Saviour

by Christopher Gallagher

  Alex turned, fled, his legs pumping.

  Beaumont watched as the Polizei stood over Henderson's body. One of them radioed for a clean-up squad. The suspect had been shot whilst attempting to escape. Beaumont burned with righteous indignation as he listened to the lies, the laughter. Flies were already settling on Henderson's headless corpse when the Polizei left a short while later.

  In the bushes Beaumont vomited, then realised as he gulped air down his burning throat that he too had wet himself.

  ✝

  State Security HQ, York, Northumbria.

  Swanger sipped her coffee, smoked a cigarette as she skimmed the article in the Northumbrian Times colour supplement.

  SERMON ON THE MOUNT.

  On the gentle slopes of Pen-Y-Ghent, a minor mountain in the Northumbrian Dales, near the small village of Horton in Ribblesdale, thousands of people gathered at a three-day festival to see the renowned prophet, Jesus. Over the course of the long weekend, many of those gathered were healed of their afflictions as Jesus moved among the people, blessing them, and forgiving their sins to the chagrin of the Pharisees, who insist that only God has the power to forgive sin.

  The Pharisees are divided by Jesus. Some accept him as a genuine man of God, a great teacher of the law whilst others take the opposite view, accusing him of being sent by the devil. On one occasion over the three-day event Jesus cast out a demon from a man and was accused of having an impure spirit within him.

  The prophet used his favoured device of a parable to respond, asking, 'How can Satan cast out Satan? If a kingdom is divided against itself, that kingdom can't stand. If a house is divided against itself, that house can't stand. So, if Satan opposes himself and is divided, he can't stand, and his end has come. Nobody can enter a strong man's house without first restraining him. I tell you the truth, all sins will be forgiven and every slander they speak, but whoever blasphemes against the Holy Spirit will never be forgiven.'

  Many commentators believe this reference to the Holy Spirit is Jesus' way of acknowledging that he is the son of God. The long-awaited Messiah.

  Another of the Pharisees complaints is that Jesus and his followers work on the Sabbath, which is forbidden to those adherents of the ancient faith. It is the practice of Jesus and his disciples to camp in the open fields, to cook over wood fires, and share their food among those in need. One particular Pharisee took exception to this, telling Jesus that cooking on the Sabbath was unlawful.

  Jesus responded with refreshing candour. 'Haven't you read what David (an ancient king of the Jews) did when he and his companions were hungry? They entered the house of God, and ate the consecrated bread, which was illegal. If you knew what these words mean, "I desire mercy, not sacrifice" you would not condemn the innocent. The Son of Man is Lord of the Sabbath.'

  There was more in a similar vein, but Swanger put the paper aside, drained her cold coffee. Lighting another smoke, she considered the article. She had no doubt the reporting was accurate enough, but it was all about the difficulties with the Pharisees, it didn't get to the essence of Jesus the man.

  Swanger thought about Jesus a lot. He had a good gig going. This Son of God, Messiah thing, was a masterstroke. The healings, exorcisms, all looked good, all designed to trick the gullible. Handsome too, charismatic, Swanger reflected. But what was his angle? What was in it for Jesus?

  ✝

  Leeds, Northumbria.

  The tapping on the door was so quiet Bocus thought for a second that he'd imagined it. He muted the sound on the TV, strained to listen. The three taps came again. Still quiet, but somebody was definitely at the door. The back door. Nobody came round the back. They came to the front door, rang the bell.

  Instant, immediate thought, Polizei.

  Bocus jumped up, his heartbeat moving through the gears into overdrive. Would the Polizei knock on the door, or come storming through? He thought about slipping out the front. No point, they'd have both doors covered.

  There was no way out, he was trapped, was going to die.

  He turned the lights out, stood in the dark, waited.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  It couldn't be the Polizei. They wouldn't keep knocking; they'd have been in by now, seconds after the stun grenades. If it was the Polizei he'd either be dead already or on the way to State Security HQ. Who then?

  Who would come knocking on his back door gone ten on a Sunday evening? Those people he spied on in the woods. The earth worshippers who sacrificed that child. No, not them. That was months ago.

