The Jesus Germ

by Brett Williams

  Webster thanked Sir Timothy, and again Olivia wished he would get to the point. After concluding his introduction, he walked slowly but deliberately to the case on the table, building tension. The audience sat transfixed and silent. Webster opened the case as if it held a supernatural relic that might solve the riddle of the universe or grant eternal life. He pretended to stare in awe at the contents, widening his eyes, smiling peacefully to himself. Behind him, the curtain at the back of the stage rose. As it did, Webster turned to face it and like a ringmaster he proclaimed with a sweep of his hand.

  ‘Ladies and gentleman, I present to you the Trinity harlequins, Atelopus Jesusii, the first new species of amphibian described in over two hundred years.’

  The curtain disappeared into the dark space above the stage exposing a giant poster suspended from the ceiling by wire cords. The image of a giant frog rendered in vibrant colours drew gasps from the audience. Excited discussions broke out across the theatre, people pointing from their seats at the image flickering in the lamplight. Webster surreptitiously wandered to the case, removed all three ornaments and lined them up side by side on the lectern. Some in the crowd noticed and word spread like wildfire. Then the silence of expectation again fell on the audience as they waited for Webster to continue.

  The King suddenly raised his hand giving Webster little choice but to acknowledge him. Farmer George removed the smouldering cigar from his mouth and spoke up at the stage.

  ‘Tell me how you arrived at the name, Professor. Jesusii could be deemed somewhat blasphemous.’

  Blushing with nervousness, Webster said, ‘Your Majesty’s point is well made though I assure you the intention is quite the opposite. The name Jesusii was chosen by Mr Cantwell in honour of the Lord and Saviour, since the find occurred in the heart of the Holy Land during a quest to find evidence of Jesus’ life in Nazareth.’

  The King accepted the explanation knowing Cantwell was not a religious man. He smiled up at the Professor, inviting him to continue. Webster delved into a detailed account of his observations, using a long wooden cane to indicate points of interest on the poster-sized frog. When he espoused his theory on the tadpoles, he sensed the restless crowd. By the time he spoke of the unusual opaque frog, the entire theatre was ravenous, not for dinner but to examine the ornaments for themselves.

  As Webster introduced Vincent Scanlan, a man stood indignantly, yelling at the stage. Sir Kenneth Mullins, vice chairman of the Royal Society, was decidedly miffed at his exclusion from the circle of people first privy to the find. Bubbling with anger and with no basis for his accusations save to vent his disapproval, he unleashed his tirade.

  ‘Charles Webster, I have never heard such a ludicrous theory in all my life. I expected a well-credentialed man as you to have exercised some restraint in producing such a fairy tale.’

  Supportive laughter came from some members of Mullins’ table.

  ‘Furthermore, if your pathetic objective is to promote controversy, thereby raising the profile of the Royal Society to attract an increase in funding, you have failed dismally. As a religious man and on behalf of my wife, I find it reprehensible you should belittle the name of God by tarnishing His name to describe a lowly toad. The Book of Deuteronomy makes it perfectly clear. You shall not make wrongful use of the name of the Lord your God, for the Lord will not acquit anyone who misuses his name. I am a God-fearing man. I believe in the Bible, Mr Webster. You, sir, are courting hell.’

  Sir Timothy squirmed uncomfortably in his chair and Lady Sivewright squeezed his hand. He dared not look over at Farmer George. Webster remained silent, glued to the lectern. Mullins continued, believing he had the backing of many in the theatre, including the King.

  ‘I therefore announce, with immediate effect, my resignation from the position of vice chairman of the board of the Royal Society of London and its affiliates.’

  A cynical member of the audience clapped and cheered loudly, drawing a scathing glance from Mullins.

  ‘I encourage other members of the board to do likewise and to withdraw their financial support. I must disassociate myself from such a disparate organisation to preserve my professional reputation.’

  Mullins sat down, immediately engaging his wife to avoid the stares of the crowd. Webster decided not to pour oil on the already raging fire. He spoke calmly but so everyone clearly heard.

  ‘Thank you, Sir Kenneth Mullins.’

  Such a gentle reply had the desired effect of settling the righteous protester who stayed seated. But Webster knew at the slightest incitement Mullins would jump back on his soapbox to further destroy the spirit of the evening.

