Saviour

by Christopher Gallagher

  Contents

  BEFOREHAND

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  AFTERWARDS

  About the author

  Acknowledgments

  Saviour

  Christopher Gallagher

  Copyright © 2017 Christopher Gallagher

  All rights reserved.

  Christopher Gallagher has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organisations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictionally.

  Saviour was originally published under the title Arrival with a different cover.

  Mesen Publishing

  Mesen@gmx.co.uk

  BEFOREHAND

  THIRTY THREE YEARS AGO.

  BATLEY. NORTHUMBRIA.

  'Oh my God.'

  Breathing, puffing, panting.

  The midwife, an experienced middle-aged woman, moved about her business without unnecessary fuss. She checked for dilation and mopped the sweat from the girl's brow, then looked at Joe as though to say, you could have done that.

  A few seconds silence, then…

  'Oh my God.'

  Breathing, puffing, panting.

  'Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.' One continual wail building to a crescendo, then…

  'OH MY GOD.'

  Joe looked away, embarrassed.

  'Believers, are you?' The midwife, Angela on her name badge, said.

  Joe nodded, he hoped it wouldn’t an issue.

  The woman sniffed. 'Sun worshipper myself. Me and the old man, every year, Majorca, two weeks in the sun, lovely.'

  Joe smiled warily, he didn't want to encourage her too much, she'd have the holiday snaps out next.

  'Long way from home though?' Angela said, waiting for the next wave of contractions. Just another job, another bairn on an overcrowded planet.

  Joe shrugged. 'We're all a long way from home. None of my people has ever set foot in our land. We've been here centuries.'

  'It's alright here.' Angela said in a pleasant tone.

  'Yeah.' Joe agreed, but it wasn’t home.

  'Here for the census, then?' Angela asked.

  'Yeah.'

  All the states in the Union took an annual digital census where everyone declared their present status. But every ten years, all citizens were obliged to travel to their hometown, to be counted and prove they were who they said they were. It was the biggest mass movement of people on the planet.

  'It's a pain.' Angela said, her hand below, checking Mary.

  'Yeah.' Joe said again, looking away.

  Angela squeezed Mary's hand, smiled, and checking her watch, said encouragingly. 'Won’t be long now. You’re doing ever so well.'

  Joe squeezed his fiancée’s hand.

  She gave him a wan look. ‘I don’t like this Joe...’ She broke off as a spasm of pain swept through her body. ‘Oh, noooooooooooo.'

  Joe didn't like to remind Mary that none of this was his doing. It was strictly between her and God.

  The contractions were coming closer and closer together. Joe instinctively knew it wouldn't be long. There was more wailing, puffing, and panting. He glanced at the portable gas and air mask and wondered what kind of hit it would be.

  At the next break in the contractions, Angela looked round at the dark interior of the shed. 'What brought you here then?'

  'We tried everywhere for a room.' Joe explained. 'Travelodge, Ibis, Holiday Inn.' He shrugged. 'All full.'

  'No room at the Inn?' Angela queried. 'That's a wonder. They've always got room there.'

  It didn't matter Joe decided. He'd been grateful for the offer of the hotel tool shed. Had been overjoyed when the night porter had insisted on calling for an ambulance. The ambulance hadn't turned up, but Angela the midwife had.

  A short while later, after more screaming, shouting, swearing, the baby came, sliding into the world, almost without warning, it seemed to Joe. Mary lay back weak and exhausted as the midwife wrapped the child in a white cloth, and placed it on Mary's chest.

  'Here you are dad,’ she said to Joe, ‘we've finished down that end now, come and have a look at your son.' She paused, unsure, 'you are the dad?'

  Joe half smiled. 'Sort of.' It was too difficult to explain.

  Angela nodded. It was the way of the world these days. But they looked a decent enough couple. She hoped they'd make a go of it. 'Do you have a name for baby?'

  'Jesus.' Mary said, glancing at Joe who nodded.

  Angela smiled. 'Don't get too many of them round here. Still,' she paused in her cleaning and tidying. 'It's nice enough.'

  Thirty minutes later, with Mary comfortable, Angela completed her paperwork. She presented Joe with her phone. 'If you could sign in the box on the screen I'll be on my way.'

  Joe took the device, didn't look at the amount, just signed, knowing the money would be gone from his account instantaneously. He prayed there would be enough to cover it. He didn't like being in debt to the Union, the interest they charged was diabolical.

  Seconds later, Angela was at the door. 'Now, don't forget your post-natal checks when you get home.' She left, closing the door.

  Joe breathed a sigh of relief. It was done, and as lovely has Angela had been, he was pleased that she'd gone. He was so proud of Mary. It hadn't been easy for her since she'd announced her pregnancy. As devout adherents of the ancient faith they strongly believed in the sanctity of marriage and that women should remain virginal until their wedding night. Such a view was at odds with the liberality of the modern world and had only increased the ridicule that had come her way, and his too, since he'd decided to stick by her.

  Joe looked at the child suckling contentedly at Mary's breast. How on earth was a child, any child, this child, going to change the world?

