Other familiar cues to the morning routine were also different. He couldn't hear the Breakfast Show on Radio Northumbria. Bocus always left the radio playing in the kitchen when he left for work.
Today, it seemed he hadn't. A bleeping noise had replaced the music. Beaumont didn't want to turn his head, but forced himself. First to the left. The clock on the bedside cabinet had gone, as had the cabinet itself. A plain white wall had replaced the garish orange and brown wallpaper. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, expelled it, and told himself not to panic, there’d be a simple explanation. He turned his head the other way, knew before he opened his eyes that the wardrobe would be gone.
It was.
He closed his eyes, tried to make sense of it and told himself it was a dream, a vivid one for sure, but a dream nonetheless. If it wasn't a dream, then he must have gone mad. Beaumont refused to accept the possibility that he'd been arrested and thrown into a cell. He’d know, wouldn't he? He’d remember the Ninjas storming through the door, the windows blown out and smoke grenades exploding. He wouldn’t have blocked all that out, would he?
He tried once again to get out of bed, and once again found he couldn't. His muscles ignoring the command to move. He was immobile and didn’t know why. He puzzled it over for some time and when the solution came it was simple. He'd had a stroke. He was in hospital and a nurse would be in soon, to explain the situation.
Minutes, hours passed, no way of knowing.
He was about to call out when he heard the door open, someone came in, stood just out of his eye line.
'Hello?' He called, his voice was timid, weak and under used. 'Who's there?'
Swanger and Barnabas stood back from the bed. They regarded the patient with interest. Beaumont was lying still. IV lines ran into his body, various monitors giving visual feedback on his condition. Swanger hadn't a clue what any of them meant. 'At least he's awake.’
'What happened to him?' Barnabas asked.
Swanger gave him a look. 'You've heard of locked in syndrome?'
'Yeah. Conscious, aware,' Barnabas shrugged, 'but can't move, paralysed.'
Swanger nodded. 'That's what we have here. Artificially induced locked in syndrome. He can open his eyes, move his head a little and speak. Everything else is shut down.'
'That's horrible.' Barnabas shuddered.
'Yeah.' Swanger agreed. Her worst nightmare. 'Just make sure it never happens to you.' She reached for the bed control unit, pressed a button. The bed started raising Beaumont into a semi upright position. 'It’s time for a little chat with our friend here.'
✝
Tadcaster, Northumbria.
Ouch.
That must have hurt.
Martha stepped back, her eyes round, her mouth opened and closed. She had no words. Jesus, the handprint visible on his cheek, was silent. He looked at Martha for a second, and then reached towards her, arms open. Martha stumbled, her eyes blinded with tears, and fell into the safe embrace. The disciples looked at each other in shock.
Martha, mumbling apologies, recriminations, allowed herself to be comforted by Jesus. The other mourners, the priest, the empty grave, waited.
'You're upset, Martha.' Jesus said.
'You've noticed.' Martha snorted through tears and snot.
John shuddered. He hated anything to do with death at the best of times.
'He would have lived if you'd come sooner.' Martha gulped. Far as she was concerned that was a given. In her opinion Jesus could have saved her brother. 'But, even now,' she stopped, her throat tight, constricted. 'Even now God will give you whatever you ask.'
Was it that simple, John wondered. Say the word, click of the fingers? He caught Martha's eye, gave her a half smile. She ignored him, continued letting Jesus know that she blamed him for her brother's death. Jesus listened in silence as Martha poured it all out, laid it at his door. What was it he'd once said, come to me all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.
Martha, without doubt was laying her burden down, but then, John knew she could be a bit like that. A right moaning Minnie. Last time they'd seen her, she'd been banging on about having to do all the work while her sister, Mary, sat at Jesus' feet, hanging on his every word. Jesus had put her straight on that occasion. John wondered how he'd handle her this time.
Jesus waited until Martha ran out of steam, took her hands in his. 'Martha, your brother will rise again.'
'I know that, Jesus.' Martha sobbed. 'I know he'll live again on the last day when the resurrection of all the dead takes place.'
