The Crux of Salvation

by Michelle Warren

  Rachel watched him start to pace, agitated, before her.

  “You still love him,” she breathed. “You actually still love him.”

  Alex stared back at her. “What is it with you people?” he cried. “Why must you keep twisting the knife deeper? So what’s next, doctor? Alcohol? Drugs? Maybe go to prison for distribution?”

  Rachel gazed at him, and then reached out to his hand and opened his instinctively clenched palm, to find the crucifix.

  He looked down at it. He sank heavily back down on the bench.

  “I don’t understand,” he whispered. “Why did he have to make life so difficult, Rachel? A battle! It’s such a battle…”

  “It’s like a race,” said Rachel, sitting next to him on the bench. “We’ve got to get to the finish line.”

  “Why such pain?” asked Alex. “How could he allow such pain?”

  Rachel hesitated, and then reached out to take his hand in her own, with the crucifix sitting between.

  Alex looked down at their hands together.

  “You’re crossing all professional boundaries now, doctor,” he muttered wryly.

  “You’re not my patient,” said Rachel.

  “Then what am I?” asked Alex. “If not a patient you are counselling?”

  Rachel frowned, tightening her grip on his hand. Pain! Her own pain! His pain. To say it would inevitably bring more pain, yet she must.

  “Brother,” she said. “You are my brother.”

  “Oh, God,” he whispered, and his body stiffened, and he seized his hand away from hers. “Selena!” he cried. “She’s dead! Protecting me! Saving me! Making herself my sister!”

  And Rachel again saw Selena’s body, lying stabbed on the black altar of Kensington.

  She quickly reached for James’s stethoscope, and tossed it from hand to hand. Work? Relief in work? Distraction? Withdraw the offer?

  “I should go,” she said. “I have a job to do.”

  Silently Alex sat next to her, clenching the crucifix in his own hand, closing his eyes tightly. “Then go, doctor,” he whispered. “Go and save everyone else.”

  Rachel frowned at him. “You’ll be okay now,” she said. “Surely you’ll be okay.”

  And she lifted herself again to her feet.

  He was still there, on the park bench, drawing his knees to his chest; hiding his face in his knees, and wrapping his arms around his legs. Just a boy! Suddenly she could see him clearly as a boy, sitting quietly, clutching the crucifix…

  A broken, beaten, traumatised boy grasping for relief…

  Gripped by his plight, Rachel gazed at him.

  The stethoscope, counselling, medication…surely all could help. But he was truly a boy, sitting right there; lost, homeless, broken…And he had the power to change their nation, for good or for bad.

  This was her brother.

  Perplexed, she continued gazing at him, until his eyes found hers. He was changed, now – suddenly lit up, inspired beyond himself; suddenly knowing more than he should know. And then, equally suddenly, something seized her: love, all consuming, all committed. A brother! This was the brother she could help!

  “Well?” he asked. “Still believe in redemption?”

  “Yes,” whispered Rachel. “Yes, I do!”

  His smile widened, but then came another change – sudden exposure, so striking, so young, and so vulnerable, that she held her breath. Surely he had not risked uncovering himself so profoundly as this to anyone, not since…since his mother had died…

  “Then help me, Rachel,” he whispered, his face naked before her. “You couldn’t help Joshua in his death, you couldn’t help your brother, but you can still help me. I trust in God, but I know…I know I need your humanity too, if I’m ever to succeed…”

  Instinct drove her to his side.

  She reached for his hand, with the crucifix: she folded their clenched palms over his chest.

  “I will help you,” she murmured, and his eyes swiftly filled with tears. “I will stand in the place where your mother could not.”

  He trembled, in her hands. “Mother of God,” he whispered.

  “Human,” murmured Rachel carefully to him. “I am only human.”

  “Humanity was torn from me,” he whispered. “Oh that I might have it back again.”

  “I will stay with you,” said Rachel. “I will protect you.”

  “Forgive me,” whispered Alex. “Forgive me.”

