Saviour

by Christopher Gallagher

  UNION BAR, YORK, NORTHUMBRIA.

  Swanger, second whisky chasing the first, perched on the edge of a stool. The TV behind the bar was showing the News24 special report on the trial of Jesus. The ticker at the bottom of the screen showed the breaking news. Jesus condemned to death - crucifixion today.

  Michelle, the news anchor, rose from behind her desk, walked across to a different part of the studio, and looked at the camera. Why do they do that? Swanger wondered. Although the sound on the TV was low, the bar was quiet. Swanger could just about make out what was being said. '...take you now to the Governor's residence, and our reporter on the spot.'

  A solitary bored looking reporter outside the white marbled, palatial building, pressed his ear piece, straightened abruptly, and spoke to camera, ‘Jesus, the prophet from Whitby, has had his appeal for clemency turned down. Governor Pilate speaking a short while ago announced he was washing his hands of the whole affair, and if the Jews wanted to crucify their king, who was he to stand in their way. The crucifixion of Jesus will take place at twelve noon today. And now it's back to the studio.'

  Michelle was back behind her desk. 'While many people have decried the decision to crucify Jesus, others have welcomed the news. One man who is said to be pleased with the verdict is the high priest of the Jews, Caiaphas. Here he is now, speaking to our reporter at the Temple.'

  The view changed to outside the Temple. Caiaphas, looking stern, and surrounded by Pharisees, was answering questions. Swanger signalled for another drink, ignored her phone on the bar when it rang, she’d already rejected a number of calls from a distraught Barnabas. She couldn't cope with his loss right now. Had no idea how to comfort a weeping colleague.

  On the screen, Caiaphas was explaining it was nothing personal against Jesus, who he was sure, was a good man, who meant well, but at the same time couldn't be allowed to get away with calling himself the Son of God. It was blasphemy he explained, and that was punishable by death. Her drink came. She sipped it, savoured the taste, and lit a cigarette. Hypocrite, she thought, blowing smoke in a thin stream.

  Her phone rang again. She sighed. Heathersedge calling.

  At last.

  'Hello.'

  'You've been trying to reach me.' Voice smooth, oily.

  'One question.’

  'Go on.'

  'Why?’

  'I didn't have a choice.' No pretence, no denial. He knew what he was being asked.

  'We all have choices.'

  'Not if you want to keep your job, which I do,' pause, 'and I assume you do as well.'

  Did she? Swanger blew more smoke, wondered if she could carry on after this.

  'I gave them my word.'

  'That was rather naive.'

  'You knew. You backed me.'

  'I know. I know.'

  'Then why?'

  'Orders from the top.'

  'Pilate?'

  'Higher.’ Pause. ‘Much higher.'

  The Fuehrer. He had to mean the Fuehrer.

  'Oh.' She stubbed the cigarette out.

  'Precisely. Look, you've been pushing yourself. Why don't you take a few days off, have a holiday, get some sun.'

  She mumbled a reply and, with no more to say, the call ended. Swanger, surprised she hadn't told him where to stick his job, turned her attention back to the TV and Michelle. 'Jesus, who first came to prominence in the coastal resort of Whitby three years ago, has long been a thorn in the side of the Temple authorities because of his radical statements. More controversially though, it was his claim to be the Messiah, the long awaited king of the Jews that has led to his downfall.'

  Swanger shuffled off the bar stool, drained her glass, and walked unsteadily to the door. It was like a furnace outside after the cool of the bar. Sunny all the way, eh? Not for Jesus, it wasn’t, she thought, as she climbed into the nearest cab.

  ✝

  State Security HQ, York, Northumbria.

  When he was led into the holding cell, Bocus didn't see Beaumont at first. He stood by the door and scanned the small area. Too many prisoners all looking the same, a mass of orange covered humanity. It was only when he spotted a gap on the narrow benches and squeezed his way between two young adult males that he saw his former comrade in arms seated on a similar bench on the other side of the room. He didn't attempt to attract his attention, he could see Beaumont was in a world of his own, sat there with a silly smile on his face. Oblivious to his fate, there was no point in Bocus putting him straight. He wouldn't be thanked.