  The door swung open, Joe looked up in annoyance. Was it too much to ask for a quiet moment with Mary and his son? He shielded his eyes against the light that flooded through the door. How could it be as bright as day in the middle of the night? He could just about see it was the midwife back again. 'Hope you don't mind,' She said, 'but you've got some visitors. I found them wandering round the car park looking for you.' She pulled a face, lowered her voice. 'They look a right scruffy lot.’ She smiled. 'Well, all the best then, tarra.'

  She left, leaving the door open. Joe looked in amazement as a man peered in, took off his cap and bowed low.

  Joe and Mary exchanged glances.

  It had begun.

  ONE

  THREE YEARS AGO.

  LEEDS. NORTHUMBRIA.

  Sir?

  Thud.

  Sir?

  Thud.

  Sir?

  Thud.

  Would the little bastards never shut up? Beaumont stalked the classroom peering over shoulders, pointing out errors, suggesting amendments, all the while his head thumping; an incessant throb of pumping blood. Throughout the day, every day, the swine
never shut their whining voices. Sir this. Sir that. He sighed, checked the clock. It must be time to cane one of them, thrash the little bastard, see if he could make him squeal, always the highlight of the day.

  There must be more to life than this, he thought, not for the first time.

  'Sir?'

  'Yes, Jennings?'

  'Why do we have to learn about the exodus from Egypt, sir?'

  Beaumont paused. 'Because Jennings, I say so.'

  'It's not history, though, is it, sir?'

  'Oh?' Beaumont replied. He glanced at a few of the grinning brighter boys. Predators sensing blood.

  'Well, sir.' Jennings didn't seem to realise he was heading into dangerous waters. 'It's more Religious Education, isn't it?'

  Beaumont decided to play along for a while. 'Well Jennings, as a religious, historical event, it could be either.'

  'Can we be sure it happened, though, sir?' Another youth, Baxter was it, chirped into life.

  Was it a conspiracy, Beaumont wondered. 'Something puzzling you, Baxter?'

  'Exodus, sir. Did it happen?'

  'Have you not been listening, Baxter?'

  Baxter decided to take the question as rhetorical.

  Beaumont took a deep breath. 'As you know, the Jews left Egypt, and managed to flee through the desert, keeping just ahead of Pharaoh's army. They went across the Red Sea into what they thought would be their promised land. However, once there, their leaders decided they didn't feel that safe, so they kept on travelling, all the way across Europe, arriving here in Northumbria forty years after they left Egypt. Where they've lived ever since.'

  'All of them, sir?

  'No, Jennings, not all of them. In every country they journeyed through, a few stayed and made lives for themselves. There's a remnant of the Jewish people in practically every country in the Union. But by far the biggest population is here in Northumbria.'

  'Excuse me, sir.'

  Beaumont sighed. 'Yes Schulz?'

  'Why can't we study the Union sir, how it came about?'

  'Is it true, sir that we used to have a king in this country?'

  'What would happen, sir, if the four kingdoms joined together, sir, declared independence from the Union?'

  Beaumont had often wondered that. There had been talk over the years of uniting the four kingdoms of Northumbria, East Anglia, Wessex, and Mercia within the Union. It would make administration easier, but like many such initiatives it had come to nothing. There had never been a genuine option to leave the Union, despite the 1975 referendum posing that exact question. That vote had been rigged in favour of remaining within the safety of the Union. The financial ruin that would have followed an exit had been too much to contemplate for most of those eligible to vote. In any case, the present Fuehrer was known to oppose the idea. She didn't like the possibility of a potential rival power on her doorstep. There was enough trouble with the Slavs to the east.

  'Sir?'

  'Sir?'

  'Sir?'

  'Silence.' Beaumont screamed. 'One at a time. If you wish to speak, raise your hand. Yes, Baxter?'

  Before Baxter could speak, Beaumont became aware of Schulz muttering, decided it was time to make an example.

  'What was that, Schulz?' He barked.

  'My father thinks we should make God’s so called chosen people fight the animals in the Arena.’

  'Does he now?' Beaumont lowered his voice.

  A throwback to the Roman days, the games in the Arena had been reinstated by the first Fuehrer. A three day jamboree incorporating among other spectacles, trials of strength, man against man, animal against animal, and by far the most popular, man against animal, where it was rare for man to come out alive.

  ‘Yes, sir. That would show them who’s in charge?’

  Beaumont, the vein in his temple throbbing, nodded. ‘And then, what of the survivors?’

  ‘They should be shipped back to their so called promised land.' The youth sneered.

  Beaumont nodded.

  'And what do you think Schulz?'

  'I agree with him, sir.' The boy paused, full of youthful confidence. 'In fact, I think we Saxons are God's chosen people. What do you think, sir?'

  Beaumont smiled. 'I think you should come out to the front Schulz, and bend over my desk.'

  Later, after laying the cane across Schulz's backside three times, Beaumont wondered whether direct action might not be such a bad idea.

  ✝

  Whitby, Northumbria.

