'...concerns are growing over the safety of a four month old baby boy taken from his pushchair outside local shops in Scunthorpe. The child was left outside while his mother was buying cigarettes...'
Irritated, Bocus turned off the radio. Silly cow. Everybody knew you didn’t leave children unattended. The chances of them being snatched, of them disappearing, never to be seen again, was just too high. Society placed a high value on the safety of children. The mother of the missing baby would be ostracised by her neighbours for evermore. In the laissez-faire attitude engendered by the Union, the threat of harm to children, real or imagined, was just about the only thing guaranteed to bring a mob out on the streets baying for blood. Which was ironic, he thought wryly, given the official figures for abortions.
Eyes heavy, Bocus fought sleep for a few minutes, but soon gave in, drifted off.
Cawood, Northumbria.
Peter eyed the last drop of beer in his glass. He tilted his glass, drained the dregs, drop o' good stuff that. Another? That was the big question.
The band, playing some kind of heavy reggae rubbish, were coming to the end of their set, it’d be that thumping dance music, flashing lights next. Headache coming on though, didn't want a hangover. He'd set a limit, long since past, another one wouldn't hurt. Just one more though. He looked around morosely, didn't know anybody. Andrew was off somewhere with Jesus and his other mates, having a good time no doubt. Knew he shouldn't have come. Seen the dirty look Jesus' mother, Mary, had thrown at him, when he turned up with four mates, hangers on, none of them invited to the ceremony. Look on her face, a right picture. How could you do this to me Jesus?
He thought back to their arrival a few hours ago, been alright then, been sober then. They'd been met at the front of the O'Deamus mansion by pipers playing the traditional Northumbrian pipes. Dancers in colourful costumes showed the guests to their seats in the chandeliered ballroom. Nobody had made a fuss. The father of the bride had greeted them like old friends. They'd all squeezed in, plenty o' room.
The O'Deamus clan had turned out in full for the wedding and the happy father moved among his guests greeting them with a quiet word, a handshake, a back slap. With the guests settled the processional music commenced. Nice touch that, Peter thought. Fields of Gold by that famous Northumbrian singer. The bride arrived, accompanied by her proud father. Good-looking girl, nice dress. Look better on my bedroom floor mind.
There was a round of applause, Peter dragged himself back to the present, joined in half-heartedly. The band took a bow, trooped off. The DJ slipped into place, started the dance music he hated.
Weddings didn't agree with him, reminded him too much of his own failed marriage. Truth was, he still missed Jayne, wondered where she was. Be easy to track her down, drag her back, scruff o' the neck. But why go to the trouble, bitch wanted out, well she's out.
Another beer?
It was a free bar. What’s not to like?
Peter shook his head, tried to get his thoughts straight. Supposed to be having a catch up with Jesus, this Messiah business.
He sighed.
Another pint it was.
He made his way unsteadily to the bar. On the way he promised a dance to the bride’s vivacious mother, Maeve, and then stood swaying in line waiting to be served.
✝
Mary sipped her wine, watched the youngsters whirling on the dance floor, the children running around causing mayhem, and thought back over the day. The traditional wedding ceremony had been short, simple but moving. The bride, Sinead, beautiful, as all women are, on the day they marry their husband. She'd chosen an elegant full length ivory dress sculpted round the bust, luxuriant red hair pinned above bare shoulders. The effect crowned with a half veil draped coquettishly over one eye. Her face pale, a hint of makeup, lips red, eyes green. She carried a simple bouquet of yellow lilies.
Mary remembered her own wedding. Most of her family had shunned that event. It had taken years for them to come round. Not many people willing to believe that God himself had been responsible for her child. In vain she had pointed to ancient scriptures, where it was foretold that the Messiah would be born of a virgin.
She remembered the scorn, dulled now by the passage of time, but still hurtful. Yes, yes, they'd said, but you Mary, why you? Why don't you confess to having slept with Joe, rather than keep up these fanciful stories of being visited by an angel?