  Webster caught Sir Timothy’s eye, thanked the audience and called Vincent Scanlan to the stage. The tentative applause came laced with confusion and some embarrassment. Sir Timothy hoped for a degree of recovery. By the time Scanlan finished his short dissertation about the coins, Mullin’s outburst had lost some of its impact. Sir Timothy returned to the lectern, putting on a brave face, thanking all concerned as a queue formed below the stage where the three ornaments were displayed in a shallow box.

  Sir Timothy, Professor Webster, Scanlan, Cantwell and Dixon shook hands with the guests as they filed past, answering their questions, inviting them to hold and admire each ornament.

  Dixon spotted Mullins and his entourage approaching the head of the line. He nudged Cantwell.

  ‘This could be interesting,’ Cantwell said from the corner of his mouth.

  ‘I can’t wait,’ Dixon said, rubbing his hands in anticipation.

  ‘Remember your manners, John,’ Cantwell said.

  Mullins approached the viewing area as Sir Timothy finished showing the ornaments to King George and Queen Charlotte. He stared straight ahead, drawing level with Dixon.

  ‘I see you’ve had a change of heart, Sir Kenneth,’ Dixon said politely.

  ‘Not at all, I am well within my rights to see what all the fuss is about. I have the same entitlement as anyone in this theatre.’

  Mullins, a tall thin man, then glared down at Dixon and whispered maliciously.

  ‘And as a rule, I am never held to account by hired help, especially grave diggers. My full title, and in future you will refer to me as such, is Sir Kenneth Mullins.’

  ‘Please excuse my lapse in manners, Sir Kenneth Mullins,’ Dixon said. ‘Indeed, I hope to plunder many more graves until the day I take rest in my own.’

  With a straight face, he delivered a parting quip. ‘Perhaps at some time in the not too distant future I will have the honour of digging your grave using the silver spoon I believe is firmly wedged up your bony backside.’

  Mullins was about to make a scene. His gaunt complexion flushed with embarrassment and rage, and he glanced furtively to see no one else had heard the comment. Cantwell did his best to repress his mirth but Dixon didn’t bother to withhold his amusement. Pleased with his delivery, a huge grin split his ruddy face and his shoulders bounced with laughter.

  Mullins gripped his wife’s hand so tightly she flinched. He forcefully led her past Webster, Scanlan and Sir Timothy. As they approached the box of ornaments, Dixon sensed danger and slipped in behind Cantwell.

  Sir Kenneth and Lady Mullins each picked up an ornament, holding them to the lamplight. Mullins temporarily hid his fury and rising jealousy beneath his utter fascination at the tiny frogs. Then spurred on by demonic images in his head he pushed Lady Mullins aside and holding one ornament in his right hand, jumped onto the Royal table, scattering plates and cutlery, defiantly booting the candelabrum away in a splash of wax. A woman screamed hysterically and a period of inertia ensued when the crowd waited to see what would happen next.

  King George gawked at Mullins, who now had everyone’s attention, as Dixon edged closer to the Royal table.

  Mullins shook, his right arm outstretched over the floor. His glazed eyes reflected madness and in a booming voice he commenced his deranged address.

  ‘Behold the body of Christ. Bow on bended knee in t
he name of God the Almighty.’

  Sir Timothy offered his hand in an attempt to coax him down.

  ‘It’s all right, Ken, everything will be all right,’ he said.

  But Mullins was having none of it. ‘Get behind me, Satan!’ he said, pointing directly at Sir Timothy’s chest, halting him in his tracks.

  ‘The Lord Himself has cast his power into me, and the Holy Spirit will direct its judgement upon you. Seek salvation in each and every word that comes from the mouth of God. Abandon these horrid toads and save yourself from the agonies of hell. Leave now or I’ll drop this amphibious slime.’

  Lady Mullins supported herself against a table, stunned by the proceedings.

  Mullins broke into a manic laugh, counting down from ten, raising a hand to the heavens as if summoning a bolt of divine enlightenment.

  Dixon concentrated on the ornament then as Mullins counted one, he launched at him. The ornament dropped toward the floor boards. Dixon caught it in an outstretched hand, pulling it to his chest. He slid into an elderly man seated at the next table and knocked him off his chair, then helped him up and handed him the ornament.

  ‘Mind this,’ Dixon said.

  Mullins, momentarily thwarted, leapt off the table. Seizing a bread knife, and seemingly immune to the pain, he punched a crude hole through the palm of his left hand. Swapping the knife into his mutilated hand, he attacked his right palm with equal ferocity.