  There was no conversation. Anybody who attempted speech was given a look that said don’t bother. From time to time, somebody would stand in a vain attempt to relieve numb buttocks. They stood, stretched, sat down again. There were no windows in the cell, the air was stale. All they needed to do was pump some gas in here, Bocus thought, job done in five minutes. Time dragged. Bocus had no way of assessing how long he'd been inside the cell, didn't bother trying. This was where he was now, after weeks of being immobile at least he could move.

  Sometime later, there was noise and movement outside. A key turned in the lock, all eyes turned to the door as it opened. A uniformed guard with a clipboard stepped into view. Bocus wondered if it was his imagination but the majority of prisoners seemed to shrink back against the walls.

  The guard ran a pencil down the list. 'Beaumont?'

  The other prisoners looked around, breathed a sigh of relief. Bocus looked at Beaumont.

  Silence.

  'Come on, Beaumont, I know you're in here.' He scanned the room, looked behind the door. 'Unless he was hiding behind here, sneaked out.'

  Nobody laughed.

  'Beaumont?' The guard asked again, edge to his voice, losing patience.

  'What?' Beaumont looked towards the door. 'That's me.'

  The guard ticked his list, cocked his head. 'Outside.'

  Beaumont stood. 'Am I being released?'

  The official smiled, mouth a tight line, no humour in his eyes. 'You could say that.' He scanned his list again, 'Bocus.'

  Bocus looked up. This was it then. As he stood, he thought he heard someone mutter Skull Hill. Like I need to be told, he thought, as he walked out in to the corridor.

  ✝

  The Arena, Skull Hill, York, Northumbria.

  The black cab pulled up outside the Arena, deposited Swanger on the footpath. 'Must be mad.' She muttered, paid the cabbie, waited until it moved away before turning her attention to the big screen outside the building. It showed a man wearing a black top hat, swinging a walking cane. He was leading a procession of people out of the city to where Swanger was waiting. Someone in the crowd is beating a drum. Swanger can hear it, both on the screen, and faint, in the distance.

  It reminded Swanger of a funeral procession, and in many respects, it was. Above, the sky was black with drones. Some hovered stationary, others kept pace with the procession. The screen showed the battered, bruised, figure of Jesus limping near the front. A man behind carried the heavy wooden crossbeam. Not carrying your own cross, Jesus? There wasn't any sign of Beaumont or Bocus. Swanger wondered if that was good or bad.

  The picture changed to an overhead view from one of the drones. It picked out Mary, Jesus' mother, eyes red rimmed, tearful, other followers of Jesus in support. Swanger recognised the former prostitute, Maggie, who'd been allegedly delivered of demons and had come to be one of his closest followers outside the inner circle. Other prominent women were present, but apart from John, the disciples were absent. Gone into hiding, she assumed. Apart from the booming of the drum, which provided a soundtrack to the images, the procession was silent.

  A change of view. A few dissenting voices, protesters hurling insults at Jesus were tracked by a cameraman walking backwards. A commentator interjected a comment from time to time, voice deep with gravitas. '...just leaving the city now. Jesus, too weak to carry the cross beam, has it carried for him by a stranger plucked from the crowd.'

  There was a break for adverts. Swanger, undecided for once on wha
t to do, lit a cigarette, then turned her attention back to the screen and the soothing voice that announced, 'Welcome back to coverage of Northumbrian TV's crucifixion special, sponsored by Property Parts, for all your DIY needs.'

  Michelle, the news anchor, appeared on the main part of the screen. In a corner, the procession wound its way up the hill. The drum was getting louder, closer. Michelle was speaking, 'This is Northumbrian TV with our special broadcast of the crucifixion of the prophet, Jesus. Bringing you all the coverage from first nail, to final breath. And don’t forget, after the crucifixions, the games will commence.’

  'We're going now to our reporter with the procession, and he's talking to one of Jesus' twelve disciples.'

  John appears on the screen. He looks terrible, eyes bleary, puffy. There's a man who hasn't slept well, Swanger thought as she listened to the brief exchange.

  'Jesus is a good man.’ John said. ‘He hasn't done anything wrong. He doesn't deserve this.' Youths appeared behind him, waving, gesticulating. The camera went in tighter, blocking them out. The reporter ignoring the interruption, asked, 'John, is Jesus the son of God?'

