Saviour

by Christopher Gallagher

  He turned on the radio for traffic news. It was the usual gloom, tailbacks and delays for the foreseeable future. Jesus and the guys were singing a rousing version of, 'One Man Went to Mow', as Jim negotiated a roundabout, a mile to the motorway. The flashing blue light, sirens, came as a surprise. The singing tailed off. Somebody growled. 'Trouble.'

  Jim checked his speed, well within the limit. He signalled and pulled over into a desolate lay-by where a two man council team were fighting a losing battle. One of them litter picking, the other struggling to empty a bin. They paid no attention to either the minibus or the patrol car.

  Jim watched as a Polizei traffic cop, menacing in his dark uniform, stepped out of the car. He looked around, adjusted his shades, walked the short distance to the minibus, and motioned Jim to wind the window down.

  'I wasn't speeding.' Jim protested.

  'I know that.' The voice, quiet, authoritative.

  Jim frowned. 'Why the stop then?'

  'You’ve got Jesus on board?' The officer asked.

  Jim hesitated.

  'It's okay,' the cop interjected, 'I'm not here to bring you trouble. I'd just like a word with Jesus.'

  'Can I help?' Jim asked, wondering what it was about. The officer looked uncomfortable, out of his depth.

  'It's a private matter.'

  'It's okay Jim.' Jesus called. 'How can I help you officer?'

  'Can we speak in private?' The cop asked, sticking his head through the open window.

  'We're all friends here.' Jesus replied.

  The officer looked at the disciples in turn. 'It's my buddy. My partner. He was shot - flesh wound, nothing too serious. He was recovering well.' The officer paused, sighed. 'But then he picked up an infection. MRSA.' he shrugged, 'he's in a bad way, and...' He stopped again for a second. Jim could see tears glistening in his eyes. 'He's maxed out on his medical insurance.' There was a catch in his voice as he said, 'I don't think he's gonna make it.'

  'Where is he?' Jesus asked. 'Do you want me to come and heal him?'

  The cop shook his head. 'I don't deserve you to do that, but just say the word and I know he'll pull through, I say this because I am a man under authority with men under me and they do as I say.'

  Jesus looked round the disciples. 'I tell you lads, this man has great faith.’ He turned back to the officer. ‘Let him recover just as you believe he will.'

  There was silence as the officer got back in his patrol car and drove away with a wave. Jesus got out of the back door and approached the two refuse collectors.

  Jim heard him say, 'Thank you, guys, you're doing a great job.'

  'Nah, thank you, mate.' One of them replied, 'We're invisible to most people. It's good to be appreciated.'

  ✝

  Blackpool, Northumbria.

  The sun was high. The early haze burnt off. Matt picked his way through the crowds, smiled at two youngsters enthralled by a mechanical laughing Polizei officer in a glass case. Past an arcade, flashing lights, electronic noises, he walked on, his senses bombarded.

  '...eighty-eight, two fat ladies...'

  '...Mungo Jerry...'

  '...Top o' the shop...'

  '...in the summertime...'

  '...two and three...'

  Matt paused for a second, listened.

  '...forget renowned prophet and healer, Jesus of Whitby, is in town today, so if you need a prophecy or a cure, head down to the Central Pier...'

  He continued walking.

  '...news on the hour...'

  'Please mum...'

  'You can't do that...'

  'Go on then...'

  Matt looked up, caught a glimpse of the soon to be demolished rusting tower. Saw a teenage boy waving his arms at a gull dive-bombing his chips.

  'Just a quick one...'

  '...there. Green bikini...'

  'I said no...'

  Past the usual deadbeats outside the Leg and Cramp. Same blank faces, day after day, too far gone to wave away the wasps circling their drinks.

  Matt arrived at the pier and joined the other disciples in the small room where they were having a meeting before Jesus addressed the crowds. He caught Tom's eye. 'Have I missed anything?'

  'Nah.' Tom shook his head.

  Matt took a deep breath, tuned out the world, listened to Jesus. 'A farmer sowed good seed in his field, then, that night while he was sleeping his enemy came along and sowed weeds in the field. Months later when the wheat appeared, so did the weeds. One of the farmhands asked the farmer why he'd sown weeds as well as wheat.

  'The farmer told him an enemy had done it.'