'I am the resurrection and the life,' Jesus said, 'the one who believes in me will live, even though they die.' He paused. 'Do you believe this?'
'Yes, Lord.' Martha sniffed. 'I know you're the Messiah who has come into the world.'
Amen to that John thought, and wondered where this was going. A short distance away, a crow, perched on a gravestone, seemed to be watching the proceedings. It moved its head, fixed a beady eye on John. He shivered, wanted to shoo it away.
Jesus spoke to Peter, who in turn spoke to the funeral director who frowned. A muttered conversation took place. The undertaker shrugged and spoke to a pallbearer. Tools were brought, and, ignoring the protestations from the wider family, the coffin lid removed.
Martha gripped John's arm, pulled him closer, and forced him to look at the dead man. John stared down into the coffin, was amazed just how little room there was. Laz hemmed, almost forced, into the small space. Laz, in his best suit, white shirt, dark blue tie, hands resting on his chest, with his pale waxen face, didn't look like Laz anymore. It was him, but there was something missing. The essence of the man had gone.
Didn't I tell you,' Jesus said, 'if you believe, you'll see the glory of God.'
John squeezed Martha's hand. Conscious of his pounding heart, he forced himself to breathe.
'Laz,' Jesus said in a clear voice. 'Wake up. Wake up now.'
John looked at their dead friend, glanced at Peter, who stared resolutely at Laz in his coffin. Had a little colour returned to his cheeks. Did his face seem a little fuller. Was that little sigh the wind through the trees, or the breath of life?
Laz opened his eyes.
John closed his eyes and crumpled to the floor as the crow took off with a noisy screech.
✝
State Security HQ, York, Northumbria.
Swanger lit a cigarette, blew a stream of smoke, and regarded Bocus with interest. There was more anger in his eyes than she'd encountered with Beaumont. He'd been a pushover, leaf in a gale. She’d blown, he'd fallen over, spilled it all out. His words a jumble until she'd told him to calm down, then, the relief tangible, he'd told her everything.
Bocus eyed the cigarette as she brought it to her mouth. She inhaled, drew the smoke deep, held it for a second, and then released. 'Want one?' She offered the packet, saw the spark of anger.
'Like I can get one.' Bocus whined.
Swanger put a cigarette between his lips, helped him smoke for a while before he told her he'd had enough. She popped the lid of her Styrofoam coffee cup, blew on the top, and sipped it. After a minute or two Bocus said, 'the gas board woman. Clipboard Charlie.’ His eyes narrowed. 'Bitch.'
'This is just an informal chat,' Swanger said. 'No tape, no video.'
'I want my phone call.' Bocus demanded.
Swanger was amused. 'Who ya gonna call? You've got no mates, oh,' She snapped her fingers, 'well, apart from Beaumont, but, guess what, he's here as well.'
Bocus regarded her in silence.
'Bocus.' Swanger shook her head in sorrow. 'You're in deep shit. I have everything I need to take you before a court, get the death sentence. This time tomorrow you could be nailed to a cross.'
'I want a lawyer.'
'A lawyer?' Swanger, incredulous at the man's cheek, laughed out loud. 'You've no chance, son. We’re detaining you under anti-terror legislation. No lawyer for you my friend.'
'I've got rights.'
'Wrong. You've go
t no rights. You've put yourself beyond the law.' She smacked the bedside table with her fist.
Bocus flinched at the sudden movement.
'It's not a game anymore.' Swanger told him. 'You're on your own. Nobody is coming to save you. I've got Beaumont next door crying like a baby, begging for forgiveness.'
'No comment.'
Swanger sighed. 'All you're doing by not talking is making it worse for yourself. You're a dead man walking. Answer my questions, and I'll see to it you get a swift exit.'
'No comment.'
'Your mate's booked a nice clean exit.' She touched an IV line. 'We turn the tap on full. He goes to sleep, never wakes up. He won’t feel a thing. It’ll be peaceful and dignified.' She sighed, 'You, on the other hand, are heading for a nasty, messy, degrading, painful death.'
