Saviour

by Christopher Gallagher

  Some hours later heading to the car park, a youth appeared in front of Jesus. 'You Jesus?'

  'I am.' Jesus replied.

  Andrew glanced at his watch, looked at Peter who nodded. 'Boss, we should be getting on.'

  'Have you not been listening, Peter?' Jesus responded. He turned his attention to the youth.

  'Jesus the prophet?'

  'Yes.'

  'Who's gonna be Messiah?'

  Jesus confirmed he was.

  'Well then,' the youth began, 'happen you can help with something.'

  'If I can, I will.' Jesus told him.

  'I do a paper round.'

  Andrew sighed. This was ridiculous.

  'I had a paper round when I was your age.' Jesus said, smiling.

  Andrew frowned, he hadn't known that.

  'Then you'll know what the trouble is.' The youth said.

  'Apart from dogs, the biggest problem I had was letter boxes.'

  'I'm alright wi' dogs, but letter boxes are a right pain. All different sizes, in different places in the door. It needs sorting.'

  'And how can I help?' Jesus asked.

  'When you're in charge, perhaps you can make a law that says all letter boxes have to be in the middle of the door, horizontal, and open automatically.'

  A few of the disciples who were close enough to listen burst out laughing.

  Jesus chuckled, ruffled the youth's hair. 'What a great idea.' Holding the lad's gaze, he said. 'I tell you the truth, from this day onwards you no longer just deliver the news. You are the news from me, to be read by everyone.'

  ✝

  Disciples’ campsite, Carlisle, Northumbria.

  John and Simon dumped the shopping bags down, looked at the others. 'We've seen it all now, haven't we?' He looked at Simon for confirmation.

  'What happened?' Andrew asked.

  'This feller in the market place was driving out demons in the Boss' name.' John said, indignant.

  'Cheeky git.' Peter responded. 'What did you do?'

  'Told him to stop, o' course.' Simon looked at Jesus for approval.

  'Don't stop him.' Jesus said. 'Nobody can do a miracle in my name one minute, and then say something bad against me the next.' He shrugged. 'Whoever is not against us is for us. I tell you lads. Whoever gives you a drink in my name because you belong to the Messiah will not lose their reward.’

  The disciples looked at each other, shrugged.

  'Anyway,' Jesus continued, 'I've decided to give the feast of tabernacles a miss. But,' he held up his hand to stop the disappointed clamour, 'you should all go as planned.'

  'Your choice, Boss.' Peter said, looking around, 'but we think you should go. You'll miss a golden opportunity to show the brothers in York the good work you're doing.'

  'Peter's right.' Andrew said. 'Nobody who wants to become a public figure can work in secret.'

  'Boss, you're the Messiah.' John insisted. 'The people in York will expect to see you.'

  'It's a big stage.' Tom remarked. 'Show yourself on it. Get some exposure.'

  'Any time will do for you lads.' Jesus said. 'But, it's not my time. The world can't hate you, but it hates me because I testify its works are evil.'

  'How will you know when it's your time?' Phil asked.

  'Believe me, I'll know. The Son of Man is going to be delivered into the hands of men. They will kill him, and after three days he will rise.'

  ✝

  The Talbot, York, Northumbria.

  Two in the afternoon, the pub was heaving. Bodies were packed five deep at the bar, music was booming, and dense cigarette smoke clung to the ceiling. Peter took a sip of his ale, glanced around, and knew full well they wouldn't be in the pub if the Boss was with them. Not that Jesus disapproved of people kicking back, enjoying themselves, it was more that, people thought he did, and that led them to modify their behaviour around him. He checked out the few disciples he could see. Keeping an eye, making sure they behaved themselves.

  It was a good time to be alive, he reflected. Although still unsure about Jesus' exact mission, he knew that only good things would come from it. Jude caught his eye, mimed, did he want another pint?

  Why not? His drinking was well under control, another one wouldn't hurt. He nodded, remembered the conversation he'd had with the Boss before leaving for York. The lads had put him up to it. He'd approached Jesus at a quiet moment. The Boss had known he was troubled and anxious. He always knew.