  The farmhand asked, 'Shall we go and pull up the weeds?'

  'No,' the farmer replied, 'because while you're pulling the weeds, you may uproot the wheat as well. Let both grow together until the harvest. Then, the harvesters will separate the weeds and the wheat. The weeds will be bundled together and burnt. The wheat will be stored in the barn.'

  'I'm just a simple fisherman Boss.' Peter said. 'I know nothing about farming.'

  'You'll have to tell us.' John said.

  'The field is the world,' Jesus began, 'the farmer who sowed the good seed is the Son of Man, the good seed stands for the people of the kingdom.'

  Tom held up his hand, Jesus nodded. 'Are the weeds the people who aren't of the kingdom?'

  'Correct,' said Jesus, 'and the one who sows them?'

  'The devil.' Jamie said.

  'The harvest is the end of the age,' Jesus explained, 'and the harvesters are angels.'

  'So the angels will gather up the people not of the kingdom,' John said, 'and throw them in a burning furnace?'

  'You've got it.' Jesus said.

  'And the people of the kingdom will live happily ever after.' Phil suggested, strumming a chord. 'There's got to be a song in that.'

  ✝

  Disciples’ campsite, Lake Windermere.

  Simon didn't feel the prick of the needle, was just conscious of the swaying motion as he was hoisted over the Ninja's shoulder, and carried from the camp. It was dark inside the sleeping bag, hot, sweaty, stale air, and Simon, befuddled by sleep, and the effects of the drug, couldn't make sense of it. He decided it must be a dream, tried to turn over, and in his panic tried screaming for help, but couldn't.

  His last conscious thought, I'm dying.

  He knew he wasn't thirty minutes later when his sleeping bag was unzipped in the back of a black van three kilometres away and the duct tape was torn from his mouth. He winced with the pain, opened his eyes, and blinked as bright torchlight hit his face.

  'If this is some kind o' flaming joke...' He tailed off as a voice told him to shut it. He closed his eyes, listened as the voice assured him it wasn't a joke. That he was in very serious trouble. That he would see out his days in agony in the bowels of State Security HQ in York.

  Silence.

  'What do you want?' Simon asked.

  'A name.' The voice replied.

  'What name, whose name?'

  'Someone who's active in Four Kingdoms United.'

  'What makes you think I'd know something like that?'

  'Simon, why don't you stop pissing me about? You were active in FKU. You were part of a cell, you ran errands, conveyed messages. You might even have planted bombs...'

  'No. Nothing like that.'

  'But the other stuff, you did that?'

  Silence.

  'Then, when Jesus came calling,' the voice continued, 'you saw the light, whatever that means and became a follower.'

  'I follow Jesus, yes.'

  'A name.' The voice insisted. 'Give me a name.'

  'And then you'll kill me.' Simon replied flatly.

  'No.' The voice said. 'I'll check out the name. If I find you've spun me a tale, then I'll come back and kill you, okay?’

  Simon gave her a name.

  TEN

  LAKE WINDERMERE, NORTHUMBRIA.

  'Phil?'

  Phil stopped strumming. 'Boss?'

  'It's getting late
,' Jesus said, 'no sign of anybody leaving. All these people,' he gestured, 'they must be starving. How many are there?'

  Phil scanned the crowd. He'd seen more some days, but it was still a fair size. 'Dunno, Boss. Four, five thousand?'

  'It's about that, isn't it?' Jesus said. 'How shall we feed them?'

  Phil shrugged. Feed them? That's a new one. 'Meal deal from Asda. Sandwich, drink, crisps.' He paused, thought. 'Say, five Euros a head. That's twenty five thousand Euros.' He looked at Jesus. 'That's a lot o' money, Boss. I'm not sure we afford that. Speak to Judas, he'll know.' He'll know to the penny that one.

  Judas looked up at his name and shook his head.

  Andrew said, 'There's a lad here with a couple of cheese rolls and a packet of crisps.' He pulled a face. 'Won’t go far though.'

  Peter burst out laughing. 'Not even enough for me there bro.'

  Jesus stooped and spoke to the boy in a low voice. The young lad handed over the rolls and crisps to Jesus who put his hand on his head and blessed him.