'No comment.'
'All I want is the names of all your contacts in FKU.'
'No comment.'
'How many?'
'No idea.'
'Bocus, believe me, you will talk. We have trained staff. They use all the latest techniques. They have a one hundred percent success rate.'
'No comment.'
'You won't win.' Swanger promised.
'Neither will you.'
Swanger sighed again. 'You will talk, you will die. By the time those lads have finished with you, you'll be begging for death. Do yourself a favour, think about it,' she pushed back her chair, stood. 'I'll drop by later, see if you've changed your mind.'
✝
Tadcaster, Northumbria.
The impromptu party was in full swing, wine, beer, flowing liberally. People, still marvelling at the earlier events, stood around in groups. Flushed with success they talked at length about the miracle of Laz’s resurrection. Those who'd been graveside, seen it themselves, in most demand, repeating their story to anyone who’d listen. TV crews had been and gone, interviews with Laz were playing on all the major channels. Every time his face appeared on the big screens dotted around the house, cheers erupted. The story had exploded across the internet. Social media alive with the buzz, #Jesus, #raisedfromthedead, the highest trending topics.
Martha followed Jesus from room to room, apologising all the while for her lack of faith, her doubts. She stroked his cheek where her handprint was still faintly visible, and begged his forgiveness. Her sister Mary, more pragmatic, hugged Jesus once, kissed his cheek, promised him a formal celebratory dinner in a few days’ time, then left him alone. Laz himself, tired after all the excitement had taken himself off to bed.
The disciples and Peter in particular, were feeling humbled and chastened by the experience. He'd seen the Boss raise a dead girl before he told himself, he should have known better. He vowed never to doubt Jesus again. Had told him he'd follow him unquestioningly to the ends of the earth. Jesus had accepted the assurance with a smile, but Peter was again left with the feeling events were beyond his grasp.
A cloud had lifted, everything, everybody was okay again. Jesus hadn't lost it. He’d known what he was doing all along. All they'd needed was faith. In short supply when most required, now, it was abundant.
Later on in the evening, with people drifting away, Jesus called the disciples together. 'Lads, as you know it will soon be the Passover,' he told them, 'when we go to York, the Son of Man will be delivered to the Chief Priest and the Pharisees. They will condemn him to death, hand him over to the Saxons, who will mock him, flog him, and kill him. Three days later he will rise.'
Silence greeted Jesus' words. The disciples looked at Peter, willing him to speak. Stunned, he shook his head.
Jamie and John took Jesus to one side, leaving the others to discuss Jesus' prophecy. 'Boss,' Jamie said, 'we want you to do something for us.'
'What is it?' Jesus replied.
'In your glory, Lord, let one of us sit at your right side, the other to your left.'
Jesus frowned. 'You don't know what you're asking.' He looked round them all. 'Can you drink from the same cup as me? Can you undergo the suffering I will undergo?'
'We can, Boss.' John replied.
'And you will. I tell you the truth, you will.' He paused, and then said, 'But to sit at my left and right is not for me to grant. These places belong to whom they have been prepared.'
✝
York, Northumbria.
As Caiaphas watched the silent TV, he seethed with a cold dark fury. Although the high priest believed in the concept of Messiah, he didn't believe for one moment that Jesus was the chosen one. More like he was an agent of darkness, sent by the evil one. Every time the man's name was mentioned, or he heard his voice, his stomach knotted, his blood pressure soared. It was personal. How dare this man, this imposter, appear in their midst proclaiming the kingdom of God, upsetting the faithful, and stirring up trouble. He had to be stopped and it would be Caiaphas who would step up to the mark.
A picture of Jesus appeared on the screen, shrank, and swirled into the top corner. The female anchor, Michelle, appeared.
Caiaphas pressed the mute button.
Michelle pursed her lips, lowered her voice. 'Signs of divisions are beginning to appear in the camp of Whitby prophet, Jesus. Our religion correspondent has the full story.'
Caiaphas increased the volume.
