispered in his ear. He drew back amazed. 'How much?'

  The woman shrugged.

  'That's way more than NorPro.'

  'I'm sure you can afford it.' The woman lingered.

  'What's your name?' Peter asked, enjoying the flirtation.

  'Maggie. Yours?'

  'Peter.’

  'Well, Peter, the ball's in your court.'

  'Why should I go with you rather than use NorPro?'

  Maggie smiled. 'Because I'm worth it.'

  'I bet you are.' He stepped back, gave her his full attention. She was w
hat, early twenties, slim figure, full breasts, and her legs, bare beneath the short red dress held much promise. She had dark hair with highlights that framed her regular features. Brown mischievous eyes, unfazed by the inspection, held his.

  His verdict, well worth it.

  Decision made. He drained his drink. 'Okay, let's go.'

  'Not so fast.' The man appeared from nowhere. He was of medium height, thinning hair. He held Maggie's arm, his small piggy eyes blinked behind round spectacles.

  Maggie wriggled free of the man's grasp. 'Levi. Where did you spring from?'

  Peter struggled to work out what had happened. 'Who the fuck are you?'

  'Private arrangement, Maggie?' Levi asked, ignoring Peter's outburst.

  'No. Peter's an old friend, we were just talking.'

  Even to Peter her denial sounded less than convincing.

  'Is that right?' He turned to Peter. 'Known her long have you friend?'

  Peter shrugged, he didn't need this shit. There was always NorPro.

  Levi took Peter's arm, moved him to one side. 'Look friend, I'm Maggie's manager, she's not supposed to make private arrangements. If you want to spend time with her, you have to pay the going rate.'

  'Which is?'

  Levi mentioned a sum that was a lot lower than Maggie’s. It was even less than the official NorPro price. Peter smiled, opened his wallet, and pulled notes. 'It's a deal mate.'

  Levi took the money, smiled. 'Enjoy.'

  Leaving the pub, Peter, Maggie on his arm, bumped into Andrew. 'Can't stop bro, the meter's running. See you in the morning, yeah?'

  ✝

  After Peter and Maggie had gone, Andrew bought a drink, found a corner seat with a good view of the TV. The rolling news was rolling on. Same old, day after day. He watched fuming as Baptiste immersed people in the sea. Knew he was being stupid and irrational, knew Peter screwed prostitutes on a regular basis, and knew Maggie opened her legs for men every day of the week. She meant nothing to him.

  Nothing.

  Why then, was he so bothered? He brooded for a while, sipping his beer, making it last. Bloody Peter. Always been the same. Andrew could never have anything, but Peter had to have it. His phone rang, he answered.

  It was Marje.

  They had a brief conversation. He told her he'd be home soon. He cleared the call, finished his beer, got another, and felt himself beginning to calm down. He tried to rationalise his feelings. Why wasn't he happy with just one woman? Why this thing for Maggie? A prostitute of all people. A mad prostitute at that, with her talk of the voices in her head. Okay, she was beautiful, good in bed, but then, so was Marje, why on earth wasn't he satisfied? All his thoughts led him back to the Garden of Eden and the temptation of the forbidden fruit.

  He'd been immersed though, prepared for Messiah, he shouldn't still be sinning, should he? What was the matter with him? He switched his attention to the screen. There'd been a crucifixion in York. The pictures gruesome. Andrew read the writing on the bottom of the screen as it scrolled along. The serial killer Sutcliffe took seven hours to die watched by a jeering crowd.

  Andrew shuddered, looked away. What a horrible way to die. Bloody Saxons. There was supposed to have been an opt out clause for crucifixions when Northumbria joined the Union. That hadn’t lasted long.

  The Governor, Pilate, appeared on screen, appealing for calm, promising rewards for people with information on terrorists. A Freephone number displayed, anonymity guaranteed.

  Andrew thought again about Peter. Jayne, his wife, had left him not long ago, running off with an estate agent from Mercia. Andrew knew he should be more understanding of his brother's troubles. Knew also that his troubles were largely of his own making. The wonder was that Jayne had stayed as long as she had.

  He gave the TV a final glance before he left for home. It was showing pictures of the first Fuehrer. A funny little man, toothbrush moustache, slashed haircut. He was standing in the back of an open top Mercedes giving that curious salute he’d favoured. He’d come to prominence in the early part of the last century before the formation of the Community which had quickly morphed into the Union.

  He was known to have hated the Jews, blaming them for any and every problem. At the time there’d been a lot of talk of forcibly resettling those of the ancient faith in specially built facilities. With the Fuehrer’s early death the threat had come to nothing, but still…’ Andrew shivered. Those had been dark days on the mainland.

  The picture changed to rain dancers doing their thing. The scrolling text informing that the hot spell was set to continue, that an announcement about declaring drought conditions would be made in due course.