  Sweating profusely, Mullins pushed his sleeves to his elbows and held his hands above his head, allowing the pulsing wounds to drip down his arms. Back on the table, he turned for everyone to see, shouting, ‘Behold the Lamb of God.’

  At the edge of the table, Mullins drew his hands to his side and fell like a soldier fainting in the sun, impaling himself on the candelabrum he’d previously kicked away. One branch drove between two ribs into his frantically beating heart, killing him instantly.

  The Ballard filled with high-pitched screams as the crowd stampeded out the doors. They poured onto the pavement like ants, displaying a sudden urgency to gather the horses and carriages and leave the scene as quickly as possible.

  Inside the theatre, the King and Queen were escorted to a couch behind a curtain at the side of the stage where Farmer George consoled his pregnant wife.

  Lady Mullins sat on the floor unable to comprehend what had transpired. Her husband had transformed into a creature the likes of which she’d never known. Cantwell pulled the cloth from the royal table to cover Mullins and the blood pooling under him.

  Sir Timothy teetered on the verge of panic and Dixon suddenly regretted his scathing comment.

  The arrival of police and an ambulance cart drew a curious crowd outside the theatre.

  The elderly man walked up to Dixon and handed back the ornament. ‘Fine catch, son. I don’t know what possessed young Kenneth. I swear the air turned cold when he stood on the table with his hands all bleeding like that.’

  ‘Thank you, sir, I should have done more but it happened quickly. I might have tackled him earlier and not concerned myself with the ornament.’

  ‘There were three hundred people in the theatre, including myself, that were frozen to the spot in disbelief. You did a splendid job. I must be getting home, Mr Dixon, since my wife feels unwell and I am in need of a stiff drink. Goodnight and take care.’

  Outside the theatre, rumours of a murder were spreading. Two men carrying a stretcher forced their way through the crowd. A small scruffy boy ran along the slippery sidewalk as fast as his little legs would carry him, arriving at the offices of the Morning Chronicle newspaper.

  Panting wildly, he beat the door with his little fist until a man let him in.

  ‘Not the best weather to be out and about. What have you got for me?’

  ‘There’s been a murder at the Ballard Theatre,’ the boy said.

  ‘Tell me more.’ the man said.

  ‘There were lots of people leaving and a crowd at the entrance. I heard a shout of murder, murder and a cart arrived with policemen.’

  The man pushed a shilling into the boy’s hand.

  ‘Be off home lad before you catch your death of cold.’

  He opened the door and the boy ran out into the rain.

  Soon two reporters were hustling toward the Ballard.

  Inside the theatre, Mullins was lifted onto the stretcher with the candelabrum still wedged in his chest, and carried outside where a pressing crowd saw him loaded onto a cart. The horses swung in a wide arc on the street and pulled toward the morgue.

  Sir Timothy had Mullins’ blood cleaned off the floor while he attended to King George and Queen Charlotte. He ushered them out into the dark alley behind the theatre as the royal carriage rolled to a stop.

  ‘Your Royal Highnesses, I deeply apologise for the events of this evening.’

  ‘Timothy, worry not for things beyond your control. The onslaught of tomorrow’s newspapers will be of far greater concern. Poor Mullins, it will be a night Charlotte and I will never forget.’

  The King stepped up into the royal carriage after his wife, and they left for the palace.

  A crowd lingered outside the theatre and Sir Timothy addressed them in a loud voice.

  ‘A dour tragedy has befallen us inside the Ballard tonight.’

  ‘Tell us about the murder,’ a voice yelled.

  It started a chorus of shouting.

  Sir Timothy raised his hands. ‘You will read about it soon enough, but for now I need your help.’

  The crowd quietened.

  ‘We are left with a surplus of food I fear will go to waste. You are invited to share in it provided you conduct yourselves in an orderly manner. There has been enough blood spilled this evening. The attendants will allow you into the theatre, one at a time. Please be seated and wait for the food to be brought to you. There is no liquor and we have an hour to vacate the premises.’

  An excited murmur spread among the crowd as a mad scramble supervened for a spot at the head of the queue. Sir Timothy shrugged his shoulders, resigned to the anarchy.

  Dixon placed the ornament back into its case.

  ‘What now, Sir Timothy?’