  Peter had outlined the disciples concerns. All this talk of suffering at the hands of the priests and Pharisees, of being put to death and rising on the third day was having an unsettling effect. Sure, it might be mentioned somewhere in the ancient scriptures but, hey, you're the Son of God. There must be a better way.

  Peter had told him straight. 'It's not gonna happen, Boss. We'll protect you. Me and the other lads.'

  The response, Peter recalled, had been amazing, totally unexpected.

  Jesus held up his hand, stepped closer. 'Enough.' He'd said in a low voice. 'It is written, Peter. It will happen.' Jesus stepped back, searched Peter's face. 'It's like having Satan stood before me again. You are a stumbling block to me, Peter.' He softened his tone. 'I know you mean well, but you’re pre-occupied with human concerns, rather than the concerns of God.'

  Peter, embarrassed and chastened, with tears in his eyes, followed Jesus on to the minibus and heard him say, 'Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. For whoever wants to save their life will lose it, but whoever loses their life for me will find it. What good will it be for someone to gain the whole world, yet forfeit their soul? Or what can anyone give in exchange for their soul? For the Son of Man is going to come in his Father’s glory with his angels, and then he will reward each person according to what they have done.'

  Peter shook his head, cheeks burning at the memory. He looked up at his name. Jude handed him a pint. Peter took it, nodded his thanks, and tuned into a conversation at the next table.

  '...believe the things Jesus does...'

  Peter turned his head, looked at the speaker. 'Did you say Jesus?'

  The man, tattooed arms, shaved head, an air of menace, looked at Peter. 'Aye, what of it?'

  Peter grimaced. 'Nothing. A shame he's not here.'

  'But he is, my friend.' Tattoo man assured. 'I heard him preaching in the Temple courts a short while ago.'

  Peter frowned. 'Is he still there?'

  'Dunno pal. There was a bit o’ trouble, a few rowdies tried grabbing him, but he got away.' He shrugged. 'He might have gone back. You know what he's like.'

  Peter sighed. Had it been Jesus' intention all along to come to the festival in secret?

  The tattoo man finished his pint. 'That's me done. Be seeing you pal, nice talking to you.'

  Peter turned to his brother. 'Did you hear that? Jesus is here, preaching in the Temple courts.'

  Andrew pulled a face. 'That's odd. He definitely said he wasn't coming.'

  'Scared he'll spoil your fun, Peter?' Judas called across the table.

  Peter looked at him, felt Andrew's hand on his arm. You and me in a dark alley, pal. He wondered what the Boss saw in the creepy accountant. Rumour had it among the lads that Judas was fiddling the books, skimming a bit off the top for himself. He'd love to find out it was true. 'Whatever, Judas.'

  Peter turned back to Andrew. 'I'm gonna nip down there, see if I can see him.'

  Andrew nodded. 'Want me to come with you?'

  'Nah, stay here with the lads. Let Judas entertain you with his wit.'

  Minutes later, swamped by the thick crowd, all Peter could hear was talk of Jesus.

  'He's back then?'

  'Is it true they tried to kill him?'

  'Nah, arrest him.'

  'He needs to be careful...'

  'Messiah, my arse'

  'He slipped away.'

  'He's a good bloke, that Jesus.'

  Peter pushed on through the crowd, anxious now. He should have
been with him, protecting him, watching his back. What on earth was he thinking of, coming alone.'

  'Temple guards tried to arrest him.'

  'Aye.'

  'Blasphemy.'

  '...happened.'

  'They didn't.'

  A burst of laughter washed over Peter.

  '...runs rings round 'em,'

  'When's he gonna take over?'

  'Aye, he needs to make his move.'

  '...ripe for the plucking.'

  Then, Peter heard Jesus, 'I am with you for such a short time, and then I'm going back to the one who sent me.' Peter listened, tried to get his bearings.

  Jesus again, 'You will look for me, but you will not find me.'

  Like now, Peter muttered, pushed his way through a complaining crowd.

  'And where I am, you can't come.'

  How did he manage to make himself heard all over the area?

  'What's he mean?'

  '...short time.'

  'Thought he was Messiah?'

  'Why can't we go?'