Well, they'd have to change their minds now, whistle a different tune, now that her son Jesus, had been proclaimed Messiah by no less an authority than Baptiste.
She smiled at the thought of herself, Mary, coming from a poor background, mother of Messiah, then her thoughts clouded, such a shame Joe hadn't lived to see it. Would she ever feel happiness again? She was content, sure, but happiness, real happiness, was that now a thing of the past?
Jesus finding a young woman he wanted to marry, grandchildren, that would bring her happiness back, a sparkle to her eye, lift the heavy burden that came upon her each morning. He was thirty now, an age where most men were married with families, but he still didn't seem interested. She'd got sick of mentioning it. Pointing out girls to him, she's nice, or she's suitable. And now, with this Messiah business, would he even have time to find a partner?
Angry voices from the bar drew her attention. Mary looked over and sighed. That drunkard Peter was waving his arms around, complaining about something. What was there to complain about with a free bar?
She caught the eye of a barman as he hurried past. 'What's the problem?'
'They've run out of beer.' The man replied, 'Sure, I'm away to tell the boss. There's a feller in there making an awful fuss.'
He didn't say, didn't have to say, that the man at the bar was one of the uninvited friends that came with Jesus.
Mary watched him hurry away. Now, that's the sort of follower you need Jesus. Well spoken, polite young men like that. She didn't expect he'd listen to her though. He’d always been headstrong, wilful. That time they'd taken him to the Temple at York and he'd slipped away. They'd found him a day later instructing the priests in the ancient scriptures, explaining prophecy. Joe had been so annoyed when Jesus had told him he was about his father's business.
'I'm his father, Mary.' He'd said later, 'and my business is building.'
Mary went to look for her son. It was his friend causing the trouble. He could sort it out. She found Jesus chatting to his friends in a side room. They were talking about the Pharisees. Nick O'Deamus was a member of this select group of religious fanatics. They each took a solemn vow to live their entire lives with reference to the Ten Commandments given by God to Moses on tablets of stone way back in the mists of time. This was all well and good Mary thought, until you realised that the commandments were given in general terms. They weren't specific enough for the Pharisees, so another group called Scribes had evolved. The Scribes studied God's commandments, and devised rules that applied to every single life situation, so Pharisees could follow these rules and thus please God.
Mary sighed. She sometimes wondered if God wanted blind obedience to rules, He hadn't set. Jesus looked up at her arrival, smiled, kissed her cheek, melting her heart as usual. He was such a good-looking young man.
'Mum.' He said. 'You look troubled.
Mary drew him to one side, told him about the beer running out and Peter causing trouble.
'Can you do anything?’ She asked. He ought to be able to fix a simple thing like a bar running dry of beer, shouldn't be too much trouble for the Messiah.
Jesus looked at Mary. 'You don't understand, mum.'
She frowned. 'It's not much to ask. I expect it’s your friend Peter who’s drunk the bar dry in the first place.’
Jesus laughed, replied. 'I expect you’re right. Come on then, mother, take me to the bar.'
Mary found the young barman she'd spoken to earlier, told him, 'You might think this an unusual or stupid request, but please do whatever Jesus tells you.'
The man looked at Jesus for instru
ction.
'The purification jars, are they empty?' Jesus asked.
'Yes, sir.'
'Fill them with water, draw some off, and serve.' Jesus turned to re-join his friends.
'Is that it?' The barman asked, anxious.
'Yes.' Jesus replied.
'Just water from the tap.'
'Yes.'
The barman filled the massive stone jars that were used for the purification ritual used by all strict adherents of Judaism, all the while muttering about fools and nutters. He was amazed when, ten minutes later, he dipped a jug into the first jar, was rewarded with the finest wine he'd ever tasted in his life. Okay, it wasn't beer, but that lot out there would be satisfied with any drink at all.
A few minutes later, a massive cheer told Mary that Jesus had accomplished his first miracle.
