As if reading his thoughts, Jesus continued. 'When you are brought before the authorities, before the priests, the magistrates, the judges,' Jesus shook his head, spread his arms wide, 'do not worry about how you will defend yourself or what you will say. The Holy Spirit will teach you at the time what you should say.'
✝
State Security HQ, York, Northumbria.
Heathersedge was annoyed. Swanger could tell by the way he kept picking up his pen, putting it down, lining up the notepad, moving his coffee mug, squaring everything off. His desk, neat and precise, like the man. He put down the report he was reading, glanced at Barnabas, and then locked eyes with Swanger. 'The Governor is not happy.'
'We're doing our best.' Swanger responded mildly.
'In fact,' Heathersedge continued, 'he's very unhappy. These people. These FKU people are planting bombs with complete impunity. Under our very noses it seems. It used to be that these bombs were planted out in the sticks. Water treatment plants, railway yards, motorway bridges. But now it seems they're getting bolder.'
He pushed that morning's copy of the Northumbrian Times across the desk. Swanger read the upside down headline, BOMB OUTRAGE IN YORK.
'He's talking about calling in the army, martial law, complete lockdown.'
'That won't be popular.' Barnabas ventured after a quick glance at Swanger.
'Popularity doesn't come into it.' Heathersedge told him. 'He's under pressure. Berlin is becoming increasingly interested in what's happening in their northern outpost. We're not some tin pot little shithole in the back of beyond. This is Northumbria. An important component of the Union. We can't let this situation continue.'
Swanger shrugged. 'Like I say...'
'Yes.' Heathersedge cut in, voice icy, 'you're doing your best.'
Swanger said nothing. Barnabas looked uncomfortable.
'Well,' Heathersedge said after a moment’s silence. 'Your best isn't good enough.'
Swanger was content to ride out the storm. Hoped Barnabas had the sense to do likewise. The silence stretched, until Heathersedge tapped his pen on the pad, 'So, Where are we? Have you got anything for me at all? Any titbit I can feed the Governor? Are you out there shaking the trees, seeing what falls?’
Swanger wondered idly which question to answer first, couldn't treat them all as rhetorical.
'This Bocus character, for instance.' Heathersedge demanded. 'What about that expensive operation you convinced me would work? Digging up the road, pump the smell of gas everywhere. Piss off a load of citizens. For what?'
'Having seen the guy, I'm convinced he's up to something.' Swanger shrugged. 'He claims to be living alone, but his body language told me there's somebody else there. But, as yet, there's no proof he's involved with the bombings.'
'He's under surveillance?'
'Of course.' Swanger had increased the surveillance to full-time round the clock.
'Phones, internet monitored?'
Swanger nodded.
'Have you considered pulling him in? Handing him over to the interrogators,' Heathersedge laughed, 'two hours with them, he'll confess to screwing his grandmother. I wouldn't fancy being water boarded by those crazy bastards.'
'To what end?' Swanger wanted to know. 'We both know that innocent men will confess to anything if they're tortured. We need solid proof that he can't deny.'
'Then flaming well get it then.' Heathersedge said, raising his eyebrows as one of Swanger's many mobiles started ringing. 'Would you like to get that?'
Swanger sighed, pressed the green symbol. 'Hello?'
'I don't know if you remember me...' The voice on the end of the line tailed off.
Woman's voice, uneducated. 'If you could refresh my memory.' Swanger prompted, conscious of Heathersedge tapping his pen.
'You came to see me.'
'Did I?' Swanger was bored.
'When my husband died in the bombing.'
Pause.
'At the reservoir.'
Silence.
Swanger dug deep. 'That's right.' She had her now. A shy, nervous woman. She dug deeper. 'Stella, isn't it?'
'You remembered.' Swanger could picture her, seated on the shabby sofa, in the shabby room, tried to recall what she'd told her. It came back. Swanger had been from HR, expressing concern for her missing husband. Telling her what a wonderful employee he’d been, how he'd be missed.
'If it's about the compensation, I'm afraid nothing's been decided yet.'
