Saviour

by Christopher Gallagher

  One of the children, a boy, piped up. ‘A naughty man lives there.’

  The woman pulled her children even closer. That’s right, darling.’ She shrugged and pulled a face at Tom. ‘Just come out of prison and they dump him back in our community. He's either coming out, or this lot are going in.' She looked at Jesus. 'I know you, don't I?'

  'Come on Boss,' Peter urged, 'let's go. We can't do anything here.'

  Jesus ignored him.

  A few other people turned, studied the strangers.

  'Hey up, it's that Jesus feller.'

  A few people split off from the main crowd, surrounded Jesus and the disciples, asking questions, wanting healings, miracles, anything. A shout came from near the house. 'There he is, dirty bastard.'

  Tom looked up, saw a pale face at the window. A white flash, then it was gone.

  Jesus made his way through to the front, Peter followed pushing people aside. A line of glass bottles on the pavement, rags coming out of the top, strong smell of petrol. Why wait, he thought. Why don't they just do it?

  A man at the front, holding a snarling dog on a straining leash, looked at Jesus, looked again, grinned. 'Hey up, Jesus mate, how ya doing?'

  Jesus bent down to the dog. The man jerked the lead. 'Wouldn't do that mate, he'll have yer.'

  Ignoring the advice, Jesus reached out, spoke to the animal. Those near enough were convinced they heard him say, 'Come out.'

  In any event, the animal became calm, docile. It lay down, exposed its belly, and allowed Jesus to stroke it.

  The man looked on in amazement, and offered his hand. 'Ackroyd.' He laughed as he pumped Jesus' arm. 'That was amazing. He's allus been a vicious bastard.'

  Jesus nodded, didn't speak.

  'Come to give us a hand,' Ackroyd asked, 'have yer?'

  Peter wondered if he was serious, then watched in amazement as Jesus dropped to his haunches, and moved his finger across the footpath. The words, I AM, appeared, etched into the stone pavement.

  Tom held his phone up to his face, pressed RECORD. The buzzing of the crowd which had died down at Jesus' arrival, increased in volume.

  'Sorry feller.' Ackroyd said. 'No filming.'

  Tom nodded. 'Shame.' He lowered the phone, slipped it in his pocket.

  'What do you intend doing if he comes out?' Jesus asked.

  Ackroyd nodded at a rope hanging from a lamp-post. 'We string him up.'

  'Once we've cut his knackers off.' A woman called from the crowd. A nervous laugh rippled round. A child started crying.

  Jesus, eyes blazing, shook his head. 'No. No, no.'

  Ackroyd squared up to Jesus. 'We've got our own way o' doing things round here, Jesus. By all means give us hand talking him out, but don't interfere otherwise, okay?'

  Jesus ignored him, stooped to the floor again. Peter moved closer, eased Ackroyd to one side, saw Jesus' finger move. The words, YOU SHALL NOT, appeared.

  Jesus stood, stretched. 'So, you want the man inside to come out?'

  'Yes.' The crowd roared.

  'Boss.' Peter said. 'We need to leave.' He jerked his head at the baying crowd. 'This could get ugly. Now would be a good time to go, leave them to it.' He looked to Andrew for support. His brother, white-faced, tense, nodded.

  Jesus heard him out in silence, then. 'Peter, my friend. Don’t you see, forgiveness is for everyone.'

  Jesus turned, addressed the crowd of people. 'Who amongst you has never done anything wrong?’

  The crowd shuffled, muttered among themselves. They could have had this done by now, been home in time for tea, feet up, telly on.

  'Who among you is guilt free?' Jesus called. 'You, Ackroyd? Are you guilt free? Have you always been faithful to your wife, never slept with another woman?'

  Ackroyd blushed, stammered. 'No.' As a denial it was less than convincing.

  The crowd jeered.

  A woman stood by his side looked mortified. His wife, Peter assumed.

  'You?' Jesus pointed at a thin, rat faced woman, roll up hanging from her mouth. 'What about your husband, convicted for robbing post offices. Taking something that belongs to someone else is both shameful and sinful.'

  The woman looked away.

  'This bloke had stuff on his computer.' A voice called out. 'That's worse than being unfaithful or robbing a post office.'

