Do not be amazed at this, for a time is coming when all who are in their graves will hear his voice and come out. Those who have done what is good will rise to live, and those who have done what is evil will rise to be condemned. By myself, I can do nothing. I judge as I hear, and my judgment is just, for I seek not to please myself but him who sent me.'
Brotherton held up his hand. 'So, you're saying that you're the son of God?'
Jesus smiled. 'If I testify about myself, my testimony is not true. But there is another who testifies in my favour, and I know that his testimony about me is true.'
'Baptiste?' Brotherton sneered.
Jesus shrugged. 'You have asked Baptiste and he has testified to the truth. Not that I accept human testimony. But I mention it that you may be saved. Baptiste was a lamp that shone and gave light, and you chose for a time to enjoy his light.'
'Baptiste has been arrested. He's rotting in jail.'
'I have testimony weightier than that of Baptiste.' Jesus replied. 'For the works that the Father has given me to finish. The very works that I am doing testify that the Father has sent me. And the Father has himself testified concerning me. You have never heard his voice nor seen his form, nor does his word dwell in you, for you do not believe the one he sent. You study the Scriptures because you think that in them you have eternal life. These are the very Scriptures that testify about me, yet you refuse to come to me to have life.'
'What should I do? Bend my knee, fall on my face?' Brotherton mocked.
Jesus shook his head. 'I don't accept glory from human beings, but I know you. I know that you don't have the love of God in your heart. I have come in my Father’s name, and you don't accept me. But if someone else comes in his own name, you will accept him. How can you believe since you accept glory from one another, but do not seek the glory that comes from the one God?'
Brotherton stared at Jesus for a moment, looked about to speak, but then turned, walked away.
'Boss?'
'Yes Peter?'
'Don't you get fed up with the Pharisees challenging you all the time?'
'This is just transient, Peter. Very soon the old order will be swept away.’
✝
Early evening at the campsite, the sun dipping towards the horizon, slight chill in the air as another glorious day played itself out. Thin wisps of smoke drifted from the fire. Phil was strumming his guitar, setting the words of what had become known as the Lord's Prayer to music. It was a happy, calm, peaceful atmosphere. It'd been a good three days Jamie reflected as he made tea, poured it into plastic mugs.
Most of the visitors to the gathering had left and the surprise was they'd taken all their rubbish with them. The disciples would strike camp tomorrow, move on. The rumble of a diesel engine as a local farmer, dog hanging out of the window, drove past in his battered Land Rover. He pipped his horn, waved. The disciples waved back languidly. Jamie handed out the tea and the talk turned to the Sermon on the Mount, as Tom, with his eye for a headline, had dubbed it.
'Not much of a mountain.' Peter declared he'd seen higher waves in the North Sea. The others had laughed, but it was good-natured. Tom didn't care, told them first titles often stuck. Pen-Y-Ghent might not be much of a mountain, but according to Wikipedia, it was one, and that was good enough for Tom.
'Where's the Boss?' Jamie asked.
'Out for dinner with a local Pharisee.' Andrew told him.
'I don't trust them an inch.' John said. 'I hope he knows what he's doing.'
'He must have a good reason.' Peter replied.
There was silence for a few moments, then Judas, the group's treasurer, said, ‘I wonder what tomorrow will bring?'
Quick as a flash, Andrew responded. 'Don't worry what tomorrow will bring. Each day has enough trouble of its own.'
The others laughed. It was their new favourite game. Quoting Jesus' words at each other.
'What shall we eat?' From John.
'What shall we drink?' Jim continued.
'The world runs after these things, but your heavenly father knows what you need.' Peter finished.
After a while, Jude said. 'Do not store up for yourselves treasure on earth.'
'Where moth and rust destroy,' From Simon.
'Where thieves break in and steal.' Phil said.
'But store up for yourselves treasure in heaven, where moth and rust do not destroy, where thieves do not break in.' Nathan completed.
'There are no thieves in heaven.' Matt declared.
Away to one side, Maggie and Poppy sat together. 'You fancy him, don't you?' Poppy said.