  '"Look, I will send to you Eliyahu the prophet before the coming of the great and terrible Day of the Lord. He will turn the hearts of the fathers to the children and the hearts of the children to their fathers. Otherwise I will come and strike the land with complete destruction.”'

  Brian rolled up the scroll and regarded his congregation in silence. He could just about count them on the fingers of both hands. He wondered again, why he bothered. Better to pack it all in, get a proper job. Heathens the lot of them. As much heathens as the new agers, the druids, the sun worshipers, rain dancers, the tree huggers, the child sacrificers and they were just the ones Brian could recall off the top of his head. He could tolerate most of the offbeat, strange practices that people indulged in, apart from child sacrifice. That was the only religious practice banned by the Union, but it still happened, out there in the wilderness. He shivered, took a deep breath, said.

  'This is the word of the Lord.' He glanced round for eye contact with someone, anyone. An old woman in the front row looked away. A man near the back held his eye as though to say, 'Go on, amaze me.' Brian continued,

  'These are the final words from the ancient scriptures.'

  Didn't they care?

  Apparently not.

  Well, Jesus apart, a keen young man, who one day would make a fine teacher of the law, if he would concentrate more, listen once in a while, stop thinking he knew more than his teacher. He scanned the room, no sign of Jesus today. It was rare for him to miss a service.

  'The last words spoken to His people by the Lord of the universe. We are his people. He is our Lord. And we are still waiting for Eliyahu to point the way to Messiah.'

  So, if anybody sees him, send him my way.

  There was silence

  Brian blessed his flock, dismissed them. As the congregation shuffled out into the evening sunset, Brian smiled at the thought of the ancient prophet turning up here in Whitby. More chance of winning the lottery.

  He stacked the chairs away, thought again how things had changed since his people had left the Promised Land. Then, back in the day, there'd been dedicated synagogues, holy places, not draughty village halls, civic centres, and, he looked round with disdain, Multi Faith Worship Centres aka MUFWOCS.

  Trouble was the Jews had been waiting too long for God to speak, to send Messiah, to free them from oppression. Most had drifted. Brian considered them secular followers. Seldom seen at worship, visiting the Temple in York once a year, because to stop, would be a step too far.

  Brian felt a draught, his notes on the lectern shifted. Typical, some of them couldn't even get here at the right time. 'The service is over for today,' he called out without looking, 'come back tomorrow.'

  No response, but Brian, aware of a presence, turned and saw a figure framed in the doorway, the setting sun forming a halo round his head, his first thought. Eliyahu? He tensed as the figure moved towards him but relaxed when he saw it was Baptiste. A local nutter who lived on the moors for months at a time. He'd started immersing people in the sea. Preparing them for Messiah, he claimed. A small, barrel of a man, wild tangled hair - birds could nest in that hair Brian always thought. He was said to be harmless, but Brian wasn't taking any chances. His fingers touched the personal attack alarm on his waist.

  Baptiste noticed the movement. Amusement flickered over his weathered face. 'You've no need for that lad. I don't mean you any harm.' He chuckled in his thick local accent.

  Brian continued clearing chairs, keeping a close eye on Baptiste.r />
  'He's coming.' Baptiste said. 'Messiah.'

  This was new. For all his ramblings, Baptiste had never come out with a definite statement before.

  Brian waited.

  'He's with us now. Messiah walks with us.'

  'Is that right?' Brian asked, sceptical.

  Silence.

  'And who is this Messiah? Does he have a name?'

  'Soon. It'll be revealed soon. I just wanted you to know, what with you reading that passage from Malachi.'

  Brian smiled. 'And that makes you, what, Eliyahu?'

  Baptiste shook his head, 'Nay lad, that's not me. I'm just a voice crying int’ wilderness.'

  'You want to be careful,' Brian warned, 'there's some that might think you’re serious.'

  Baptiste nodded, 'That's the idea,' he turned to leave. 'Why don't you come down to the beach in the morning hear what I have to say.'

  Baptiste left and Brian carried on clearing the chairs, strangely unsettled by the encounter. It was some time later before he stopped, and wondered how Baptiste knew he'd read from Malachi.

  Leeds, Northumbria.

  Bocus idly watched columns of figures flicker their way across his screen and dreamed of a day when the four kingdoms of Northumbria, Wessex, Mercia, and East Anglia joined together and became free of the Union and its Saxon overlords. Perhaps joining together with Scotland, Wales, and Cornwall, to form one glorious nation.

  Bocus was a member of a small but determined group working to make it happen. He used his position as an analyst for Northumbrian Water to insert corrupt data into the figures for water availability. His intention was to make the current water shortage appear a lot worse than it was. Soon there would be a hosepipe ban but his ultimate outcome was standpipes in the streets, long queues for water, just like back in '76, well before his time, of course, but remembered with horror by some older employees. There was a small element of risk involved, the authorities always watching, monitoring, for any sign of dissent, but they were more concerned with groups of armed rebels that sprang up from time to time. These groups were hunted down with ruthless efficiency, and survivors, if any, were executed by being nailed naked to wooden crosses in the Arena at York.