  'Peter, can you get me a basket for the sandwiches and a bowl for the crisps?'

  'Sure thing, Boss.'

  Jesus broke the bread rolls into pieces, put them in the small wicker basket, and held it before him. 'Father, we give thanks for your provision. For this bread and cheese.' Handing the basket to Phil, he then emptied the crisps into the bowl Andrew held. 'Father, we thank you for your provision, for these crisps.' Jesus looked at Phil and Andrew. 'Go and feed the people.'

  ✝

  Later, when the multitude had been fed, and the Lakeland scene was restored to its normal tranquillity, Jesus withdrew to spend time alone with the Father. The disciples sat around a small fire. They brewed tea and discussed the miracle of the never-ending food.

  'I knew something was gonna happen,' Phil said, 'some miracle. I kept looking in the basket, trying to watch the rolls appear, but I didn't see it.'

  'That's right.' Andrew agreed. 'Same with the crisps. People took handfuls, but the bowl never became empty.'

  'What amazed me was,' said Jamie, 'we had just enough left for us to eat.'

  'Is it always gonna be like this?' Jude wondered.

  Brilliant, isn't it?' Peter declared. 'Just brilliant.'

  It was a fine evening, the red-flecked sky help promise for the following day, although a light breeze rustled the leaves. Around eight in the evening, they made their way to the landing stage where their boat was moored. Jamie started the engine, called. 'All aboard the Skylark.'

  The boat pulled away from the shore. Matt watched Andrew idly trail his hand in the water, envied his relaxed state. A flock of ducks glided low across the water, dropping their legs at the last moment and settled. It was idyllic but Matt was anxious, he'd be glad when they were back on dry land. He couldn't swim and hated water. It took under ten minutes to cross the lake, which was about 1.5 km at its widest point. He shut his eyes, concentrated on the rhythmic beat of the engine, listened as Jude tried to convince Tom the woods on the west bank were haunted, based on a conversation he'd had with a local.

  'Rubbish.' Tom stated flatly.

  'What he said.' Jude insisted.

  'Nah, be some natural explanation.'

  'Nobody's ever seen anything, but things disappear from garages.'

  'Kind o' things?' Tom asked

  'Packets, tins, food from freezers, that and bottles o' booze.'

  'A ghost that eats and drinks.' Tom laughed. 'Be some homeless guy living in the woods.'

  Jude shrugged. 'He's never been seen if it is.'

  Matt looked towards the woods that covered the bank, where the disciples were camping. He sighed. Something else to worry about.

  'Looks like we're in for a bit o' rain.' Peter remarked.

  Matt looked up. The sky had turned black in a short space of time. As far as he knew, a storm hadn't been forecast.

  'Here it comes.' John said.

  Matt felt the first drops on his upturned face, turned towards the shore, couldn't see it. A light mist had rolled in obscuring the bank. The water now a bit choppy, not quite as smooth as before.

  'You all right Matt?' Peter asked, 'you've gone a bit pale.'

  Matt gave a tight smile, didn't reply, and fought his rising panic. The wind was blowing a bit stronger, water slopped over the side, soaking his trousers.

  'It's just a drop o' watter.' Peter told him, his accent getting broader. Matt wondered if he was enjoying his discomfort. 'Don't worry we'll soon be on the other side. If you think this is bad, you'd never make it on the trawlers. Waves as big as mountains. Hey Andy, do you remember that time...'

  The engine stopped. Apart from the wind, the rain, it was eerily silent.

  Somebody laughed. It was a nervous sound.

  Matt knew he was going to die. Retribution for his bad life. He looked to Jesus for reassurance, couldn't see him. Jesus wasn't on the boat.

  Peter laughed. 'Nice one, Jamie.'

  Jamie muttered something, tried starting the engine. The engine coughed, whined. Matt could smell burnt diesel. He felt sick.

  Voices sprang up,

  'What the...'

  'Not funny.'

  'Come on Jamie, it's gonna start lashing down any minute now.'

  Jamie pressed the starter button again. More coughing, whining, and spluttering.

  'Stop pissing about Jamie.'

  Jamie, white faced. 'It's not me guys.'

  'You've run out of fuel.' Peter accused.

  'There's plenty of fuel.' Jamie retorted, pressing the starter again. Nothing.