Maggie could feel her face burn red. 'What makes you say that?'
Poppy laughed. 'It's so obvious. You follow him round like a puppy.'
'No, I don't.' Maggie protested.
'Yes you do and it's not just because he rid you of those voices, cured your addictions. You love him, don't you?'
Maggie thought for a moment. Poppy was voicing what she knew anyway. 'Yes.' She admitted.
'Do something about it then. Let him know.'
'I can't.'
Poppy shrugged. 'You could. He's just a man, and you've had plenty of them.'
'Yes, he is.' Maggie replied, 'but then he isn't. He's more, much more.'
'He's very attractive.' Poppy said, with a wicked grin. 'If you're not going to make a move, maybe I will.'
'Don't Poppy. Please don't.'
Maggie hadn't told Poppy about her unsuccessful attempt to seduce Jesus, knew she should warn the girl not to risk making a fool of herself. But, would she? Jesus would let her down in such a way it wouldn't feel like a rejection.
The women fell silent, listened to the men talking. Jim was talking about the hypocrisy of making a fuss about a speck of sawdust in somebody else's eye while ignoring the plank in his own.
'Have you noticed how he uses his former trade as a basis for a lot of what he says?' Jude said.
'Yeah,' Jim laughed. 'That story about the wise and foolish builders. I've known a few of them.'
'Did Jesus used to be a builder?' Poppy asked.
'Yeah,' Jim looked across at the two women. 'Well, a chippie.'
'What's a chippie?'
‘A carpenter, someone who works with wood. Have you ever seen his hands, all rough and calloused they are?'
'The poor love.' Poppy said. 'He needs a good manicure.'
Laughter erupted. 'You won't find many blokes going for a manicure, love.' Jim said.
'No?' Poppy replied with an innocent smile. 'You won't find many in nappies either, but I've known a few who've done it.
✝
Skipton, Northumbria.
It had been a successful evening Simon decided. As a prominent Pharisee, he had a position to uphold in the community and getting Jesus to his dinner table wouldn't have done him any harm at all. He was relieved not to have been tripped up by any of the innocuous questions Jesus was known to ask from time to time. The main drawback, as far as he could tell, was the woman, Rebecca. She was of rough, common stock, who, rumour had it, was guilty of the most appalling behaviour. He was grateful she hadn't disgraced herself, or shown him up, and as the women were about to withdraw there was little likelihood that she would do so now. His wife must have invited her. Simon decided he must talk to her about her choice of guest.
His wife stood now and invited the women to join her. They began to drift out, but Rebecca seated herself at the side of Jesus, whispered in his ear. Jesus inclined his head, smiled. Simon watched in horror as Rebecca opened her bag, got out a nail file, began filing Jesus' nails. His wife, stood in the doorway, met his eye and shrugged.
Jesus reclined in his seat, watched as Rebecca shaped his nails, rubbed oil in his hands. Simon was aware that all his guests were watching. The women who'd left now crowded the doorway, watching the little scene out-play itself.
Amazed at the woman's audacity, Simon noticed tears trickle down her face, onto her hands, onto Jesus' hands. He seemed to be enjoying what was happe
ning, but Simon was disappointed with Jesus. As a prophet, he must know the woman's reputation.
It seemed a good idea at the time when asked to host a dinner party of local worthy people with Jesus as the guest of honour. Now, it was beginning to seem like a big mistake.
'Simon, I have something to ask you.' Jesus said.
Simon, aware of all eyes on him, gritted his teeth, smiled. 'Yes?'
'Two people owed money to a payday moneylender.' Jesus said, 'One owed five hundred Euros, the other, fifty. Neither had the means to pay,' Jesus shrugged, gave Rebecca his other hand, 'the debts of both were written off. Which of them, do you think would be more grateful?'
Simon knew he'd either get it wrong and be humiliated or if he got it right, there would be a sting in the tail. It was a stupid question anyway. No self-respecting moneylender would ever cancel debts like that. Both debtors would end up in intensive care. But still, he doubted that was the answer Jesus expected.