  'Who are you to judge the law,' Jesus retorted, 'All sin is sin, and as you well know, the penalty for sin, according to ancient scriptures, is death.'

  The crowd listened in stony silence as the disciples exchanged nervous looks. Get this wrong and they'd all be hanging from lamp-posts.

  'So,' Jesus picked up a petrol bomb and continued, 'let anyone who has never sinned pick up a petrol bomb or a brick and throw it through his window.'

  There was silence, then gradually, over the course of ten minutes, the mood changed. People began to drift away, and the excitement was over. Ackroyd’s wife took him firmly by the arm, pulled him away. Fifteen minutes later, Jesus and the disciples were alone on the street. Peter breathed a sigh of relief, wanted to speak, found he couldn't. He looked down at the pavement where Jesus had carved in the stone with his finger. The words had vanished, the path smooth once more.

  Jesus knocked on the door. After an age it opened a minimal amount. The terrified man peered out. When he saw Jesus he fell to his knees sobbing uncontrollably. 'Oh, Lord, please forgive me. I know I've done wrong.'

  Jesus helped the man to his feet, embraced him, and then said, 'Where is everybody? Do any of them condemn you now?'

  The man took a deep breath. 'No, sir.'

  Jesus placed his hand on the man's shoulder. 'Then, neither do I. Go in peace and sin no more.'

  ✝

  Governor's office, York, Northumbria.

  Pilate looked at the embossed invitation. Signed by the Fuehrer’s own hand no less.

  'Was that Caiaphas I saw leaving?'

  Pilate looked up. 'What?'

  He wished his wife wouldn't just appear at his side like that. 'Yes, yes. Complaining about Jesus again.'

  Claudia sighed. ‘How annoying. He reminds me of a vulture.'

  Pilate smiled at his wife. 'A vulture in robes.'

  They both laughed.

  'What does he expect you do about him?'

  Pilate shrugged. 'Arrest him, throw him in the dungeons.'

  'You won't, will you?' Claudia frowned.

  'What's it to you?'

  'Nothing.'

  'You're not a follower are you?'

  Silence.

  'Are you?' Pilate was not amused.

  Claudia looked at her husband. 'No, I’m not a follower.'

  'What then?'

  'I've been to one or two meetings.'

  'I didn't know that.' Pilate met her eye. 'Don't you realise how that might look?'

  Claudia shrugged. 'A few meetings, that's all. I don't think anybody recognised me.'

  Pilate sighed. 'Don't tell me you've bought into this whole Messiah, son of God business?'

  Claudia clicked her tongue. 'No, of course not. He's a good man, a just man. He teaches people the difference between right and wrong.'

  'It's all relative.' Pilate was scathing.

  ‘Wer Macht hat, hat recht.' Claudia replied and moved to the door. She turned and shrugged, 'It's no big deal.'

  'All the same, it might be as well if you didn't go again.' Pilate advised.

  'Why?'

  'You never know.' Pilate said with a half-smile. 'I might have to sign his death warrant one day.'

  'You'd better not.' Claudia left and closed the door a little too firmly.

  Pilate sighed again, pressed the buzzer twice. No sense in falling out over it now. It might never happen. Anyway, he had more important things to think about. Like this invitation to the conference at the Wannsee Centre in Berlin. Just one item on the top secret agenda, The Jewish Question.

  'Come in.' Pilate called in response to a light tap on the door. Winston, his tall, black, shaven headed, slav
e cum bodyguard set his coffee down on the desk and waited to be dismissed.

  Pilate looked at him. 'What do you think of this Jesus character, Winston?'

  'Nothing, sir.'

  'Nothing?'

  'He seems like a good man, sir.'

  'Anything else?'

  Winston was silent for a moment. 'No, sir.'

  'Do you believe he's the Messiah?'

  Winston, uncomfortable at being questioned, shook his head. 'I don't know, sir.'

  'If he was coming at me to cause me harm, what would you do Winston?'

  'I would stop him, sir.' Winston replied. Pilate waved his hand in dismissal. Winston paused at the door. 'Wouldn’t happen though, would it, sir?'

  ✝

  Barnsley, Northumbria.

  'When do you think he'll make his move?'

  John frowned. 'What move?'

