A clamour of voices broke out.
Jesus held up his hands. 'Don't ask me when. The day, the date, the hour, yes, even the hour is unknown to all but the father. The angels don't know, the son doesn't know.' He looked at them each in turn. 'Just the father, he knows.
'So,' Jesus smiled, 'keep watch, be ready at all times for the return of the Son of Man. Be careful, or your hearts will become weighed down with good living, and the anxieties of life, and that day will close on you like a trap.' He clapped his hands. 'It will be at the time you least expect him.'
✝
Campsite, York, Northumbria.
The disciples were camping, again. There'd been a few moans, an assumption that a stay in a Travelodge was well overdue. The tents, motor home, had been set up in a half circle, all the doors, and entrances facing each other. In the middle of the communal space, the fire was blazing. Simon was preparing the evening meal, after which a visit to the funfair was planned.
Judas, bored, not on the food rota, listened idly to the talk around the food prep table.
'If the Boss is right.' Jim said.
'He's always right.' John insisted.
'Yeah, I know that,' Jim retorted, 'but if he's right about being arrested and put to death by the authorities, it could happen at any moment.'
'I can't see it.' Peter said firmly. 'The people love him. They wouldn't stand for it. There’d be a riot.'
'They love him now.' John replied. 'That could change in a matter of hours.'
'Hours?' Nathan snorted. 'People are fickle, change with the wind. Go against him in an instant.'
There was a brief fierce discussion threatening to get out of hand.
'Listen lads,' John said, raised his voice to be heard, 'when has the Boss ever said something would happen, and then it didn't? Think about it. If the Boss says it's gonna happen, then it will happen. We need to remain vigilant, assess the situation at the time, and take our lead from Jesus.'
Bored with the talk, Judas walked round the site, came across Jesus and a few of the guys having a kick about. He watched in amusement as Tom commentated on the game.
'That's a lovely through ball from Jamie, right to the feet of Phil, who swerves, crosses the ball into the area. Matt dummies the defender, shoots low into the corner, he's certain to score, but no, Jesus saves.'
Judas expelled air through his teeth. He can't save me. His phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out checked the message, I have the solution to your problem. Number unknown. He looked up. The guys were engrossed in the match. Nobody was taking any notice.
What problem? He sent back.
The reply was instant. Your financial problem.
Tell me more. He typed, sent.
The reply named a service station on the York ring road, gave a time of 22:00.
The next one said, 'Just down the road from where you're staying.'
Judas looked up in alarm, there wasn’t a soul looking his way. The campsite was full. Caravans, tents, motor homes filled a vast field. Music from the fairground over the road drifted across. Nobody seemed to be paying him any attention, but somebody knew where he was.
✝
Fairground, York, Northumbria.
Screams, bells, whistles, shouts, laughter, threats, curses, music, above all, music. An explosive cacophony of noise filled the air. Thin streams of green light pierced the night sky, pulsated in time with the music from the Waltzer. The acrid smell of burnt diesel from the generators intermingled with fried onions. People of all ages packed into the fairground. Pensioners to toddlers, most having a good time.
The disciples were huddled in a tight group near the food outlets waiting for Jesus and Matt to return from the burger van. Judas checked his watch, fidgeted, wondered how and when he'd be able to slip away. He caught Tom's eye, gave a half smile, looked away, and took the burger that Matt offered.
After they'd eaten, Jesus said. 'Come on, I want to show you something. He led the way into the hall of mirrors. The disciples looked around, staring at the myriad images of themselves. Tom became disoriented as the others disappeared further into the maze of reflections. Everywhere he looked, he could see multiple versions of himself. Andrew appeared at his side, Tom turned to speak, but he was gone, vanished round a corner.
'This is what life is like for most people.' A voice whispered. 'You're all too absorbed by yourselves, too busy looking in the mirror to notice what else is happening. This is the me generation.'
Tom watched as Jesus moved away. Then John appeared. Tom wasn't sure if he was real or just a reflection. 'He's right, you know.' John said, 'we should be looking to him, not ourselves.'
