Saviour

by Christopher Gallagher

  He was joined by Caiaphas, Brotherton, and some Pharisees. 'King of the Jews? Once he's come down from there, I'll believe it.'

  'If you're the Son of God, get yourself down.'

  'He saves others but can't save himself.'

  'Happen God will rescue him.'

  One of the terrorists joined in, calling across to Jesus, 'Aren't you the Messiah? Can't you save yourself? And us, save us, if you can.'

  John was pleased when the rebel on the other side called over to rebuke him. 'Don't you fear God, Bocus? We're being punished for what we've done. But this man has done nothing wrong.'

  'Screw you, Beaumont.' Bocus lapsed into silence.

  'Jesus,' Beaumont called across, 'will you remember me when you come into your kingdom?'

  Jesus turned his head, looked at Beaumont. 'I tell you the truth. Today you will be with me in paradise.'

  Later in the afternoon, John heard his name being called. He looked up at Jesus who beckoned him closer with a slight movement of his head. Jesus' mother, Mary, noticed, and joined him. Together they got as close as they could before the guards stopped them.

  'What is it, Jesus?' Mary asked.

  'This is now your son, mother.' Jesus said. 'And John, this is your mother. Look after her.'

  'Of course, Jesus, of course.' John assured. 'Anything.'

  About six in the evening blackness came over the arena. After years of hot weather, there was an unexpected cold bite in the air. John, surprised by the sudden descent of darkness, looked up. From his narrow view of the sky he could see the sky was devoid of clouds. We're in for a right old storm, he thought, trying to remember the last time it had rained.

  At that moment Jesus cried out in a loud voice, 'My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?'

  'He's calling Eliyahu.' A voice called.

  'Happen he'll be down to save him.'

  'That'll be a laugh.'

  'It’ll not be long now.'

  'Aye up, he's talking again.'

  John had moved near to the cross at Jesus' first call, and was close enough to hear him say, 'It is done.' Then a few seconds later, 'Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.' His head slumped on his chest.

  The moment Jesus died, screams of panic filled the air, as rain, propelled by fierce winds, drove across the arena. There was no hiding place and within seconds everybody was soaked to the skin. A loud sonic boom of noise cascaded round the concrete Arena, bouncing off the walls, reverberating, echoing. The earth shook, John staggered like a drunken man. He looked skywards, expecting to see military jets scream into view, but beyond the rain there was nothing to see. An earthquake, he realised, and wondered if the world was coming to an end.

  Ten minutes later, the storm had passed and the sun was shining in all its glory. The fear had lifted from the crowd and the carnival continued. The leader of the crucifixion squad appeared, followed by the doctor. There was a whoosh of dispelled air as the hydraulics lowered the cross. The doctor placed his stethoscope on Jesus' chest. There was a brief pause as he listened for a sign of life. He spoke to the official, who then lifted his right arm to the crowd, his thumb extended. He turned in a full circle giving everybody the chance to see his signal.

  The crowd, silent with anticipation went wild, as the stadium erupted with cheers and whistles from all sides. John buried his head in hands and wept uncontrollably.

  ✝

  Union Bar, York, Northumbria.

  Swanger couldn't remember how many whiskies she'd drunk in the day. She'd either have a monumental hangover in the morning or would, like Beaumont and Bocus, be dead. It was early evening. The bar packed with a sophisticated theatre-going crowd. Drinks and snacks before curtain up. Everybody ignored the crying woman at the bar.

  The TV special of the crucifixion was drawing to a close. The volume just audible above the buzz of conversation. Michelle, sombre expression on her face, appeared on screen. She paused for effect, and then said, 'Jesus is dead.'

  Apart from Swanger, nobody in the bar took any notice.

  'The death of the prophet, Jesus, was confirmed a few minutes ago. He was crucified at twelve noon and pronounced dead six hours later at six pm this evening.’

  The screen showed Jesus, head on his chest, hanging lifeless.

  What about Beaumont and Bocus, Swanger thought, don't they deserve a mention?

  The screen changed back to the studio and Michelle. 'According to reports from Jodrell Bank, the unexpected eclipse at the exact moment Jesus died was caused by a comet passing in front of the sun. This in turn led to the earthquake which struck the region at the same time. A spokesman for the Union Geological Society commented, “it was a natural phenomena and not a spiritual event caused by the death of one man.”

  ‘Damage caused by the earthquake is thought to be slight, however we can confirm that the heavy curtain in the Jewish Temple was torn in two, from top to bottom around the same time. Temple officials are at a loss to explain how or why this happened, but have been quick to rule out any connection with the death of Jesus.'

  Michelle shuffled her papers. 'Two other men, identified as terrorists by State Security, were crucified alongside Jesus.'

  Swanger nodded approvingly. 'Better late than never.' She thought, and beckoned the barman for another refill.

  'Jesus was the first to die, followed by Beaumont, then Bocus. Apparently, Beaumont and Bocus were encouraged to die by the simple procedure of breaking their legs.'