✝
East Northumbria.
Bocus, wide-awake, stared through the window, convinced he'd heard a sound. Dreaming? Nah didn't think so. Clock on his phone, two fifteen am.
The moon, high, gave sparse light through the clouds, on, off, on, off, enough to see trees in outline, sinister, metres away, moving towards him, branches waving, running, chasing.
Stop it.
Heart thudding, he waited, watching. Something had disturbed his sleep. He turned the key, the radio came on, early hours request show, soft female voice asking, would you play Misty for me? Bocus jabbed the buttons, muted the sound, lowered the windows a fraction, and listened. Night noises. Soft breeze, rustling leaves, animals hunting, killing, being killed. A white shape floated past the windscreen, knew it was an owl, saw a ghost.
Choice. Run, or wait to be slaughtered.
Calm down.
He'd heard something, some noise. A howl.
Wolves howl.
There are no wolves in Northumbria, apart from the Arena. Maybe one had escaped?
But, a part of his innermost being reminded him - they run wild in the Highlands of Scotland. One could have travelled down this far, could be out there now watching, waiting.
He heard the faint sound of an engine, miles away, next field, no way of knowing. It came nearer, louder, stopped abruptly, silence, a door slammed.
Relief. Wolves don't drive.
But, someone was out there, confident that nobody else was.
Silence. Then laughter carried on the night air, a rising, falling cadence. It slammed into Bocus, demolished the defences he'd spent minutes erecting, left him wanting to curl up, hide under the bed.
Silence again, then through the trees, in the depths of the wood, a flickering light - torchlight. Kids. Just kids messing about, spooking each other, spooking him. Kids getting drunk, getting stoned, getting laid.
Bastards.
Bocus was out of the car racing into the trees before his rational sense kicked in wanting to find the kids, give them an almighty bollocking. Kick seven shades of shit out of them.
Slow down.
Had he locked the car door?
How many kids were there?
Bocus, out of courage, stopped, leant against a tree, listened, dithered. Was about to turn and slink back to the car, when the lights started flashing again. Creeping closer, tree to tree, he tripped over a root, fell, breath exploding with a soft oomph. Picking himself up, he checked for damage, nothing broken. He looked again, the lights were still moving around in the trees.
This is stupid.
Sometime later, in position near the clearing, Bocus watched in fascination as a group of white robed figures wearing head lamps held hands and moved in a circle round a dark object. A mixture of men and women chanting in unison. Not kids. Some kind of worship ceremony.
Bocus knew he should go, leave them to it, not get caught, but thought about the used condoms, and stayed.
After a short while the movement, the chanting, stopped. A male figure broke from the circle, the others reforming around him. He held his arms to the sky, 'Oh, mighty Gaia, mother of all things, we come to pay tribute.'
The circle responded with chants.
Bocus breathed a sigh of relief. Earth worshippers, nothing too sinister. He couldn't remember if they got naked or not, thought they might, stayed, watched.
The priest figure continued, 'Who brings the offering?'
A woman moved to his side. 'I do.'
Even from a distance, Bocus could see she was a good-looking woman, shoulder length blonde hair. Shapely figure beneath the robe. He waited, anticipating the moment she'd drop her robe and the fun would begin.
'You bring the offering of your own free will?'
Get on with it.
'I do.' The woman replied. The circle chanted.
'Bring forth the offering.'
The woman passed a bundle to the priest who took it, held it close to his body. 'Why do you make this offering?'
'To bless mighty Gaia, mother of creation.'
Chanting.
The priest held the bundle aloft. 'Mighty Gaia, we pray that this offering, this token of our love, will be acceptable.' He placed the bundle on the dark object, which in the flickering torchlight looked to Bocus like a wooden butchers block.
More hypnotic chanting. Bocus shivered, wanted to leave, couldn't, watched as the bundle was unwrapped, revealing a small child, a few months old.