'I suppose the one who had the bigger debt.' Simon replied, his eyes flicking to Rebecca, who was still massaging Jesus' hands.
Jesus smiled. 'Your judgement is correct.’
Simon felt absurdly pleased for a few seconds.
'I came into your home tonight, Simon,' Jesus continued, 'you weren't there to greet me, but you see this woman? She took my jacket, brushed it down, and hung it up. You didn't offer me a drink, yet she brought me one. When you came into the room, you didn't even shake my hand, whereas she filed my nails, wept tears for me, rubbed them in my hands along with a lotion.'
Simon blushed deep red. His humiliation was total. This would be round the neighbourhood in hours.
'I tell you,' Jesus went on, 'her many sins have been forgiven as her great love has shown.' He smiled at Rebecca, told her, 'Your sins are forgiven.'
Simon gave a tight smile. It was true then, he forgave sins.
'I tell you Simon, whoever has been forgiven little loves little.' Jesus turned to the room in general. 'The higher someone thinks of themselves, the less they will be able to love others, because they'll always be looking down on them, measuring them by their own standards. To grow in love and graciousness towards others, you need first to grow in your love for God. Grace can't be given until it has first been received.'
Silence greeted Jesus' words. Unperturbed, he turned to Rebecca. 'Go in peace, Rebecca,' he told her, 'your faith has saved you.'
✝
Huddersfield, Northumbria.
Beaumont yawned, rubbed his eyes, looked out of the upper window watched some kids playing on scrubland.
Life had changed beyond all recognition. He'd left the school for good in July and wasn't working now. Mercer, the fat sweaty bastard of a Head Teacher had called him into the office a week before the end of term, told him not to bother coming back in September.
That had been bad enough, but when Beaumont found out a young Saxon teacher, newly qualified at that, would be taking his place, he'd stormed into Mercer's office, told him what he thought of him, the Saxons and their shitty Union. Mercer hadn't seemed unduly perturbed. He'd listened in silence, then, when Beaumont ran out of steam, had advised him to take care about repeating the things he'd said. Had also gone on to say, Beaumont had blown any chance of a reference.
Beaumont should have heeded the warning he'd been given at their earlier meeting and gone of his own volition. Left high and dry, he had no chance of getting a teaching post. He supposed he could have found work in a menial capacity. Waiting on tables, stacking shelves, shovelling shit. He knew people had to do those sorts of jobs, but he was better than that.
When he'd told Bocus what had happened, the immediate offer to move in with him had been accepted. Beaumont intending it to be a temporary arrangement, while he got his act together. After a few months, an opportunity had arisen, through one of Bocus' shady resistance contacts. They were looking for someone to be the custodian of a safe house, look after men and woman, who, for whatever reason, needed to lay low.
Beaumont had jumped at the chance as he and Bocus were beginning to grate on each other. It gave Beaumont a roof, food, and a small income. It was boring, unexciting work for the most part, but relatively safe. The first time his contact, Slater, arrived with a brown envelope full of Euros, Beaumont had asked where the money came from. Slater gave him an old-fashioned look, told him tersely, the bank. The penny dropped, he was no longer a respectable teacher. He was a receiver of stolen money, a criminal. One of the kids, perhaps sensing he was being watched, looked up, stared at the house. Beaumont ducked behind the curtain, sweat breaking out on his brow. Had he been seen? Not that it mattered. He counted to thirty, chanced a peek. The kid was back playing with his mates.
Beaumont dozed fitfully on his bed for a while, and then went downstairs seeking company. Henderson, the only resident, was in the kitchen drinking from a can of lager. He popped the top on a fresh can, handed it to Beaumont who took it, tilted his head back, drained half the can in one go, then belched. 'Pardon me.'
Henderson laughed.
'What?'
'You're so polite.'
Beaumont frowned, what if he was, he couldn't help it.
'Cards?' Henderson suggested.