  ‘We cannot waste all this food. Take a seat if you’re hungry, and thanks, John, for saving the ornament. Are you alright?’

  ‘I’m fine, Sir,’ Dixon said.

  Sir Timothy put an arm around his shoulder, guiding him to where Cantwell was in earnest conversation with Webster, Scanlan and their wives.

  ‘How is everyone? Sir Timothy said.

  ‘Somewhat shaken, Sir,’ Webster said.’

  Sir Timothy considered Olivia Webster and Virginia Scanlan were feigning shock and distress at the ghastly events.

  ‘Will the tour continue, Sir?’ Vincent Scanlan said.

  ‘If you are all in agreement I will have Captain Thorpe ready the Hercules to set sail tomorrow morning before the first papers hit the streets. Are there any objections?

  ‘Good, then Paris as planned. Lady Sivewright will remain at Wilsbury with the children.’

  People filtered into the Ballard, all of whom stared in absolute wonderment at the cavernous ceiling and rows of velvet covered seats. The smell of cooked meat tore at their hunger and many broke into a run. Sir Timothy spotted reporters scouting for gruesome details. The floor where Mullins died was now clean, and Webster had retrieved the crocodile-skin case containing the ornaments.

  By the time the last man entered the theatre, there were several hundred of the most diverse group of underclass feasting on an early Christmas dinner unlike any they had ever eaten. Without argument or fight, some ate with forks while others scooped food into their mouths with bare hands. An old drunk leant against the wall trying to devour a turkey leg, his gummy jaw meeting with moderate success. But he was having the time of his life, unfazed by the grease running through his beard and down his moth-eaten coat.

  Sir Timothy was filled with happiness at the sight until confronted by a reporter.

  ‘Tell us e
xactly what happened?’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ he said.

  ‘Surely, you’d be the most reliable source in this dastardly event,’ the reporter said.

  ‘That is your man from the Gazette, the only reporter invited to the lecture. I suspect his story is being put to press as we speak. You will find it accurate as always,’ Sir Timothy said.

  ‘Do you want me printing lies, Sir Timothy?’ the reporter said.

  ‘Since when did your paper let the truth get in the way of a good story? Print whatever you see fit but I’ll sue your sorry posterior from here to eternity if it is slanderous in any way. I will tell you two things. Firstly, Sir Kenneth Mullins was not murdered and secondly there will be an official announcement by the Royal Society tomorrow afternoon detailing the events surrounding his death. That and the report in the Gazette should make everything perfectly clear. I suggest you base any newspaper reports for your appalling tabloid on nothing else. Now, if you are hungry, feel free to eat, otherwise you may leave,’ Sir Timothy said.

  ‘I hope you rot in hell, Sir.’

  The reporter walked away and Sir Timothy did not retaliate.

  Lady Sivewright felt nothing but sadness, for the press had sustained vitriolic and unsubstantiated commentary toward her husband in recent years. She placed her hand reassuringly in the crook of his arm.

  Other reporters spied from a distance and after seeing Sir Timothy’s discourse they slipped among the feasting crowd.

  The homeless wandered back out onto the cold street. Sir Timothy and Lady Sivewright watched the last woman leave the theatre, wrapped in a long coat. Sir Timothy picked up the case of ornaments and walked Lady Sivewright to the theatre door. A single lantern held centre stage like a tiny soprano.

  The Ballard fell silent, the night’s dramatic events forever etched in its worn seats and dusty rafters. As Sir Timothy stepped up into his waiting carriage he thought he heard a last echo of applause run around the empty stalls.

  19

  As the Hercules battled gusty headwinds and steep swells, the first afternoon editions of London’s papers arrived at newsstands. The Gazette led with REAL LIFE DRAMA AT THE BALLARD; an unembellished account of Mullins’ bizarre death. A drawing had Mullins standing on the royal table, the artist taking the liberty of showing King George open mouthed, staring up at his deranged subject. It was left to the tabloids to provide the scurrilous headlines: BLASPHEMY AT THE BALLARD LEADS TO DEATH and FALLEN KNIGHT DEFENDING THE FAITH. The most contemptible of these fronted the Chronicle; MULLINS MURDERED IN THE NAME OF GOD, and assumed Sir Timothy and his entourage were wholly responsible for his death. It was well known the board of the Chronicle harboured a deep grudge against the Royal Society hence the editor’s vengeful personal attack on Sir Timothy had little foundation in truth.