The scene changed to a man in shirtsleeves standing outside the Temple in York. He touched his ear, and then spoke into the microphone he was holding. 'That's right, Michelle. Sources close to Jesus have told me that at a recent meal given in his honour at the home of Mary and Martha...'
'If you could just explain who they are...' Michelle broke in.
The reporter frowned, changed direction flawlessly.
'Mary and Martha are members of a wealthy Tadcaster brewing family who are known to support Jesus in his ministry to make the kingdom of God known to a wider audience. You may recall the astonishing scenes last week when their brother, Laz, who had died from a viral infection, was brought back to life by Jesus in spectacular fashion, during the burial service.'
The reporter paused, sensing further questions.
'The meal.' Michelle prompted. The resurrection of Laz was old news.
'Yes, the meal. The meal was being held to honour Jesus and the part he played in raising Laz from the dead. During the meal, Judas, one of the disciples, objected when Mary anointed Jesus with a jar of expensive perfume.'
Michelle, 'On what grounds? Couldn’t it be viewed as a gracious act?'
Reporter, 'It seems that Judas objected on the grounds of cost. Judas is the financial adviser for the group and he thought the money could have been better spent on feeding the poor.'
Michelle, 'What was Jesus' reaction?'
Reporter, 'According to my source, Jesus came to the defence of Mary, telling Judas and other objectors that they would always have the poor among them, but that he, Jesus, would not always be with them. He then went on to praise Mary for her act of worship in anointing his body for burial.'
Michelle, 'For his burial?'
Reporter, ‘Michelle, It's not always easy to decipher the words of Jesus. He employs the use of parables in many of his talks and his public statements are viewed by many as cryptic, but in this case my source made it clear that Jesus seemed to be referring to his own death and burial.'
Michelle, 'Interesting.'
Reporter, 'Indeed. And when you consider that Jesus and his disciples will soon be making their way to the Temple here in York for the feast of the Passover, it could get more interesting. As you know Michelle, The Temple in York is the heart of Judaism, where many of Jesus' fiercest critics are based. With these latest reports of friction among his disciples it remains to be seen how he gets on when he arrives here.'
Michelle, 'Yes, thank you for that update on the prophet Jesus and his activities.' She turned back to the camera, composed herself, 'You can get the latest update on this story from our website, the address of which is on the bottom of the screen.'
Pause.
'There is still time to watch our spec
ial report on the hidden world of child sacrifice in the modern age. This can be accessed by pressing the red button on your remote.’
'And of course, I should point out that other spiritual advisors and alternative lifestyles are available.’
'And now, over to Gary for a full round up of all the day's sporting action...'
Caiaphas muted the sound. Closing his eyes, he thought about the next step. Victory was close, very close, but it would need careful handling.
EIGHTEEN
THE FINAL WEEK.
WHITBY, NOTHUMBRIA.
MONDAY.
The clock radio clicked on.
'And now the Shipping Forecast, issued by the Met office at 05, 05 today...' Andrew lay still, listening. He hadn't been to sea for years, but old habits die-hard. Marje stirred, murmured in her sleep, but didn't wake. He could feel her, warm and soft against his body, knew he needed to be up soon, but didn't want to move.
'There are warnings of gales in all areas.'
Today was the day Andrew would meet up with the other disciples and Jesus. Together they'd make their way to York for the Passover. It had been a lovely few days back with his family, but now it was back to work.
'The general synopsis follows.'
He waited until the weather report had finished, was about to get up, when Marje touched his arm. Much later than he'd expected Andrew made his way to the bathroom, showered, shaved, and made ready for the day.
✝
Peter hadn't slept well, knew he was keyed up, excited. Curled up on his side, eyes closed, he recalled the days when all he needed to be happy was the wind through his hair, salt spray on his face, and a full cargo of fish. Not forgetting a warm, loving wife to lie beside in bed. Those days gone, he forced himself out of bed, and went to the bathroom.
He'd just finished shaving when the text came through. Andrew he thought, checking I'm up, ready to go. It wasn't Andrew. The message, from a number he didn't recognise, read, I'm so sorry.
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