  The news anchor went on to explain that victim's legs were broken on the cross to allow their bodies to slump causing suffocation. 'Although, this wasn't necessary in the case of Jesus as he was already dead.'

  'Lucky Jesus.' Swanger paid for her drink, told the barman to keep the change. She raised her glass, drank a toast to Beaumont and Bocus, then left to find a taxi.

  ✝

  The Talbot, York, Northumbria.

  Peter drained his pint, waved his glass in the general direction of the barman, and watched disinterestedly as the glass was filled. He grunted his thanks, pushed some coins across the counter, and sipped his beer moodily. Past three years they'd been living the dream, fooling themselves they were making a difference, but now with Jesus gone, what had it all meant?

  He'd been part of the massive crowd outside the arena, had watched the procession coming up the hill. He’d been within a metre or two of Jesus as he’d passed, followed by his mother, then Maggie, John, and a few others. He hadn’t known many of the people in the procession. Fierce tears stung his eyes as he remembered Jesus being led out for crucifixion. His battered, broken, bloodied body, nail-gunned to the cross. The howls, the jeers of the crowd. He hadn't been able to stay and watch Jesus' ultimate degradation. His lonely, public death.

  Peter drank more beer, and thought about Jesus. The Messiah who couldn't save himself. The son of the living God hung naked to die on a wooden cross. A life touched by Jesus, Peter realised, was irrevocably changed. And to think that God was in all this. That he witnessed, condoned his son's public execution.

  'Why?' Peter whispered.

  He screwed his eyes tight. Too many questions, too few answers.

  He had half a mind to follow that bastard Judas' example. A tree, a rope, and step into oblivion. He wept uncontrollably, knew he didn't even have the guts to do that. Jesus was dead, but Peter, having denied him three times, wanted to live. Suppose I'll creep off back to Whitby, he thought, get a job as a deckhand, and go back to sea. He groaned. It was a deep desperate sound. A few people looked round at the noise, but most ignored him. Embarrassed, Peter kept his head down. He thought about making his way to the campsite. See if any of the others had turned up. Trouble was, as Jesus’ right hand man, he should have stuck it out, even if it meant his own death. It would be difficult to face the lads.

  There was a movement at his side, a bar stool was pulled out. 'I've been in all the pubs in York looking for you.' His brother’s voice whispered in his ear.

  'You've found me.'
Peter replied, 'want a drink?'

  'Don’t you realise how dangerous it is for us now. We need to keep our heads down.'

  ‘Dangerous, yeah. Beer, Scotch?’

  'The rock, eh?'

  'You what?'

  'What he said. What he called you, "The rock on whom I'll build my church."'

  'And your point is?' Peter demanded.

  Andrew shrugged. 'You need to start acting like a rock.'

  'You don't understand...' Peter began, then broke off and drained his glass. He signalled to the barman for a refill.

  Andrew caught the man's eye, gave a quick shake of his head. The man shrugged, carried on polishing glasses, watched the TV news, yet another rehash of the day's events.

  ‘I’m no rock,’ Peter shook his head, a grave, slow motion, his lips tight. ‘How can I be with Jesus dead? He was my rock and without him I’m sinking in the sand.’

  Andrew pulled a face, he didn’t have time for introspection. He gripped his brother's arm. 'C'mon, bro. Let's get to the safety of the camp site, get some rest.'

  'He's dead, Andy.' Peter pulled his arm free. 'Jesus is dead.'

  'I know.' Andrew sighed. 'I saw.'

  'You were there?'

  'Nah, watched it on TV. In a pub.'

  Peter shook his head, tried to clear the fuzziness. 'Hey, pal?'

  The barman avoided eye contact, and disappeared into the other bar.

  'Do you think he'd want this?' Andrew asked. 'The Boss? Would he want us all sat around mourning him?'

  Peter blew air through his teeth. 'It's gonna be so hard without him, Andy. The last three years have been brilliant. The best years of my life.'

  'Yeah, me too.' Andrew agreed.

  'Will we be allowed his body, for a funeral? A proper funeral, worthy of a king?'

  Andrew nodded. 'Maggie's on it. She's made contact with the Governor's office, been told she can collect the body on Sunday.'

  Peter nodded. 'That's good.'

  'So,' Andrew asked, 'shall we go?'

  'I don't know, Andy.'

  The brothers sat in silence for a moment, and then Peter remembered he had some news. 'I had a text from Jayne, she wants to come back.'

  Andrew asked how Peter felt about reconciliation.

  'Yeah,' Peter replied. 'I think it might work.' He paused, 'I've missed her.'

  Andrew smiled. 'Why don't you tell her that?'

  'First chance I get, bro. I’m on it.'

  Andrew looked at his brother, and took a deep breath. 'She's at the campsite, Peter. When she didn't hear back from you, she texted me. I gave her directions. She arrived earlier this afternoon.' He stopped. 'You don't mind?'