  Andrew drained his beer, thought about another, decided against it. He had a sudden urge to go home and make love to Marje.

  ✝

  Maggie, wide-awake, lay on her back staring at the ceiling. Her phone buzzed, Peter, beside her, stirred, turned over. 'Wassat?'

  That, my love, Maggie thought, is your meter running out. She turned over, smiled at the sight of her dress on the floor, answered her phone in a low voice, listened, and said, 'Okay.' Maggie slipped out of bed, dressed, and paused at the bedroom door. Peter was watching her. She shrugged. 'Sorry, gotta go.'

  'I thought I had you for the night?' Peter grumbled, his voice thick with sleep.

  'That was my price,' she shook her head, 'not Levi's.'

  Peter nodded, slumped down, and closed his eyes.

  It being a calm night, Maggie decided to walk home by the sea. The tide was coming in, the water making shushing noises as it crept up the beach. She found it relaxing, looking into the black of the night, listening to the waves. The embers of a campfire could be seen below the sea wall, just above the high water mark. Dark shapes huddled together, voices carried on the night air. She listened to a guitar strumming, a male voice singing.

  ‘Messiah's coming soon,

  Messiah's coming soon,

  Oh Messiah, you're coming soon.

  Messiah, walk with us,

  Messiah, walk with us,

  Oh Messiah, you'll walk with us.’

  Maggie stood still, straining to hear, enjoying the moment, feeling a part of something, but then a squad car came crawling along and broke her mood. She sensed the occupants, young male Polizei officers, looking at her, and was conscious of her short dress, her bare legs. Maggie weighed her options, run and they'd chase. They’d catch her and take her somewhere for their enjoyment. Of course, she could always head down the steps to the beach, could lose them down there, but the voices wouldn't like that. There were always the voices, draining her life. The one she called Terror sparked off now, stirring up anxiety, 'There's nothing for you down there.'

  She affected an air of casual ease. It must have worked, as, after a few minutes the car moved off at a leisurely pace. Rooting in her bag she found the remains of a recent spliff, lit it, drew the intoxicant deep into her lungs, exhaled, relaxed. Maggie stood for a while longer, enjoying the peace, the sound of the sea. The guy on the beach had stopped singing, was strumming his guitar. They’d never accept her, she told herself, but desired it still. Maggie nipped out the spliff, blow was all right, but was nowhere as good as the Morph. She should have got some from Levi when she saw him last night.

  Maggie set off for home, replaying again the shock she'd felt at bumping into Andrew as she'd left the pub with Peter. Andrew, one of her regulars, had masked it well, but she'd seen the look of annoyance pass over his face before his features relaxed, accepting that for once she wasn't available for him. Maggie thought of the brothers sharing notes, boasting, bragging who'd satisfied her most, when in truth, neither had. It would take a very special man to satisfy the deep longing that she craved.

  TWO

  WHITBY, NORTHUMBRIA.

  Early morning on the beach, the fire about gone. The sun, just breaking. Tom turned over in his sleeping bag, tried to get comfortable, who'd have thought sand could be so hard? He groaned as he heard the first few no
tes of Phil's latest composition. Did the guy never rest? Tom buried his head in the bag, tried to block out the sound of Phil singing the same lines. Okay, the guy had a reasonable voice, wrote some decent songs, even if they were all about the promised Messiah, but Tom didn't need to be part of the creative process.

  Phil began singing in a low voice.

  'This is the day, Lord that you gave.

  You sent Messiah for him to save,'

  Then discordant chords, a key change, led into a louder,

  'Us from the pit of eternal hell.'

  The strumming stopped. Phil muttered something inaudible, laid the guitar to one side.

  'What do you think Nathan?' Phil asked.

  An answering grunt from Nathan told Tom he was equally unimpressed.

  Tom thought about Nathan. A quiet man, who would speak when he had something to contribute but beyond that, was silent. Tom wondered what he did for a living. He seemed to have lots of free time to spend with Baptiste. He'd so far resisted Tom's gentle probing questions, deflecting all enquiries with a disarming smile. They seemed an odd match, the straight, buttoned up Nathan, and Phil, the dreamy not quite on the same planet, unemployed singer songwriter. What was the connection? It was a spiritual gig and one that would attract Phil. But what was it with Baptiste that attracted Nathan?

  For Tom himself, the jury was still out on Baptiste and his prophecies of Messiah. It seemed so unlikely that God would send an emissary to bridge the gap between heaven and earth. He wondered how long to give it as an undercover reporter before abandoning his dream of landing a major story to augment the mundane pieces he contributed to the Northumbrian media. A while longer, he thought, before turning over, and slipping back into an uneasy sleep.

  ✝

  After the early morning catch up at Whitby Fish - hot bacon rolls and black coffee - the brothers tended their separate workloads until they had another chat at the end of the day.