The priest picked up a silver object, raised it above his head, over the sacrifice. 'Oh mighty Gaia, mother of creation, accept our offering, release your bounty on the land.'
The chanting grew louder, the robed figures swayed. The priest brought the silver object down in a sudden swift movement. Bocus heard the soft thud as it went clean through the child's body, embedded in the wooden block. The lights went out, a woman screamed. He buried his head into his arm, lay silent, motionless. Didn’t move when the rain started falling, didn't move until the sun rose a few hours later, when, soaking wet, shivering, he opened his eyes, looked at the empty clearing, and wondered if he’d dreamed it all.
✝
Whitby, Northumbria.
Salt air, slight breeze, expectation in the air.
One of Peter's favourite activities, now that he no longer went to sea, was to come down to the harbour, wait for one of their fleet of fishing boats to return to port. He liked to do this alone, but this morning Andrew had tagged along. The brothers stood in silence, scanning the horizon through glasses, a throwback to the days when their father offered a token reward for the first sighting.
'There she is.' Andrew said, lowered the glasses, and pointed.
'You're joking man, that's never the Freebooter, look to your left a touch, faint smudge.'
Andrew refocused, grunted, noncommittal, didn't want to concede defeat too soon. Peter had always had the sharpest eye. As boys, the rivalry so intense, sometimes lead to blows, fist on bone, bloody noses, until the old feller stepped in and pulled them apart.
When the faint smudge grew larger, became the Freebooter, no room left for doubt, Andrew nodded in affirmation. Peter chuckled, 'Told ya.'
Andrew, resisting the urge to plant one on his brother's nose, asked, 'What's the catch like, you heard?'
This brought a dour response from Peter who knew what his brother was doing. 'Crap by all accounts.'
Later, with Freebooter tied up alongside, the crew, long faced with disappointment stood around discussing the trip, bemoaning the lack of fish in the sea. Andrew looked past Peter. Saw a familiar figure striding down the jetty, picking his way past fishing nets, lobster pots, buoys, ropes. He nudged his brother who sighed when he saw Jesus approaching.
'Have you set this up?' Peter muttered. Could have done without seeing Jesus quite so soon after the wedding at Cawood. He'd meant to dance with the mother of the bride, not attempt to seduce the woman. Peter had left in disgrace and here was Jesus, no doubt coming to express his disappointment.
'How are you both?' Jesus asked, gave them both a broad smile. He nodded towards the boat. 'Good catch?'
'Rubbish.' Peter replied, lighting a cigaret
te, 'Absolute sod all. Complete waste of money, what with the wages, the fuel.' He pulled smoke deep into his lungs. 'Never known it so bad.'
'Take the boat out again.' Jesus suggested.
'You're joking.' Peter snorted, 'I've lost enough brass as it is.'
'Just beyond the harbour wall, lower the net, see what happens.'
'Nah.' Peter shook his head.
'Go on.' Andrew urged. 'Let's do it. What we got to lose?'
An hour later, the Freebooter was back alongside again. Peter stared in disbelief at the hold, full to overflowing with cod. 'That's amazing.'
'Now do you get it, bro?' Andrew asked, grinning like a small boy on his birthday. ‘Can you see why I'm joining Jesus, becoming one of his followers?'
'And you too Peter,' Jesus said, 'I'd like you to join us.'
Peter shrugged. 'I've got a business to run. Fish to catch, mouths to feed.'
Jesus opened his arms wide, 'Come on Peter, I'll make you a fisher of men, feed their souls, as well as their bellies.'
FIVE
YORK, NORTHUMBRIA.
They arrived in York in the Jude supplied minibus, parked, and walked to the Temple. Jesus stood inside the gates of the outer court of the Temple, gazed on the scene, which had long offended him and the Father.
It was time.
'Peter,' he asked, 'what do you see?'
'Same as usual,' Peter shrugged, not sure what Jesus was looking for. 'Oxen, sheep.'
Jesus looked around. 'Andrew?'
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