Tom felt ill. A sheen of sweat pricked his forehead. He was lightheaded and claustrophobic. He turned, backtracked, got lost. Then saw the familiar figure of Judas. He seemed to know where he was going, so Tom tagged along behind.
Back out in the night air, Tom felt a little better. Judas, a little way ahead, seemed to be heading for the exit. Tom assumed he was heading back to the camp, decided he was ready to turn in, and followed. Judas disappeared into the dense crowd. A group of youths clutching cans of lager lurched past. One stopped, vomited, and girls, giddy with excitement laughed. Parents pulled their children to one side as Tom sidestepped the stricken youth. He ignored a beaming young man presenting his girl with a large teddy bear. In his haste, he bumped against a small boy carrying a goldfish in a plastic bag. He muttered an apology, moved on, oblivious to the glare of the boy’s mother.
At last, he was free of the fairground, but not the music. It followed him down the road. He could feel the vibrations in his chest. He could make out a figure some way ahead, and assumed it was Judas. But was less sure, when the figure didn't turn into the campsite, but instead continued walking. Another time, Tom would have been nosy and followed, but not tonight. Tonight he just wanted his bed.
✝
Service station, Ring Road, York, Northumbria.
The service station was a kilometre down the road. Judas peered back into the darkness, he was sure Tom had been behind him earlier, and half-expected to see him come into view, ask what was happening. A few cars passed by, their headlights slicing through the night. None turned into the empty car park. Judas decided Tom must have been going back to the campsite. He moved across the forecourt, he peered through the window of the small cafe, but couldn't see anything. Taking a deep breath, he pushed his way through the door. There were no other customers. Harsh fluorescent lights did nothing for the ambience, or his mood. Keyed up, excited and apprehensive, he wondered if this was the right response to an anonymous text. It could even be a ruse to separate him from the safety of the pack.
He waited at the counter until the teenage girl, pre-occupied with her phone, noticed him, and with a sigh, asked what he wanted. Judas ordered coffee, and made his way to a table by the emergency exit, as far from the entrance as possible. It would give him longer to assess anybody approaching. He knew if it came to flight or fight, he was already running. Taking cautious sips of coffee, he kept a close eye on the door.
Just as he was beginning to relax, a hand clamped on his shoulder. Judas jerked upwards, the coffee went over, dripped onto the floor. A man, wearing a suit and tie, who could have been an office worker, took a wad of paper towel from a cleaning cart, wiped the table dry, and sat down. 'Want another?' He offered.
Judas, not trusting himself to speak, shook his head. Toilets. He’d been waiting in the toilets.
'That's the thing, friend,' the man said with a half-smile on his lips, 'you think you're safe, looking for trouble in one direction, it comes from another.'
'You sent me a text?' Judas asked, anxious to recover his poise.
'You're Judas?'
Judas nodded.
The man took something from his pocket, slid it across the table.
'And you are?' Judas asked, keeping eye contact.
He received a smile in reply. They looked at each other for a long moment, until
Judas could take no more. He glanced down at the table, at the exclusive Silver Euro Express card bearing his name. The card of choice for the filthy rich. You couldn’t apply for one. You were invited to join the elite.
'What's this?' He couldn’t control the tremor in his voice.
'That my friend is your salvation.'
Judas looked at the card, knew if he picked it up it would be game over. He would be this man's property, would never know peace again.
'Pre-loaded with thirty thousand Euros.'
Judas picked up the card, turned it over between his fingers, felt the power of the money. There was a thumping sensation in his chest. His heart, or was it the bass from the fairground music? This was a fortune. It would pay off his debts and then some. He’d be able to start over.
'You want something in return.’ Judas said, a statement not a question.
The man grinned. ‘Of course.’
Judas listened in silence while the man outlined the price of his salvation.
TWENTY-ONE
YORK, NORTHUMBRIA.
THURSDAY.