  He was a young man, now. He turned and fixed his eyes on the Cathedral, and then he gazed back at the Beehive.

  “I think we should go,” he said. “It begins with your father.”

  “My father?” murmured Rachel.

  “He holds the keys to the nation,” said Alex, “and the connections to the world.”

  “And the keys to his car,” she muttered wryly. “I’ll need to get back to the hospital, to prepare.”

  “Then prepare,” said Alex. “Do what you must, and let’s see together what God will do.”

  And he gripped her arm, and moved them both forward toward Parliament.

  CHAPTER THREE: The Threat

  James Connor sat in his office. A photo of Pam and Rachel sat on his desk. Pam, his wife, was wearing a floral summer dress, and Rachel was wearing a floral shirt and jeans. They were both smiling.

  Connor frowned and reached to finger the frame, to touch each face. Two years ago he had sat here, in this spot, sweating with the broken air-con and global warming, before everything had hit the fan with his mishandling of Joshua Davidson. The air-con was working now, his room was pleasantly cool. He glanced out of his window to the trees outside. The sun was shining; Christmas was coming. And yet…

  There was a movement, and Connor jerked in fear. Patrick Clarkson stood in the doorway; Connor breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Clarks,” he muttered, gesturing to a chair. “How’s the rearrangement of the Socialist Party coming along?”

  “I could tell you, but I’d have to kill you,” muttered Clarkson, sitting down opposite him.

  Connor shot him a wry glance.

  “A little too close to the bone, Pat,” he said.

  “Yeah,” said Clarkson. “Sorry.”

  “That bastard Kensington had my daughter at gun-point,” said Connor. “How the hell did you let him infiltrate your party?”

  Clarkson’s wrinkles deepened; Connor was sure he had lost hair.

  “He checked out,” said Clarkson. “His record was flawless, and superlative.”

  “‘He comes as an angel of light,’” muttered Connor, and he rose to his feet and wandered across to the window.

  “Satan?” said Clarkson behind his back. “Don’t get all superstitious on me, James. Hold it together – you’re still our Prime Minister.”

  Connor leaned heavily against the frame, looking outside to people on the street walking freely past Parliament, and to the Law School beyond. In that moment, in his mind, he saw Rachel on her knees at the altar of Saint Peter’s, with her brother James’ gun to her head.

  “He manipulated my family for his own purposes,” said Connor. “Whether literal or metaphorical, Patrick, he was as Satan to me.”

  “He’s dead now,” said Clarkson. “The threat is over. I’ve weeded out the corruption from my party, Connor. It’s a new day. We must put this chapter behind us.”

  Connor frowned, staring out at the University. “His son is still alive.”

  “James,” said Clarkson, “don’t crucify the son for the crimes of the father.”

  “No,” muttered Connor, “I have something else in mind for him.”

  He turned back to Clarkson, and walked back to sit at his desk.

  Now Clarkson tossed a folder in his direction. “Here.”

  Connor reached for the file. “What’s this?” he asked, opening the brown cover.

  “More Intel from the Communications Security Bureau,” said Clarkson.

  “How do you get this stuff before me, Clarks?” complained C
onnor. “You make a mockery of our systems. The Leader of the Opposition informs the Government?”

  “That’s democracy for you,” said Clarkson. “But some things are more pressing than our systems, James.”

  Connor looked up to see the warning in his eyes. He grimaced, and looked back down at the papers.

  “So inform me,” he said, as he began to flick through the folder.

  “Unease.”

  “Yes,” said Connor. “No surprises there.”

  “Networking.”

  “Yes.”

  “And this.” Clarkson reached out and halted the turning pages, pointing to one paragraph, underlined.

  Connor stared at it, and then looked up into Clarkson’s eyes. “Oh, shit,” he whispered.

  Clarkson’s face was controlled. Professionalism? He was choosing professionalism, at a time like this?

  “It’s a potential scenario we have known for decades, though in a different context,” said Clarkson. “It is everything we once feared.”