  Bocus flung the door open, stepped back as a dishevelled figure pushed past, and closed the door. 'You took your sodding' time.'

  It took Bocus a few wild seconds to recognise him. Beaumont looked old, haggard, worn out. His face was filthy, his clothes muddy, torn, arms scratched, the sole of one shoe flapped as he walked.

  Bocus was shocked. 'What on earth has happened to you?'

  'You don't know? You haven't heard?' Beaumont asked, surprised.

  Bocus shook his head. 'No. Nothing. What's happened? I've heard nothing of you, or what you've been doing since I introduced you to my contact.'

  Beaumont sighed. 'You got any grub? I'm starving.'

  The story came out haltingly as Beaumont drank a pot of hot sweet tea. Bocus cooked eggs and bacon, listened as Beaumont told him about the safe house, the warning phone call, the raid, Henderson led outside, the summary execution. Leeds wasn't far from Huddersfield, thirty kilometres by road, but still far enough to walk on an empty belly, in fear of being captured.

  Bocus placed the food on the table, watched as Beaumont wolfed it down. He made another pot of tea, poured them both a mug. Beaumont nursed his in grimy hands, looked at Bocus. 'You didn't know where I was. The safe house.'

  'No.’ Bocus sipped his tea, ‘It's all done on a need to know basis. If you don't need to know, you don't get told. The less you know, the less you can tell.'

  Beaumont sighed. 'Nice theory. In practice, the less you know, the more they torture you.'

  'That didn't happen to you. You got away.' Bocus reminded him.

  'Unlike Henderson, poor sod. Did you know him?'

  Bocus frowned, the name meant nothing. 'We change names that often, I don't know who I am half the time.'

  'Why would they do that? They brought him to the back of the house, blew him away.' Beaumont fell silent, remembering. 'His head just disappeared.'

  'Because they can.' Bocus replied vehemently. 'That's why we're involved. That's why we're doing what we do.'

  'I'm not sure I want to be involved anymore.' Beaumont said. 'I'm a history teacher, not a terrorist.'

  Bocus snorted. 'You were a history teacher, now you're fighting for the freedom of the land you love.' He was silent for a moment. 'There's no escape. You know too much.'

  'I don't know anything.'

  'Like you said, who's gonna believe that?'

  'That's what scares me.' Beaumont said.

  They talked for a while longer, and then Bocus ran a hot bath, left Beaumont to get as clean as he could. He sorted some pyjamas, an old dressing gown, and made up the spare bed.

  Once Beaumont was asleep, he stepped out into the garden, smoked a cigarette, and wondered what to do next.

  NINE

  STATE SECURITY HQ, YORK, NORTHUMBRIA.

  Heathersedge pushed a folder across the desk. 'What do you make of that?'

  Swanger skimmed through the report of an operation to arrest a terror suspect. Should have been a routine job for the Ninjas. Something had gone wrong though, and the target, Henderson, had been shot while resisting arrest. Apparently, he was being led outside to the unit vehicle when he'd made a dash for it - with handcuffs on. Swanger raised an eyebrow. Whoever wrote this rubbish should be writing fiction.

  She finished reading, laid the folder down. It was a classic of evasion and obfuscation and she didn't believe a word of it.

  'Well?' Heathersedge demanded.

  Swanger shrugged. 'It happens.'

 
Heathersedge snorted in disbelief. 'It shouldn't happen.' He picked up a pen, tapped it on the desk. 'Intel said there were two men in the house, Henderson, and another, name of Carter.'

  'And he's gone to ground.' Swanger stated the obvious.

  'Correct.'

  'He'll be picked up sooner or later.' Swanger told her boss, 'Most of these agitators, although cunning, are basically stupid.'

  'I'm not so sure,' Heathersedge frowned, 'they're getting a lot better organised, the Four Kingdoms United lot, in particular.'

  Swanger thought Heathersedge was making too much of it, but then, she didn't have the bigger picture.

  'I want you on this,' Heathersedge continued, 'drop everything else you're working on.' He pushed the file towards Swanger. 'I want this Carter found and brought in alive. Okay?'