  'I believe he is, yes.' John replied.

  Boom, boom, boom, the drumming was getting heavier, closer, louder. The reporter was struggling against the noise. 'Will he save himself? Will God save him?'

  John shook his head. 'It's not that simple.' he broke down in tears. 'I'm sorry,' he said, 'this is too upsetting.'

  The image cut to a reporter standing outside the main gates. Swanger can see him talking to camera. '... one of Jesus’ disciples breaking down as speaks about the prophet soon to be crucified in the Arena, behind me here at Skull Hill.'

  The picture from a drone shows Skull Hill from above. The reporter speaking over the picture, 'Skull Hill named, of course for the topographical representation of a skull shape as seen from above.’

  The reporter came back on screen, 'The procession should be coming into view very soon, but before that a short break.'

  Swanger looked away from the screen. Already the crowds were massing. Fast food vendors were doing a brisk trade. The smell of fried onions and candyfloss made her feel sick. The beer tent was bulging. She thought about another drink, decided it wasn't a good idea and set off towards the Arena.

  It was a circus, Swanger realised, as she eased her way through the crowd, dodging the magicians, the stilt walkers, the fire-eaters, the sword swallowers. Making her way past the betting booths with electronic displays giving the latest odds on how long it would take Jesus to die, she arrived at the VIP entrance, confident her State Security credentials would get her in. She presented her badge to the card reader, half hoping it would turn red, refuse entrance. The green LED glowed, the gate clicked, and swung open. She was in, access all areas.

  ✝

  The Arena, Skull Hill, York, Northumbria.

  Swanger made her way through the bowels of the arena, through the dense crush surrounding the bars, up the steps that led to the terracing, the glorious cloudless blue sky beckoning. She stopped, looked around. The crucifixion arena was set out like a Roman amphitheatre, banks of tiered seating above an interior parched of grass. A steward asked if he could help. She flashed her badge, told him what she wanted. He gripped her elbow, pointed down to the front. 'The steward down there will let you through.'

  Swanger thanked him and clumped down the steep steps, past the rows of banked seating, filled with excited, anticipatory spectators. At the bottom of the steps, Swanger spoke to the official. Her pass was examined, the gate opened and she was ushered onto the track that ran round the dusty arena. Here, between the seating and the exclusion zone where the crosses stood, was the most expensive viewing area, where families brought picnic hampers, made a day of it.

  Swanger had never been to a crucifixion. Seen plenty on screen, but never up close and personal. Hangings, yes, plenty of those. But that was about carrying out the sentence of death expeditiously. A good hangman and young Pierrepoint was as good as they came, could have the prisoner dead on the end of the rope ten seconds after entering the condemned cell. Hangings though, were carried out in prisons, not out here in the full glare of publicity, viewed by TV cameras, and spectators with their picnics. Crucifixions were something else. They sent a different message.

  As a VIP, she was able to walk along the small service strip in front of the crosses, and stand within a few metres of the victims. All she had to do was keep showing her badge, which she did now to guard after guard, all wearing the ubiquitous Hi-Viz jackets.

  The crucifixion area, rebuilt in recent years, was a model of its kind. The upright posts were permanently positioned in a thirty-metre long concrete strip. Set on hydraulic jacks, they could be lowered and raised at the touch of a button. The cross beams, usually carried by the prisoners on the walk of shame, were attached shortly before the nailing took place. Now though, the post in the middle had a crossbeam attached, and was lower in the ground.

  Knowing she couldn't put it off any longer, she raised her gaze upwards, past the feet, the naked torso, until she made eye contact with Beaumont. Her eyes pricked with tears and not able to bear his reproachful stare, she looked towards Bocus who had also registered her presence.

  'Come to gloat?' He asked. His voice still strong.

  She had given these men her solemn promise, and had let them down. She felt totally bereft, and wondered again why she'd come. 'No.' Swanger whispered and shook her head in denial.

  A massive cheer came from the seating opposite the tunnel, spectators all around the arena came to their feet, stamping, whistling, hollering and cheering. Time for the main event, it was too late to move, she'd have to wait for Jesus to be nailed to the cross before she could leave. She looked towards the tunnel, saw Jesus limp into view. He was flanked by the three-man crucifixion squad. The doctor, to administer a sedative if required, and later, to pronounce death, trailed behind.