  “These bastards are playing with fire!” said Connor. “Why do they do this? Why do they hold the fate of the rest of us under siege?”

  “They don’t see the rest of us,” said Clarkson. “Only their own security. Only their own interests.”

  “Do they know?” asked Connor. “Do they know that we know?”

  “Not that we know,” said Clarkson wryly, “but, James, if they do this, if they go ahead with this move, it won’t matter any more which party is informing whom – nothing will matter any more.”

  Connor stared at him, at his grim severity. He rose to his feet.

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “You know what I am suggesting.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You must.”

  “I can’t!” He walked again over to the window, to the sun, and the people walking freely outside. “If I get this wrong, Clarks, I’ll precipitate World War Three!”

  “We’re already at war, Jim,” said Clarkson quietly. “The war is already here, on all continents, in all nations. The war is already taking place within our boundaries.”

  “No,” whispered Connor. “No.” He closed his eyes, and leaned his head against the glass.

  “A different society,” said Clarkson. “Different ideologies. Different worldviews. How to hold them all together? How to co-exist? Some don’t want to coexist, Connor: many don’t want to coexist.”

  “Extremism,” whispered Connor, and he opened his eyes again, looking across to the School of Law. “I made a mistake once. I mustn’t make it again.”

  “Inform the other side of the threat,” said Clarkson. “Inform them.”

  “It’s political suicide,” said Connor. “They are not our allies. We will be cut off from both sides.”

  “There can be no survivors from a nuclear holocaust, James,” said Clarkson. “We will be collateral damage in some else’s quest for self-defence. You fear terror? It doesn’t get more terrifying than that.”

  “Yes, it does,” whispered Connor, and again in his mind’s eye he saw James’ gun to Rachel’s head, and Kensington’s gun to Alex’s head. “There is a greater terror than annihilation, Clarks.”

  “Assimilation.”

  It was a familiar voice. Alex stood in the doorway, frowning, with Rachel behind him.

  “This is a matter of national security, young man,” said Clarkson. “You should not be here.”

  “The door was unlocked,” said Rachel, her eyes finding Connor. “Sorry, Dad, but I need your car.”

  Connor almost laughed – the relief! A moment of sanity. His daughter!

  “She has free access,” he muttered to Clarkson, as he reached into his pocket for his keys. “Knocking is always wise, but perhaps we should not have been discussing matters of national security so casually.”

  “Assimilation,” repeated Alex. “The greater threat than annihilation is assimilation.”

  Connor was drawn by his blue eyes – an intensity so similar to that of Kensington, yet without the control.

  “What do you mean?” asked Connor, leaning over Clarkson, passing his keys to Rachel.

  “You know what I mean,” said Alex, holding his eyes. “We are still at threat from within.”

  Chills went up Connor’s spine. Kensington! Alex was talking about Kensington.

  “Superstition,” muttered Clarkson. “I was blind before, Alex. I’m sorry you had to expose yourself to danger in the Debating Chamber to make me see it, to uncover your father. You did us an important service, but you are not a part of the Debating Chamber any more.”

  “Is he not?” asked Connor, and Clarkson grimaced.

  “Systems, Connor,” he said. “Let’s not go throwing the baby out with the bathwater.”

  “He is Kensington’s son.”

  “Yes.”

  “He knows how he thinks.”

  Clarkson shifted on his chair. “I’m not sure that’s an asset, Connor,” he said.

  Connor glanced back at Rachel, at her creviced forehead, and then looked at Alex.

  “I am the Prime Minister,” he said. “The Prime Minister you reinstated.”

  Now Alex shifted uncomfortably on his feet. “I only undid the damage I had caused,” he said. “You are the Prime Minister the people chose.”

  “Then, here,” said Connor, and he reached for the folder on his desk and thrust it into Alex’s arms.

  “Connor!” cried Clarkson. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Protecting national security,” said Connor, holding Alex’s bewilderment. “You aced four years of IT in two years, and came top in your class.”