'No, no, it's about Archie.'
'Archie?'
'He's back. Archie's back.'
The dog, Swanger remembered, wondered why Stella had thought it worth calling the HR operative from Northumbria Water. Still, better play along. 'That's brilliant. I'm pleased.' She stifled a yawn. 'Well, thanks for letting me know.'
Stella carried on as if she hadn't spoken. 'And the camera's still attached.'
'Camera?' Swanger queried. 'Tell me about the camera, Stella.'
✝
Burnley, Northumbria.
After the meeting, people lingered, all desperate to meet Jesus. He moved among them. Bringing light into dull, grey lives, Phil thought.
He hovered by a group as the Boss recounted another parable. This one was about a farmer who'd been blessed with an abundant harvest.
'This left him with a problem,' Jesus said, getting eye contact with his audience. 'His barns weren't big enough to store all his crops. He had a light bulb moment, decided to start again. He got the contractors in, tore down the old barn, built bigger, better, storage facilities. Happy days. Time to take it easy, put his feet up, eat, drink and be merry.’
'But,' Jesus paused, grinned, 'God had other plans. That very night, the man died.'
Jesus let the silence stretch. 'What did he profit from his greed? This is what will happen to those that store things for themselves but are not generous towards God.'
Jesus moved away from the small group, leaving them to discuss the parable. Phil smiled. Yet another tale about money or possessions. The Boss had a lot to say about those subjects. He watched as another group laid claim to Jesus.
After much prompting, head shaking, and cajoling from Peter, Jesus re-joined the disciples and together they boarded the minibus. Once on the road, heading for their next stop, Jesus spoke, 'Be ready at all times,' he said, 'be dressed, keep a watchful eye, like teenagers watching for their parents returning from work.’
'Also,' he paused, waiting until Tom who was driving had joined the motorway, 'also, watch for the thief who comes in the night. If you know what hour the thief comes, you will not be robbed. You must also be ready and watchful for the Son of Man who will come at an hour you do not expect.'
'Is this for us, Boss,' Peter wanted to know, 'or everyone?'
Jesus gave him a look, shook his head. 'I tell you the truth, Peter. From everyone who has been given much, much will be demanded and from the one who has been entrusted with much, much, much more will be asked.'
Peter frowned. There was so much of what Jesus said that he didn't quite get. He looked at John, who seemed, as usual, to have no problem with the Boss' words. He sighed, knew full well he'd be asking for an explanation later.
Jesus continued with a quiet, fierce intensity, 'I have come to bring true life on earth and how I wish it were already here. But,' he sighed, 'I have a baptism to undergo. I'm under constant restraint until it's completed.'
Again, Jesus lapsed into silence as Tom pulled out and limped past a massive truck. He waited until the minibus was back in the inside lane before saying, 'Do you think I come to bring peace on earth? I haven't. I bring division. From now on there will be five in a family divided against each other. Three agin two and two agin three. Father agin son, and son agin father. Mother agin daughter, and daughter agin mother.'
There was silence for a while. John watched the parched fields slip by. Then the faint sound of sirens came could be heard. The disciples looked at each other uneasily. John looked back, could see a patrol car zo
oming up the outside lane, blue lights, headlamps flashing. Jesus met his eye, gave a quick shake of his head. 'Not yet,' he said, his voice low, almost inaudible. 'Soon, but not just yet.'
The car sped past, nobody daring to look.
John settled back in his seat, wondered if Jesus was feeling the strain as much as the disciples.
✝
State Security HQ, York, Northumbria.
'That dog deserves a medal.' Barnabas said, for the third time.
Swanger nodded, smiled in confirmation. She was happy again. The pressure was easing.
The call from Stella had changed everything. She'd found Archie the Spaniel sitting on the front door step when she came back from the shops a week ago. Considering the animal had been wandering around the Northumbrian wilderness for several months it was a wonder it was still alive, Swanger thought, never mind able to make its way home.