  A gap appeared in the crowd, Peter squeezed through, and there he was. Stood on a box, blue jeans, white T-shirt, looking for all the world like an ordinary man. He was talking to the people surrounding him, as though holding a conversation, but his words carried to the distant parts of the courts.

  Jesus noticed Peter, gave a small smile, carried on. 'Let anyone who is thirsty, come to me and drink. As the scriptures say, whoever believes in me will find rivers of living water flowing from within.'

  The crowd cheered.

  'This man is a living prophet.'

  'Jesus for Messiah.'

  A chant started.

  'Jesus.'

  'Jesus.'

  'Jesus.'

  'Jesus.'

  'Jesus.'

  ✝

  The Temple, York, Northumbria.

  'Jesus.'

  'Jesus.'

  'Jesus.'

  'Jesus.'

  'Jesus.'

  Caiaphas motioned with a flick of his hand. One of the attendants closed the window, the sound from outside dropped to a faint whisper.

  Caiaphas looked at the selected members called to the impromptu meeting. 'Can you hear that?'

  Nobody answered. O'Deamus took the question as rhetorical.

  Silence.

  'This needs sorting.' Caiaphas said. 'I've seen Pilate. No help whatsoever. He demands proof that Jesus is involved with FKU before he'll act.'

  'That doesn't seem too unreasonable.' O'Deamus murmured.

  Caiaphas shot him a look, chose to ignore the comment. There was no sense in falling out among themselves.

  'What happened to the Temple guards?' A Scribe asked.

  Caiaphas snorted. 'They stopped to listen, decided Jesus was speaking a lot of sense, and decided not to arrest him. Needless to say I've decided they're unfit to hold the office of Temple guard.'

  Caiaphas picked up a sheet of paper. 'Apparently, Jesus claims to be the light of the world,' he paused. O'Deamus could feel the indignation coming off the man in waves. 'And whoever believes in him,' Caiaphas continued, 'will have the light of life.'

  He looked round the small gathering. 'The Sanhedrin decides religious matters in the kingdom. It is not determined by that rabble out there.' He waved towards the window. 'This situation cannot be allowed to continue. Jesus doesn't call the shots, we do.'

  O'Deamus smiled to himself. It seemed as though Jesus was firmly in control of the situation. The question was. How long would he wait before making his move?

  TWELVE

  ONE YEAR AGO.

  LEEDS, NORTHUMBRIA.

  The TV flickered in the corner of the room. Scenes of burning buildings, vehicles, youths running amok, crowds looting, came and went in quick succession. They told their own story, but the scrolling text gave words to the pictures, Violence has once again erupted in the major cities of the kingdom.

  Bocus stubbed his smoke out in the ashtray, popped the top on another can of lager. 'Don't know what the world's coming to.'

  Beaumont watched the pictures in silence, thought it rich that someone responsible for planting bombs, killing innocent people should complain when others ignored the rule of law.

  'It'll be martial law next, troops on the street corners.'

  'Isn't this all part of the campaign?' Beaumont asked.

  'This?' Bocus gestured at the TV. 'Anarchy in the streets?'

  'I would have thought anything that put pressure on the authorities could only help.' Beaumont said.

  'It's playing into their hands.' Bocus replied. 'Too much of this and Pilate will put a curfew in place. That could screw things up for us.'

  On the screen, high pressure jets from water cannons knocked protesters over. Snatch squads darted in, and despite a hail of bricks and petrol bombs, dragged them away.

  'Poor buggers.' Beaumont said.

  Bocus snorted. 'It's their own fault, they deserve everything they get. You can't tackle the State head on. You have to wear them down. It's a war of attrition.'

  'Like we're doing?'

  'Exactly.' Bocus declared. 'Don't underestimate the work we do.'

  'Planting bombs?' Beaumont said.

  Bocus gave him a look. 'Every bomb that goes off reminds the Saxons that we're still around, we're not going away. We're a major irritant.'

  Like wasps at a picnic, Beaumont thought, that's how irritating we are, and as dangerous.

  Some time later, when NBC had tired of the riots, a picture of Jesus came onto the screen. Bocus groaned. 'Not him again.'

  ‘Do you think he might have a point?’ Beaumont asked.