  'March on York, Berlin.' Simon the Zealot looked at John. Was he stupid? 'Overthrow the Saxons.'

  'What makes you think that's the plan?'

  Simon shrugged. 'Gotta be. Hasn't it? The way I see it. He’s building up popular support. The message is spreading across the Union. Ask Maggie about the hits we’re getting on the website. He's even got Pharisees and Polizei officers coming for healing.'

  'So?' John shrugged. 'They're just opportunists. I don't see too many declaring their allegiance.'

  'You don't think they could be persuaded to join a popular revolution?'

  'And if they could,' John snorted, 'what then? You think the Fuehrer is going to let that happen? Let a bunch of Jews take over part of the Union? I don't think so.'

  'We could join with FKU, time it so we take power in the four kingdoms, unite under one flag.'

  'Dreams, my friend.' John replied. 'Anyway, I can't see Jesus getting involved with that bunch.'

  'I used to be involved with that bunch.' Simon retorted.

  'Yeah, but you saw the light, saw that following Jesus was the way.'

  Simon sighed. 'It's all peace and love, though.' He cracked his knuckles. 'I'm not against peace and love, but it's gonna take a lot more than that to dislodge the Saxons.'

  'It's bigger than that.' John replied. 'You don't think Jesus has come just to get rid of the Saxons, do you?'

  'No?' Simon looked disappointed.

  John shook his head. 'I believe that God loves the people of the world so much that he's sent his son to die for us, and that whoever believes in him will never die, but have eternal life.'

  'That's big.' Simon said, and thought for a moment. 'In fact, that's immense.'

  ✝

  State Security HQ, York, Northumbria.

  Swanger sank into her office chair. She needed a drink, a smoke, and a good night's sleep. Fresh from another progress meeting with Heathersedge she was considering her options. It was a joke, an insult. Senior operatives like herself, used to working alone, following their noses, should not be saddled with junior agents fresh out of training school.

  A JFDI from the very top, Heathersedge had claimed, over Swanger's clamorous protest. All the field operatives were being partnered up. Trouble was the pensions were crap, you had to keep working till you dropped otherwise retirement was a long drawn out decline into poverty. Some managed better than others. The ones who'd managed to line a little nest egg along the way. That had never been Swanger's way, couldn't see herself starting now.

  She poured another drink, lit a cigarette, pulled the smoke deep, held it, and then blew a thin plume towards the ceiling. The effects of the nicotine and alcohol calmed her down. After a while she pushed her sense of injustice to one side, considered the two files on her desk.

  Operation Raven, the investigation into the Four Kingdoms United bombing campaign was stalled. The bombings continued, but there was no lead on who was responsible. Swanger wasn't working alone on Raven. Scores of State Security agents and hundreds of Polizei detectives were sweating blood to no avail. The Governor had promised a large reward for any officer who provided the breakthrough. Swanger couldn't see any realistic prospect of it being her. Although the hunt was intelligence led, Swanger knew that luck played a part. The way it was going it would be some plod stumbling across the solution by accident. The case of the serial killer who'd been caught when he'd pissed over a copper's boots in a doorway was legendary. She stubbed out the cigarette, rubbed her eyes, and idly flicked through the mass of information. Although the data was computerised and cross referenced, Swanger liked to have a print out on her desk that she could touch.

  The one tangible lead, the missing guard, had come to nothing, when a body, wrapped in chains, had been found at the bottom of the reservoir. Alan, the guard, had been identified by his dental records, and his wife left alone to grieve or otherwise. No sign of Archie the dog, though, she noted with a wry smile.

  Swanger looked at the other file out of curiosity. Operation Gosling, the surveillance on Jesus and his band of merry men, as Swanger thought of them. The file had been updated with a new set of photos. She skimmed through them. The one of Jesus, in front of an angry mob, petrol bomb in hand, caused her to smile. She wondered what the story was behind that.

  Thinking about Jesus brought Simon the Zealot to mind once again and the name he'd given up the night he'd been lifted.

  Bocus.

  Swanger said it again. She was reluctant to confront the guy yet, but knew the time was fast approaching when she'd have to eyeball him. See what he was made of. Bocus worked for Northumbrian Water in some kind of project management position. He'd been responsible for checking out the security at all the company's facilities, including the sites that had been attacked in the past few months. Coincidence? Maybe. Who better, though, Swanger reasoned, than such a man, to be behind the recent phase of bombings.