After making a huge fuss of him, she'd taken Archie for a check-up. The vet noticed the small camera on Archie's collar. Stella hadn't thought much of it, but remembered that Alan had put it on for amusement, so he could see what Archie had been up to when he let him off the lead for a run. Without any great expectation, Barnabas had been despatched to Skipton, to retrieve the camera.
Despite her eagerness, Swanger had sent the camera for immediate analysis by the technical department, who'd declared it genuine and retrieved the footage.
Swanger pressed play, and watched as a man, tall, thin, miserable looking, came into view. He bent down, patted the dog, looked at the collar tag, stepped back, and mouthed something.
There was no sound on the camera, but lip reading experts had studied the video and pronounced the word to be, Archie. This made sense Swanger thought, and continued to watch. The real gem though, came next. The man retrieved a lead from a hook on the wall, clipped it on the collar, and led the dog outside, through the gates, up a track. They arrived at a farm gate, which the man opened. He unclipped the lead, stood by the open gate, tried to usher the dog through. Archie must have been reluctant, the camera staying on the man's face for a while as he tried to persuade the dog to go. Swanger watched as the mystery man spoke to the dog. Thanks to the lip reading expert, she knew what was being said and spoke the words aloud.
'Go on Archie.'
'Off you go.'
'Look, sod off, or Bocus will have you.'
The dog moved past the man into the field. The man closed the gate and the playback stopped. Swanger looked at Barnabas, big smile on her face. 'He did say Bocus, didn't he?'
Barnabas, too excited to speak, grinned.
The drones had been making regular sorties over the house. The heat-seeking camera had definitely confirmed another human presence in the house at a time when Bocus was known to be at work. Heathersedge had given the go ahead for a stealth team of Ninjas to make an entry, bring back what they found.
✝
Doncaster, Northumbria.
Another day, another gig.
Phil strummed his guitar, looked at the door from time to time, and wondered if anyone would join him. Ignoring the frowns and muttered comments, he'd decided to stay backstage for this gig, wanting to work on his new song in the peace and quiet of the dressing room. He couldn't expect the others to understand. Fishermen and builders, what did they know about creating art?
Jesus hadn't minded though, smiling at Phil before going on stage. Was that because the song was about him? But then, all Phil's songs were about the Boss. He smiled at the thought, dismissed it. Jesus was bigger than that. He was the star of the show. The others, Phil included, were just members of the support act, noise in the background.
Phil tried to concentrate. Once he'd nailed the chorus, the rest should be easy. He looked at the scribbled words on the scrap of paper, pulled a face, made an alteration. Was about to start singing when he heard Jesus' voice coming through the tinny speaker.
'...anyone comes to me and does not hate their father, mother, partner, children, brothers, sister, and even their own life,' Jesus paused, waiting. 'Such a person cannot be my disciple.'
Phil could imagine the silence in the hall as the implication was considered. A few people would drift out. Jesus, his heart heavy, watching them go.
'Suppose one of you wants to build a house,' Jesus continued. 'Won't you sit down first, estimate the cost, make sure you have enough money, go to the bank, and arrange a mortgage. Imagine starting, laying the foundations, running out of money. Everybody laughing, pointing the finger.'
Phil could hear the laughter in the hall. Jesus had perfect timing. Had it not been for this Messiah thing, he could have made a good career in the business.
'In the same way, those of you who do not give up everything you have cannot be my disciples.'
Phil strummed a chord, started to sing,
'I believe that no one can. Show me love like the son of man.'
A heckler had started calling out. A few others were shouting him down. Jesus' voice strong, clear over them all, 'You Pharisees are the ones who justify yourselves in the eyes of others, but God knows your hearts. What people place a high value on, is detestable in God's sight.' Amen, thought Phil, continuing.
'Jesus, you're the one. The only one.'
There never seemed to be any structure to the meetings though. That bothered Phil. He liked order, a well-run show. Jesus would speak, pray, heal, bless, in any old order. Now, it seemed as though he was speaking with somebody who'd arrived with a swollen body.