  “You’ve been watching me,” said Alex, and Connor nodded.

  “Wouldn’t you, in my position?” he asked, and Alex nodded.

  “Yes,” he said. “I would.”

  “Read this document,” said Connor. “Tell me if it’s real.”

  Alex frowned at him, and then looked down at the papers in his hands.

  “I’m not as qualified as the Communications Security Bureau,” he said, as he began to read.

  “That doesn’t matter,” said Connor. “I know what you can do. I know what you were doing, before you went to University.”

  Alex’s gaze returned to him, troubled, before the eyes dropped again to the document. He skimmed the pages quickly, and then looked around himself, reaching out his hands instinctively.

  “Here,” said Connor, and he pointed the monitor on his desk toward Alex and handed him his keyboard.

  “James!” said Clarkson. “This is about national security!”

  “Didn’t you see what he did?” replied Connor, gesturing Alex to his own seat. “He put himself in harm’s way to secure our freedom, Clarks. We were going down.”

  “I know that, James, but this?”

  Alex’s eyes were on him. He needed the login password.

  Connor held his eyes. “Do you know how to hack into this?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Alex plainly. “But it is illegal.”

  Connor studied his face. “You are capable of overriding the law, but choose not to?”

  “Yes,” said Alex.

  “Why?” asked Connor.

  “Because it is a law others have chosen.”

  “Boundaries,” said Rachel behind him. “He is respecting the boundaries, irrespective of threat of punishment.”

  “Fine,” said Connor. “Be my guest.” And he typed in his own name and password.

  Now Alex had legal access. Connor watched his fingers speed across the keyboard, as his eyes swiftly moved across the rapidly changing windows on the screen.

  The National Communications Bureau. The intelligence…

  Alex’s brow furrowed in concentration, and then he rose to his feet, gathered up the papers, and passed the folder back to Connor.

  “It’s fake,” he said. “The intelligence the bureau received is fake.”

  Connor stared at him, and then glanced across to Clarks
on’s wide eyes.

  “What do you mean it’s fake?” asked Clarkson. “We have internationally acclaimed specialists in the field…”

  “It’s manipulation,” said Alex, his face stern. “Someone is trying to make you afraid.”

  He fixed his eyes on Connor.

  “To what end?” asked Connor, and Alex smiled sadly.

  “You know to what end,” he said.

  Connor held his gaze, but now Clarkson reached over to log out of the computer, and rotated the screen away from Alex.

  “That’s enough,” he said. “He’s a cocky youth too secure in his own opinion to be ready to advise.”

  Connor studied Alex’s blue eyes. Cocky? Sure, capable of this, but right now? Right here?

  “Rachel?” asked Connor, and she moved alongside him.

  “Yes?” she asked.

  “Read him.”

  “What?” she said, her face flushing.

  “For the sake of national security, Rachel, read him.”

  Alex’s eyes widened – was that tears? And now he looked away.

  “I’ll be going now,” he said.

  “No,” said Connor. “Look at me.”

  Alex swallowed, and looked back to hold his eyes, but something was happening in him.

  “He’s lying,” said Clarkson, and Rachel shook her head.

  “No,” she said. “It’s not that.”

  His breathing was quickening: fear? Was it fear of being found out?

  “Stop this,” said Rachel. “You’re interrogating him. He is not the enemy.”

  “I have to know the truth,” said Connor. “For national security.”

  Now Alex wrapped his arms around himself.

  “Something to hide!” said Clarkson. “Come on, we can’t trust this youth.”

  “That’s enough,” said Rachel.

  “Read him for me,” said Connor.

  “That’s enough!” said Rachel. “He’s not a lab rat!”

  “Neither one of you are leaving this room,” said Connor, feeling anger suddenly rise up, “until you read him for me!”

  “Who the hell do you think you are?” Rachel suddenly cried out. “Hitler?”

  Connor stared at her. Hitler? He fell back a step.