They left the campsite and made their way into the city on foot. The streets of the old town were packed, bodies spilling out of pubs and bars. Male and female on parade, more flesh than the meat stalls in The Shambles. Packs of young people drifted from pub to pub, moving in waves, settling for a drink, then at an unseen signal, moving on. Just like one of Attenborough's documentaries, Tom thought. The warm evening magnified the smells coming from the fast food outlets. Kebabs, fried onions, fish, chips, candyfloss.
Peter led the way, checking the route on the map on his phone. Many people recognised Jesus. Some stared, and pointed. A few went as far as approaching, wanting selfies, or a chat, but these people were deflected by Peter. Jesus, who loved to stop for conversation, resisting all attempts to hurry him along, on this occasion allowed himself to be guided through the crowds. The majority of people though, unaware of their presence, were only intent on achieving oblivion through the time honoured means of alcohol and drugs. Big screens on the street corners gave out public information, warnings of pickpockets, and the address of NorPro. It urged citizens to take care if driving, suggested walking as the better choice, and then wished everybody a pleasant and safe evening in York, before looping round again in a never-ending cycle.
There were a few uniformed Polizei officers dotted about in little groups. Safety in numbers. Helmets were on, visors were up, but the eyes were watchful, wary. They scanned the crowd for troublemakers, agitators, signs of dissent. Other eyes too, were alert. Plain clothed officers lurked in shadows, mingled with the crowds. And always the ever-present lenses of the ubiquitous security cameras turned this way and that. Drones hovering above head height, able to follow anybody anywhere underlined the message. There was no hiding place.
Senior officers would be monitoring the situation from the control room, ready, at the first sign of trouble to move in the reinforcements waiting in vans parked in side streets. Fresh officers, bored witless, would be more than ready to break a few skulls.
Trouble though, if it came, would be later in the evening, when enough drink had been consumed, and the agitators had done their work. For now, the people were happy, boisterous but calm.
'We eating then or what?' One of the group asked. With all the noise on the streets, Tom didn't hear who it was. A few others asked the same question.
'Relax brothers, it's in hand.' Jude told them. 'I've booked us a private room at a recommended restaurant. It's not far now.'
'As long as it's not Indian.' Simon muttered.
The sound of sirens drew closer, strobing blue lights flashed past. A loudhailer could be heard, warning the crowds to move back. Jeering, shouting, football chants, all in the mix. Despite the carnival atmosphere, the tensions were rising. They continued through the narrow streets. As far as Tom could tell, they were heading for the river. It was quieter here, the main streets left behind. It became easier to move.
There was a moment of confusion at the Ganges Indian restaurant, no record of the booking, according to the dinner-jacketed waiter on the door. Judas slipped him a few notes and everything was fine. They were led through a crowded room, tables crammed with diners enjoying their evening. One or two looked up as the thirteen trooped by, but didn't seem that interested. Up a narrow staircase, past the gents. Peter peeled off, not hesitating to take advantage of a proper loo, the rest entering the room where a long table was laid with cutlery, glasses, napkins, candles in small dishes.
As the group settled at the table a waiter appeared, handed out menus, took orders for drinks, and had a brief conversation with Judas before departing. Jesus seated himself in the middle of one side of the table, leaving space for Peter to his left. John was to his right, then the others crowded in, squabbling to get as close to Jesus as they could. Tom for his part was content to sit on the end. Judas, he noticed was at the other end nearest the exit. Andrew opposite Jesus was flanked by Matt and Jim.
A few minutes later, Peter came in moaning about the state of the toilets. 'Typical, first chance I get to use a proper toilet and they're filthy.' He took his place next to Jesus. 'Have we ordered yet?'
Jesus didn't reply, just pushed his chair back, stood, eased his way past the chairs and left the room. 'I wouldn't use the bogs here, Boss.' Peter called after him, 'they're in a right old state.'
The disciples studied the menus, and chatted until a lone waiter appeared struggling with a tray of drinks. Peter waited until the drinks were on the table then asked him if he'd seen Jesus.
'Coming now, mate.'