  In her office twenty minutes later, Swanger lit a cigarette, thought about speaking with the Ninja team who'd fouled up, but they'd been withdrawn from front line duties and were now undergoing refresher training in Berlin.

  Despite Heathersedge's gloom, Swanger didn't see that FKU were a big threat. Okay, so a few bombs had exploded in various places. Water facilities, railway yards. In remote places with poor security. Nobody had been killed or hurt. A minor irritation, nothing more. Still, Heathersedge wanted action, so that's what Swanger would give him and knew where to start.

  Simon the Zealot.

  Swanger stubbed out her cigarette, pulled the file on the twelve disciples, located the info on Simon, read,

  Simon aka The Zealot. Age 25, dark hair, blue eyes. Hot head, easy to provoke. Quick to lose temper. Whisky drinker. Married to Samantha - see separate file - but known to have numerous concurrent heterosexual relationships outside of marriage. No children. Attractive to women, knows it, flirtatious, attention seeker. Stubborn bordering on arrogant. Self-employed mobile mechanic. Tenacious when faced with problems. Strongly suspected of being linked with FKU in an unknown capacity.

  Swanger looked at the attached photo. It had been taken from a distance with a telephoto lens. He had dark olive skin, curly black hair. He was wearing a black leather jacket and Swanger could see how the man would appeal to women.

  She put the file to one side, leaned back in her chair, smiled. Simon the Zealot might have seen the light, might have renounced his former ways, might even be a faithful husband to Samantha, but he had information that Swanger needed, and Swanger was going to get it.

  ✝

  Whitby, Northumbria.

  After Jesus had spoken to the faithful, a crowd gathered round him, wanting to talk, be healed, or just shake his hand. Jesus had a warm word for everyone. At one point during this session with people all around and hemmed in close, he spun round. 'Who touched me?'

  Peter frowned, 'There's people all around you, Boss. It's hard not to be touched in this crowd.'

  'No, Peter. This was a deliberate action. I felt power draining from me.'

  'I'm sorry, Lord.' A woman stepped from the crowd. 'I meant no harm.' She was shaking, close to tears. 'I've been suffering with prolonged menstrual bleeding for twelve years which the doctors can’t cure. I didn't want to bother you and thought if I just touched your shoulder I might be healed.'

  Jesus smiled. 'I knew it. How do you feel?'

  'I feel better, Lord.' The woman replied, 'the moment I touched you, I sensed a change in my body.'

  'Go in peace, sister,' Jesus told her. 'Your faith has healed you. You are freed from your suffering.'

  Later, at the end of the evening, Peter waited by the door. The meeting in the sports centre hall had been a great success. Scores of local people had turned out to welcome Jesus home. They were convinced Jesus was the Messiah and were proclaiming him as such. Peter screwed his eyes tight, yawned. He was knackered, needed his bed. It had been a hectic few weeks. The trip to the Dales, followed by a slow journey back through numerous towns and villages had worn him out. It wouldn't be long before they could get off. The lads were packing away, stacking chairs, sweeping the floor. Slumped against the wall, rattling the keys, he listened as some of Baptiste's followers questioned Jesus.

  'How is it that we and the Pharisees fast often, but your disciples don't fast?' One of them asked.

  Peter listened in fascination to Jesus' reply, 'How can the guests of the bridegroom mourn while he is with them? The time will come when the bridegroom will be taken from them. Then they will fast.'

  Peter looked at the man, could see he was struggling, and wanted to call across, don't worry mate, take your time, you’ll get it sooner or later. Although the meeting was over a few people remained. The ubiquitous Pharisees, led by Brotherton, who dogged their path round the kingdom.

  'Is this where Jesus is healing people?' A blind man was at the door, complete with white stick and a black Labrador.

  'The meeting's over, mate.' Peter said. 'Come back next time.'

  'If I could just have a word with Jesus.' The man pleaded.

  Peter sighed. They’d never get home at this rate. 'I'll see what I can do, come with me.'

  Jesus listened as Peter explained. He looked at the blind man, who said, 'Lord, have mercy on me.'

  'What do you want me to do for you?' Jesus asked.

  'Lord, I want to see.' The man replied, a catch in his voice.