  'Jesus?'

  'Yeah.'

  'Maybe, if you're a lame brain who can't think for yourself.' He opened another beer. 'Do you?'

  Beaumont shrugged. 'I don't know.'

  'Bloke was a builder in Whitby.' Bocus held the can to his mouth. 'What's he know about anything?'

  'He seems to talk a lot of sense.'

  'Yeah,' Bocus shook his head, 'sounds good on paper. Love the Lord your God, love your neighbour as yourself.' He belched. 'I'll love my Saxon neighbour once he's buggered off home, left us to rule ourselves.'

  'Not gonna happen, is it?’ Beaumont sighed. 'We're just wasting our time.'

  'Don’t be so negative.' Bocus replied. 'The Saxons will soon have had enough. They’ll piss off home, leave us to it.’

  'Do you reckon?' Beaumont was sceptical.

  Bocus swigged from the can, belched again. 'Bound to.’ He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. 'Course, this Jesus, this Messiah, he might just be waiting for the right moment to make his move.'

  'And if he does?'

  'Fair play to him. If he has a plan to overthrow the Saxons, unite the kingdoms, bring peace and prosperity.' Bocus shrugged. 'What's not to like?' sudden grin, 'It’ll bloody well save us the time and effort.'

  ✝

  Suburban Street, Sheffield, Northumbria.

  Sheffield, down near the southern border with Mercia, was almost a foreign land. The minibus had broken down, and Jesus, not wanting to be delayed, had set off walking. He was due to speak at Meadowhall, the vast shopping complex, just off the main route north and south through the kingdom. They were moving through a poor deprived area. All around street after street of terraced houses, broken bikes, abandoned toys left in the gutter, the air of neglect palpable. The disciples moved as a close knit group, eyes to the side, front, rear, checking, always checking.

  The burnt out cars seemed to be the norm round here, and nothing to do with the recent riots. Should have been demolished years ago, Jim thought, as they passed another street end, mangy dog in the road chewing a bone.

  Peter called a halt, checked the map on his phone. He frowned, held it aloft. 'No flaming signal.'

  'Again?' Andrew questioned.

  Peter shrugged, showed him the display. 'Or it's being blocked.'

  'Why block a sat nav signal?' Andrew frowned.

  'So we get lost?' Jude sug
gested.

  'Where's the Boss?' Peter wanted to know.

  Jim pointed back the way they'd come. Jesus and John had stopped, were talking to an elderly couple. The disciples looked about uneasily. Peter sniffed the air. It was quiet, almost peaceful, but not quite. There was something intangible in the air, a feeling that it might kick off at any moment, a thought not dispelled by the faint, faraway sound of a siren. He frowned, tried to concentrate, wished Jesus wouldn't keep stopping.

  Peter was too far from the sea. He wanted out of this warren. 'Come on.' He set off in the direction they'd been going. A few of the lads were grumbling about their feet, he ignored them, checked that Jesus and John had left the old couple and were catching up.

  'Hey up, Peter?’ Tom called in a low voice. He'd stopped, was looking down another identical street. 'Something's happening.'

  A crowd had gathered a hundred metres down the street. Thirty or forty people on the narrow pavement, spilling onto the road. The people in the crowd were quiet, too quiet.

  Tom wanted to be there in the thick of it. 'What do you reckon?' He asked.

  Peter shrugged. 'Dunno, some sort of vigil?'

  'It doesn't feel right.' Tom replied.

  'Leave it.' Peter decided.

  'We should check it out.'

  'No.' Peter was insistent. 'Leave it.'

  'Why?'

  'I don't want Jesus getting involved in any trouble.'

  'Could be a story in it.'

  'There's more to all this than you getting another story.'

  They stood arguing for a few minutes, the other disciples chipping in from time to time. When Jesus arrived he asked what the problem was. The disciples fell silent. Tom, ignoring the look from Peter, explained what they’d seen.

  'Come on then,' Jesus decided, 'let's go.'

  Peter sighed. Just what he didn't want.

  As they got nearer Tom realised the crowd weren't silent. There was a low buzz of angriness. He asked a woman with two small children clinging to her hands what was happening.