  Close up, Jesus was a more pitiful sight than he'd appeared on screen. He had a blackened eye and a bruised face. Fresh blood seeped from old wounds. Jammed on his head was a woven ring of barbed wire, a grotesque parody of a crown. The crucifixion party reached the waiting cross, a short distance from where Swanger stood. For some reason Jesus wasn’t wearing the obligatory orange coveralls but was instead draped in a purple robe. Two of the squad slipped the robe from his shoulder.

  Swanger winced as she saw his back, a torn reddened mass of flesh. Once naked they spun him round, pushed his pale body up against the rough wood of the cross, and held his arms aloft in position. The squad leader positioned the heavy-duty nail gun against each wrist in turn. The crowd held their breath as the trigger was pressed twice. Thump. Thump. Jesus flinched with the pain. The crowd groaned, then cheered. The squad leader ducked down to nail Jesus' feet while the other two bound his arms with cord, and then did the same to his calves.

  Nobody spoke. It was a well-rehearsed established routine, as quick as a hangman, Swanger realised. It was just death that took far longer. The squad leader checked everything, hung a sign above Jesus' head, stepped back, and pressed a button on his remote keypad. The hydraulic machinery clanked below the ground. Swanger watched as the cross began to rise, heard Jesus say, 'Father, forgive them. They don't know what they're doing.'

  Trouble is Jesus, Swanger thought, watching the cross rise to its full height, you're a mouse in a world of cats. She watched in silence as the crucifixion squad withdrew. They were replaced by the guards and stewards who would ensure nobody got too close. Jesus' mother, Mary, other family members and supporters were led into the family area. None of them looked her way.

  She thought of the pistol in her bag, wondered if she had the guts to get it out, put Beaumont and Bocus out of their misery, knew she hadn’t. She sighed; it was time to go, she could do nothing here. Swanger looked at Bocus, mouthed, 'I'm sorry.'

  'Screw you.' He replied, closing his eyes as a spasm of pain racked his body.

  She looked at Beaumont and gave t
he same apology. He nodded and maintained eye contact until Swanger was forced to look away. She took a last look at Jesus, at the sign above his head that read, JESUS, KING OF THE JEWS, then turned and walked away.

  ✝

  Soon after Jesus had been crucified, Caiaphas and an Arena official had a brief spat. They were arguing about the sign above Jesus' head while the crowd cheered in support, not knowing what they cheered.

  'I am not lowering the cross to change a sign.' The official told him.

  'It should say he claimed to be king of the Jews.' Caiaphas protested.

  'That's the sign that came with him. If you want it changing, speak to the Governor. I'll change it on his authority.'

  John was the sole disciple at the crucifixion. He looked at the others who'd come to witness the death of Jesus. Most prominent among them was his mother, Mary. She was weeping on her sister's shoulder.

  According to the signs that hung on their crosses, the two men on either side of Jesus were terrorists. As bad as crucifixion was, at least they'd done something to deserve this fate. Both men had their eyes closed. One of them was muttering profanities. Apart from the short, overweight woman, nobody had come to see them die, and even she hadn’t stuck it out.

  John looked beyond them, at the row upon row of spectators. The families with their picnic baskets. The fast food vendors. At the three clocks on the main stand showing how long each man had been nailed to his cross. He took it all in, and felt overwhelming sadness for humanity. To think Jesus would die for these zombies was more than he could bear. Tears streaked his face. Maggie put her arms round him, and urged him to be strong. He told her he'd try his best. He wanted to go, but knew he couldn't. He felt compelled to stay and witness Jesus' death.

  The afternoon wore on. The crowd silent and boisterous in turn as they waited for someone to die. Betting slips were thrown down in disgust as the allotted time passed, others were bought. Spectators in the VIP area hurled insults at Jesus. One came across now, and stood metres from the foot of the cross shouting at Jesus. 'You're gonna knock the Temple down, are ya?' he called, 'build it back up in three day, eh?' Worse for drink, he stood swaying. 'You need to save yourself first, lad.'