  Jesus reached out, touched the man's eyes. The man blinked in surprise, opened his eyes, and closed them against the light. When he opened them again, tears trickled down his cheek. 'I can see.' He sniffed, and then caught sight of a vase of flowers. 'So that's what they look like. I've loved the scent all my life and now I can see how beautiful they are. Lord, I am so grateful to you.'

  After Jesus had told the man to go in peace, John sat praying with him for a while.

  Peter ushered the last of the stragglers through the door, was about to lock it, when a distraught man rushed in asking for Jesus. Peter recognised him as one of the elders of the synagogue. The man knelt at Jesus' feet. 'My daughter has just died.’ He said. ‘If you come and lay hands on her I'm sure she will live.'

  'Don't be afraid,' Jesus responded. 'Just believe.'

  At the man's house a crowd of relatives had gathered, were comforting the girl's mother. The woman was bereft, weeping and wailing.

  Jesus asked to see the girl.

  'You're too late mate,' a man told him, 'she's dead.'

  Jesus shook his head. 'Not dead. Sleeping.'

  People looked at him in disbelief.

  The man shrugged. 'I know dead when I see it, mate.'

  'Show me the girl.' Jesus demanded.

  The distraught father led Jesus upstairs and left him with the dead girl.

  Five minutes later Jesus appeared in the main room. He was leading the bewildered girl by the hand. The stunned silence lasted a few seconds, but was then broken by hooting and hollering. Her father hugged her, and asked what had happened.

  Blinking through her tears, the girl replied, 'He just told me to get up.'

  Unnoticed, Jesus and Peter slipped out into the night.

  ✝

  Northumbrian moorland outside Whitby.

  Clear of the town, on the top moorland, heading west, Peter closed his eyes, snuggled into the corner of the seat, the recent trip to Whitby uppermost in his thoughts. A lot of goodwill had been generated, but some people, in particular, the Pharisees and Temple priests would never get it. Result, they'd been run out of town again, were now en-route to the opposite side of the kingdom. Blackpool of all places.

  Again and again, Jesus had been challenged by the Pharisees dealing with all their objections and trick questions with ease. The doubts though, had trickled down to the ordinary people. Those who'd known Jesus as a boy, as a teenager, as a local carpenter in the family business.

  Peter could see them now, their voices in his head,

  Who does he think he is? A thin ferret faced woman.

  Who gave him this wisdom? A fishmonger, known as the octopus among his female customers.

  What are
these miracles he's performed? Chain smoking local doctor.

  Isn't that Mary's son. The carpenter?

  He ought to stick to what he knows.

  Jesus had told them straight, 'A prophet will never be honoured in his own town, among his relatives, even in his own home.'

  His family proved him right as well. His mother, Mary, turning up with his sisters, various cousins trailing along in their wake, calling for him to come home, to give it up, find a wife, have a family. Following him round from meeting to meeting, they'd even threatened to have him sectioned at one point. Peter grunted, snuggled further down, and lulled by the steady swish of the tyres on the tarmac.

  The Boss had put them in their place, though. At one gathering, someone had called out, telling Jesus his family were outside asking for him.

  He'd spread his arms wide, gestured to the people before him, pointed at his disciples, 'Here is my mother, my brothers, my sisters. I tell you the truth, whoever does the will of God is my mother, my brother, my sister.'

  Not long after that, it had been made plain that they should leave if they valued their safety.

  Phil was strumming his guitar at the back of the minibus, a few of the lads joining in with the latest composition. Peter stopped thinking, gave himself up to sleep.

  ✝

  Outskirts of Manchester.

  A steady stream of traffic headed out of Manchester. It was baking hot in the minibus. Jim squirted water on the windscreen, flipped the wipers, watched in disgust as the flies smeared across the glass. He pulled the lever, squirted more water, was mesmerised by the rhythmic swish of the blades as they struggled to clear the screen. He wondered when, if ever, it would rain again. It was slow going on the link road. Tempers were fraying. Horns blared in anger and echoed back in sympathy or derision. At one stage, a long continuous blast of a horn raised a laugh among the disciples. Jim glanced out, saw raised fingers, gesticulations. Anger everywhere. He could imagine the curses, sighed, wished he wasn't driving.