  The rain became heavier, large drops exploded on the wooden boat. Matt, dressed in light summer clothing, soon became soaked. The boat started rocking from side to side with the force of the wind.

  'It shouldn't be doing this,' Peter said, 'it's a lake.'

  Andrew shrugged. 'It is.'

  Peter dropped his hand on Matt's shoulder. 'Don't worry, it'll soon pass.'

  Matt nodded, exchanged glances with a few of the others. They looked as scared as he felt. Why wasn't Jesus on the boat?

  One or two of the disciples began praying. Simon joined Jamie in tinkering with the engine.

  'Look.' Judas pointed out into the lake.

  Matt couldn't see anything.

  'It's a ghost.'

  'Don't be stupid.'

  'No such thing.'

  'There is.'

  'It is. It’s a ghost.'

  A scream.

  A laugh.

  A curse.

  'Peter, look, there, on the lake.' Phil tugged his sleeve.

  Matt stared through the driving rain, rubbed the water from his eyes, and could make out the figure of a man standing on the water. His shirt rippling in the strong wind. His immediate thought - the ghost from the woods. He closed his eyes, shook his head. This was a complete nightmare. He counted to ten, tried to remain calm.

  The disciples, cowed by the howling of the wind, the rain lashing against the boat, the creaking of the timbers, huddled together. Matt opened his eyes. The figure, still there, seemed nearer.

  'Who are you?' Peter called. 'What do you want?'

  'Don't be afraid,' the response, 'it's me.'

  'Lord?' Peter queried. 'Lord, is that you?'

  'Yes.' The simple reply.

  Relief washed over Matt. It was Jesus, everything was going to be alright.

  'Lord, if that's you,' Peter shouted above the wind, 'tell me to come to you.'

  Matt watched as Jesus, unaffected by the storm, held out a hand. 'Come.'

  There was an immediate chorus from the disciples,

  'Are you stupid?'

  'Don't go.'

  'You'll drown.'

  'Crackers.'

  Peter swung his legs over the side of the rocking boat. 'We have to step out in faith at some point.' He looked at his brother and shrugged. 'Why not now?' He said, before lowering himself down onto the water. Matt hesitated to look, but when he did, saw Peter a metre from the side, standing on the surface o
f the water.

  'Come.' The figure called.

  Matt watched in awe as Peter put one foot tentatively in front of the other. If this was a film it'd be done with CGI, but it wasn't. It was real.

  Peter turned. 'Hey lads, look at me. I'm walking on the chuffing water.'

  'Sooner you than me, mate.' Nathan muttered.

  The disciples were used to seeing Jesus healing the sick, raising the dead, banishing demons, but this simple act of walking on water had taken it to a whole new level. What Jesus and Peter were doing was impossible.

  Matt watched Peter walking towards Jesus. He was, perhaps, halfway there, when he stopped, looked down, started sinking. 'Lord, help me.' He screamed in panic, the water up to his waist in seconds.

  Jesus closed the gap between them, 'Oh Peter, such little faith.' Jesus steadied him, helped him back to the boat, where they both clambered aboard.

  The disciples crowded round them both. Peter soaking wet, Jesus dry as a bone. Jesus stood in the middle of the boat, held his arms aloft. 'Stop.'

  It was a sudden transformation. The rain stopped like a tap had been switched off, the wind dropped. The boat stopped rocking, and the lake became calm once more.

  Jesus looked at his followers. 'Why are you so afraid? Do you still have no faith?'

  He went and sat in the rear of the boat. Jamie tried the engine again. It fired and started at once.

  ✝

  Outskirts of Skipton, Northumbria.

  Once clear of Skipton, in the depths of the countryside, it was totally dark. Too dark for Beaumont. Bocus was driving a stolen van, Beaumont happy to let him. They'd taped some false plates from the same make and colour of vehicle registered to a Manchester builder. In theory, with their false id, cover story of a late finish at a job in Bradford, they should be okay if stopped.

  Beaumont had been panicking all the way from Bradford where they'd picked up the van, his unease abating now they were out in the sticks, away from the Automatic Number Plate Recognition cameras. He was still fearful of routine patrols. Could imagine the conversation, the questions.

  Why come though the Dales, when you could use the trans-Pennine link road?