Phil listened as the man's friends explained the situation. They were concerned that Jesus wouldn't be able to heal because it was the Sabbath. Phil grinned as Jesus called out, 'Any of our Pharisee friends still with us?'
There was no response, but Phil knew they'd be there. Brotherton and his mates most like.
'So,' Jesus asked, 'is it lawful to heal on the Sabbath?'
Silence, then a great cheer came through the speakers. Phil could feel the vibrations as people stamped their feet in approval. He guessed the man had been healed.
'Tell me,' Jesus challenged, 'if any of you has a child that falls into the river on the Sabbath day. What would you do, pull it out, or let it drown?'
Silence.
The meeting continued. Phil went back to his song for a while, half listening to Jesus' words. He broke off to answer a ringing mobile. It was Jesus' phone, name on the display, Martha calling.
He answered the call, listened to the anxious voice, and then said, 'I'll tell him the first chance I get.'
✝
Peter, first through the dressing room door, holding it open for the others, saw Phil slumped in a chair, head back, snoring. He nudged Jim who grinned, was about to tip the chair over when he caught Jesus looking his way. He shrugged, put the kettle on to boil, and sorted the mugs while the others talked about the meeting.
Jim poured the tea, passed it round.
'Sorry lads, no biscuits.' He stared at Judas, raising an eyebrow.
Judas shrugged. What did he care if he'd forgotten to stock up? He had more on his mind than biscuits.
Amidst the moaning and groaning, Jesus began another parable.
'There was a manager of an engineering company.' he began, 'accused of fiddling the books. He was called into the office by his boss, asked to account for his actions. Now the manager was scared of losing his job. He had a family, mouths to feed, bills to pay. He'd worked hard to get where he was, didn't want to drop back onto the shop floor.'
Phil opened his eyes. 'Wouldn't get another job though, would he?' He pointed out. 'Not without a reference.'
Peter stifled a grin. He didn't think Phil had ever had a proper job in his life. But then everybody knew Judas was on the fiddle. Was the story aimed at him?
'Good point, Phil.' Jesus replied. 'And it wasn't just his salary he stood to lose, it was the whole package. The pension, company car, health insurance. He had to get some money in from somewhere, so he spoke to those who owed the company money, told them he'd accept a reduced
amount for immediate payment. They agreed, and he was able to bring in half of what was required.’
'Did it work?' Jim asked. 'Did he save his job?'
'No, he didn’t.' Jesus replied. 'Even though he was commended for the shrewd way in which he dealt with the situation, he lost his job.'
'Serves him right.' Jim stated. He looked at Judas who met his gaze with a smile.
'The thing is,' Jesus explained. 'No one can serve two masters. Either you will love one, hate the other, or you will be devoted to one, despise the other. You can't serve God and money.'
Later, on the way out to the car park, Phil passed on the message from Martha. Jesus smiled and thanked him.
SIXTEEN
LEEDS, NORTHUMBRIA.
It'd been a busy few days. Bocus, glad to be home, filled the kettle, called upstairs to Beaumont. He dropped tea bags into mugs, added boiling water, milk, and sugar. Rummaged in the cupboard for biscuits. Tea made, packet of chocolate biscuits to get through, he wandered into the living room, called to Beaumont again, then slumped into his favourite chair. Half a dozen biscuits later, tea down to the dregs, he realised what had been bothering him since he stepped through the back door.
It was quiet in the house. Too quiet. Five minutes later, a rudimentary search told him that Beaumont was gone, although his few meagre possessions remained. Bocus stood on the landing, considered for a moment that it might be an elaborate joke on Beaumont's part. That he could even now be hiding in the loft, sniggering. Was that possible? He'd been fretting for days about Bocus having to go away for work.
'Why do you have to stay over?' He'd moaned.
'It's my job.’ Bocus had told him. ‘It would look suspicious if I insisted on travelling each day.'
'Newcastle's a mere a hundred kilometres up the road. You’ll be there and back in a couple of hours.'
'It's more practical to stay over. Relax. There's nothing sinister about it.'
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