Beaumont sighed. Another afternoon of cards and lager beckoned. Henderson shuffled, dealt for three-card brag. The cards were dealt, hands played, the score kept. Beaumont, bored after five minutes, studied Henderson. A thin, small man, straggly air, but a quiet inoffensive manner. He held his cards close, flicking a look every few seconds, alternatively whooping with delight, or groaning with despair, telling Beaumont he was a right lucky sod. Henderson wasn't his real name, everybody on the run used false names. Beaumont was Carter.
Beaumont wondered what Henderson had done. He never seemed jumpy or bothered if the doorbell rang. Not like others who passed through from time to time. First creak of the gate, they'd be up, out the back door and away.
'What's the point?' Henderson used to say. 'If your number's up, it's up. Polizei come knocking, put your hands up, and don’t give them a reason to shoot.'
Beaumont got bored with cards after a while, told Henderson who shrugged. 'Dommies then, fives and threes?'
Beaumont nodded. He would have preferred chess, but Henderson found it too complicated.
Henderson packed the cards away, got the dominoes. It was a quiet, still afternoon. A fly buzzed aimlessly round their heads, Beaumont waved his hands every so often. Henderson though, didn't seem bothered by it.
The phone call when it came was unexpected, a moment of excitement.
Beaumont answered. 'Yeah.'
'Get out now.' The voice said. 'You've got five minutes. The Polizei are coming.' The line went dead.
Beaumont panicked, jumped up, the table toppled, dominoes scattering everywhere. He told Henderson what he'd just heard.
Henderson paused from picking up the dominoes. 'Who was it?'
'Don't know.'
'Man, woman?'
'Man.'
'Do you believe it?'
'How do I know?'
'Gut reaction, Carter. Do you believe it?'
'Yes.' He did. He believed the Polizei were coming to get him.
'Then go, now.'
In his panic, Beaumont ran to the front door, flung it open, and looked out. Everything looked the same, no snatch squad, no hovering drone, no dogs, just normality.
'Not that way dickhead.' Henderson hissed. 'Go out the back, over the fence, keep watch from the bushes.'
At the door, Beaumont paused. 'What will you do?'
'Open the door. Invite them in for tea and cake. Whaddaya think. Now, go.'
Beaumont scrambled over the fence, knew he should have stayed, bluffed it out. If anything, it should be Henderson panicking. He was the fugitive in hiding. Beaumont was the innocent tenant of a rented property.
He landed with a thud, his left knee gave way, the bones jarring, protesting. Beaumont scrambled to his feet, ignored the pain and hurried to the bushes. He
prayed under his breath that nobody would notice as he limped his way to cover. The kids had all disappeared and apart from the faint faraway sound of sirens, it was quiet.
Reaching the bushes, he threw himself down, burrowed his way as deep as he could manage. He lay still, adrenaline pumping, his breathing laboured. The sirens became louder, stopped. Beaumont could hear sounds of activity, shouted commands. Two Polizei officers in black snatch squad uniforms appeared and taking up position by the back fence, waited. A few minutes later, a muffled shout came from the back garden of the safe house. The officers disappeared, and then a few minutes later were back, dragging Henderson between them. They forced him to his knees, not far from where Beaumont was hiding. A Polizei officer touched the barrel of the shotgun against the back of Henderson's neck.
The noise was deafening.
Beaumont watched in horror as Henderson sprawled full length, his head vanishing in a cloud of bloody mist. The silence broken by the sound of someone sobbing. One of the officers spun round, marched to the bushes, and pointed the weapon, called, 'Come out.' He hefted the pump action. 'Now.'
A small boy, seven, eight years old, emerged a few metres from Beaumont’s own position. The boy stood sobbing, body shaking. Beaumont noticed a wet patch appear on the front of his trousers.
The officer lowered his weapon. 'Just you?'
The boy nodded.
'What's your name?'
'Alex.' The boy whispered.
'Okay, Alex.' The Polizei officer said, pacing his words. 'I want you to go home now, do you understand?'
The boy nodded again.
'Off you go then.'
The boy started backing away.
'Alex?’ The boy stopped. Beaumont could see the terror on his face. 'Not a word, okay?' The officer said.
Alex nodded.
'Otherwise.' The officer the man made a gun shape with his hand pointed at Alex. 'BANG.'
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