They watched, bemused as Jesus came back carrying a bowl of water, flannels and soap. A diminutive dinner jacketed waiter trailed behind carrying a stack of towels. Jesus cleared a space, set the bowl down in front of Peter, and asked for a foot.
'You what, Boss?' Peter didn’t like the look of the bowl of water. Jesus was on another mission.
Jesus slipped the Crocs off Peter's feet, and soaped a flannel, the scent of lemongrass filling the air.
'No, Boss.' Peter pulled his feet away. 'My feet are clean, thank you. I had a shower earlier.' He looked at the others. 'We all did.'
'Unless you let me wash your feet you can't be a follower of mine.' Jesus replied.
Peter shook his head sullenly. 'It's not right.’
'Peter, my friend, you don’t understand what I am doing now, but some day you will. Let us prepare.'
'In that case Lord, do my hands and hair as well.'
'A person who has had a shower does not need to wash all over again. They are clean except for their feet.'
Peter looked at the others who pretended not to notice his discomfort. Peter knew he wouldn't win so lowered his head in submission. 'Okay Boss, do it.'
Jesus washed the grime and dust from Peter's feet before towelling them dry. As a final act of service, he dipped his head and kissed them.
After Jesus had washed the feet of all his disciples, he said, 'Do you realise what I've just done for you?' The disciples looked at each other. 'You call me teacher and Lord,' he continued, 'and you're right to do so, for I am your teacher and Lord.' He paused, took a sip of his drink, 'But if I, your teacher and Lord, have washed your feet for you, you must be ready to do the same for each other. Do you understand? The messenger is not greater than the one who sent him, and now you know this, you will be greatly blessed if you do it.'
There was silence as everybody tried to take in what Jesus was saying, then the waiters came back to take the orders and the moment passed. Tom handed his Smartphone to one of them. They bunched up together, smiling for the photo.
Simon, who had been quiet for a while, said, 'Why can't we have good traditional food?'
'Like?' Nathan asked.
'I don't think you can go wrong by going back to the ancient writings.'
Groans all round.
'Not the ancient writings.' Jim sighed.
'You don't expect that we should butcher our
own meat do you Simon?' Peter, already on his second pint, a touch of belligerence in his voice. 'Sitting round the camp fire, roasting freshly killed lamb on a spit?'
Simon shrugged. 'Nothing wrong with that.'
'It's the modern age.' Andrew said. 'We have butchers for that sort of thing.'
'Perhaps he'd like some manna.' Phil suggested.
'What was manna?' Matt asked.
'Are we ready to order?' Jesus asked.
'Maybe you could miraculously produce some spit roasted lamb for Simon?' Peter suggested with a sly grin, to laughs all round.
Jesus smiled. 'Not tonight, Peter.'
'Good,' Peter said to more laughter, 'I like Indian.'
✝
State Security HQ, York, Northumbria.
Swanger yawned, stretched. It was late, another twelve-hour shift ending. She ought to get off home, not that she had a lot at home, just Max the tabby. She sighed, poured another whisky, lit another cigarette, and looked at the mound of paperwork on her desk. It might be a technological age but the paperwork never diminished. She picked up the uppermost file. Operation Raven had been a stunning success. Swanger was still basking in the afterglow. Heathersedge was delighted and the Governor had passed on his congratulations. Somebody suggested that the Fuehrer knew that she was the agent responsible for breaking one of the terror cells associated with FKU, but Swanger discounted this possibility.
And broken it was. The two terrorists had spilled everything, as Swanger knew they would. Her technique, a mixture of good cop, bad cop, never failed. Of the two, Bocus had been the tougher character, holding out for a couple of days, but in the end, aided by his inability to move, he had broken. Tears streaming down his face, he gave her the name of his controller who, despite going on the run had been tracked to a safe house in Wessex and brought back by the Ghost Squad. He in turn was giving names and a further part of the FKU network was being rolled up. Beaumont had given up the house in Huddersfield and the locations of all the bombs they'd planted.
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