  She studied the photo. Average looking guy, straight black hair, regulation cut, brown eyes. Looked a decent, honest citizen. Not married, wasn't seeing anybody, man or woman, didn't, as far as was known, visit NorPro. Went to work, came home. Lived a boring, solid life. That bothered Swanger. Nobody in their thirties had that reclusive a lifestyle unless they were hiding something.

  She stared at the photo, willing it to tell her something, anything, about the man.

  What are you hiding Bocus?

  Swanger pushed the file away, lit another cigarette, paced round the office. Heathersedge wanted results. The Governor was on his back, and he was feeling the pressure. Swanger didn't want to alert her target, force him deeper underground, but the situation needed a shake.

  Bocus had been under a light surveillance regime for the past few months, his telephones wired, his internet usage and emails, monitored. Result, nothing. He'd been followed from time to time, but apart from going to work and back, and the occasional visit to his local pub, where he made two pints last an hour, there was nothing. The guy was apparently clean. Swanger knew she needed to eyeball the guy, see the whites of his eyes. She knew if Bocus was up to anything he wouldn't be able to hide it from a seasoned investigator.

  How to get up close though, without alerting him?

  An hour later, ashtray overflowing, whisky bottle two thirds empty, Swanger thought she had the beginnings of a plan. It would be expensive, and it would need Heathersedge to sign it off, but it might, just might, reveal something.

  THIRTEEN

  LEEDS, NORTHUMBRIA.

  It was a time of teaching and anointing.

  Seventy-two apostles had been recruited. Their initial training completed, they were being sent out for a three day final assignment. Like the twelve disciples who'd undertaken a similar exercise they would operate in pairs, travelling to all parts of the island.

  Jesus, flanked by Peter and John, addressed the new recruits.

  'I am sending you out like lambs among wolves.' Jesus began. Peter caught John's eye, winked. These lads were in for a treat. 'Do not take food, money, cards or phones,' Jesus continued, 'just the clothes you stand in. Do not greet anybody on your travels. Wait until somebody speaks to
you. When they do, wish them peace.’

  'When you enter a town or a village and are welcomed by the people, take what hospitality is offered to you. A bed, food, drink, and be thankful. Heal the sick that are there. Tell them the kingdom of God has come near to them.'

  A buzz broke out. The apostles murmuring to each other. Jesus waited a few moments, held up his hand, waited for the chattering to die down.

  'But,' he continued, 'if you enter a town or a village, and are not welcomed, wave it goodbye, and leave at once.' Jesus paused. All eyes were on him. 'Whoever listens to you, listens to me. Whoever rejects you, rejects me. But whoever rejects me rejects the one who sent me.'

  Silence.

  Each pairing of apostles had been decided by drawing lots. Slips of paper pulled from a bag by Jesus. A small group gathered at the door as the apostles left. Jesus greeted each man by name, shook hands, and embraced them as they left, as did Peter and John. Maggie on a rare excursion from the office was handing out the return rail tickets, the destinations, like the pairings, picked at random.

  The line dwindled until the last pair stood before Jesus, a mixture of excitement and apprehension clear on their faces. Jesus stepped forward. 'Carl.' They shook hands, embraced. He greeted Carl's younger companion, Ben, in similar fashion.

  Maggie smiled at the two eager apostles, handed them their tickets. 'Wolverhampton.' She told them.

  Peter checked they hadn't any money, cards, food, or phones. They assured him they hadn't.

  'Then go.' Jesus commanded.

  ✝

  The seventy-two had departed. The disciples, drinking tea, coffee, munching biscuits, came into the hall, and settled down on chairs that had been set up in front of a white screen. One or two finished mobile phone conversations, others watched with interest as Jude set up a laptop and went through the starting procedure. He negotiated a menu, and highlighted a video. He turned to Jesus. 'All ready, Boss.'

  Jesus thanked him, checked all phones were on silent, and waited till he had full attention.

  'Jesus?' A voice called from the back of the hall.

  Peter groaned, looked at John. 'Thought you'd locked the door.'