  ‘No, I don't mind.'

  Andrew placed an arm round his brother’s shoulder and helped him to his feet. Together they walked to the door, then stopped, and turned back to the TV as the studio anchor said, '... the last word on Jesus to one of his disciples, John, who we reached by phone earlier.'

  The screen showed a picture of John.

  'This is what he had to say,'

  John's voice came on air, 'Apart from the things the world knows about Jesus, he did many other things as well. If every one of them were written down, there wouldn’t be enough room in the world for all the books that could be written.’

  'Amen to that, brother.' Peter said, as they left the pub and walked out into a world that would never be the same again.

  AFTERWARDS

  PRISON MORGUE, YORK, NORTHUMBRIA.

  SUNDAY.

  The uniformed guard on the door looked at Maggie with a quizzical expression. Praying there wouldn't be a problem, she offered the permit provided by Pilate's office. He took the sheet of paper, inspected it, then handed it back. 'You have transport?'

  The transport had been provided by Joseph, a rich man, one of the few members of the Sanhedrin who hadn't wanted the Lord dead. On Friday, having made himself known to Jesus' family and supporters, he'd offered space in the family burial vault, and provided linen for wrapping the body. He’d even supplied the oils that Maggie would use to anoint the Lord’s body and make him ready for burial. That would be a difficult task but one that she was determined to accomplish, knowing it would be the last time she saw the man who’d restored her to life.

  Maggie assured the guard she had transport. She was told to step through the airport style metal detector, where she was searched by his female colleague, before being ushered towards a reception desk. The receptionist, a middle-aged man, motioned for the paperwork. He studied the permit, glancing at Maggie over his glasses. Satisfied, he stamped the permit, gave it back. He spoke into the microphone on his lapel. 'She's here.'

  An enormous guard appeared out of a door marked, SECURITY. He gave Maggie an appraising look then set off down a long corridor, calling over his shoulder, 'This way.'

  Maggie followed a pace behind. Arriving at the morgue, a second guard unlocked the double steel doors and pushed them open. He stepped inside, Maggie followed and came to an abrupt halt as she cannoned off the stationary official.

  'Oh shit.' The guard exclaimed. He pushed Maggie to one side and ran off down the corridor. The second guard pulled his pistol and edged into the room. He was back within seconds. He ordered Maggie to remain outside, and set off in pursuit of his colleague.

  Maggie entered the room, and looked at the rows of steel drawers. They were all closed apart from one. The one with the label that read, Jesus. Knowing it was futile she looked in the open drawer. It was empty.

  She looked round in desperation. Sunlight streaming through the window bounced off a stainless steel table in the centre of the room. Maggie, shielding her eyes, saw on the table, the neatly folded linen cloth that she had wrapped around Jesus' body on Friday evening.

  Feeling faint, she took a deep breath, closed her eyes, told herself when she opened them the Lord would be there, and that none of the last five minutes would have happened. She opened her eyes, Jesus wasn't there, but two men clothed in brilliant white outfits had appeared from nowhere.

  She gasped, took a step backwards, and decided she was hallucinating. She wondered if, now the Lord was dead, the demons had returned. Not demons, she decided, but not humans either. This was just too much to bear. She burst into tears.

  'What's wrong?' One of the men asked. He had an ordinary voice, Maggie decided, but there was something different about him.

  'They've taken the Lord away, and I don't know where he is.' She babbled on about the funeral and collecting Jesus' body while the two men looked at her with puzzlement.

  A hospital porter looked in. 'Is there a problem?' He asked. 'Why are you crying?'

  'I'm looking for Jesus,' Maggie sobbed, 'He should be here.'

  The porter smiled. 'Maggie, it’s me.'

  'Oh, Lord.' She cried out, and opened her arms to embrace him.

  'Don't hold on to me,' Jesus said, 'for I haven't yet ascended to the Father. Go now to my brothers, the disciples. Tell them you've seen me. That I live, and will be with you all soon.'

  About the author

  A ‘Northumbrian’ at heart, Christopher has been writing for over 40 years. Originally from the city of Leeds, he now lives in the county of Warwickshire in the middle of England.

  Fuelled only by freshly brewed coffee and a copious supply of biscuits, the writing of Saviour was a tenacious endeavour; the majority of the book being penned on an old laptop by the light of a battery operated head lamp, while seated on a hard wooden chair.

  Acknowledgments

  A heartfelt thank you to everyone who made this book possible including family and friends for inspiration, encouragement, laughter, feedback, and prayer, especially my wife and father. Carl Brown and Ben Rogers for their account of a ‘72’ journey. Dawn Coleman and Natalya Miles for initial proof reading. Pauline Scatterty for final proofreading and editing. Beta readers – Hazel Bowden, Jane Read, Amanda Wymer, and P.G.

  And finally, thanks to God, who gave me the idea and trusted me to write
Saviour. All the glory is His, all the mistakes are mine.

  Jesus will return