The Crux of Salvation

by Michelle Warren

  “How dare you?” cried Rachel, jabbing her finger at him. “How dare you use him? How dare you manipulate me?”

  Use? Connor shook his head, trying to clear it, but now Alex’s eyes were with him, his blue gaze intensified further through the tears.

  “It’s him,” he said.

  “What?” asked Connor.

  “Kensington,” said Alex. “It’s him: his methods. I recognise him.”

  Connor swallowed as he held his eyes. “You mean me?” he asked. “I look like Kensington?”

  Alex reached out to grasp his arm. “Assimilation,” he said. “Assimilation is the greater threat than annihilation.”

  “To become like Kensington,” said Connor, “to become like Hitler. I see it now, you’re right. I’m sorry.”

  Alex nodded, and withdrew his hand.

  Clarkson was still sitting in front of them. Connor watched his eyes move from Alex to himself, while Rachel still stood rigidly at his left side.

  “I’ve always thought you might become a Hitler, James,” said Clarkson wryly, “so that part isn’t exactly news, but what’s all this about Kensington?”

  “He’s set up systems,” said Alex. “Corrupted programmes I couldn’t find when I did a sweep after he died.”

  “You’re saying this Intel is one of his corrupted programmes?” said Clarkson.

  “Yes,” replied Alex. “I recognise his signature.”

  “But how can we know we can trust you?” asked Clarkson, and Connor looked again at Rachel.

  She was fuming. “You have got to be joking,” she said. “You brought me here for this?”

  “No,” said Connor, taking her arm, moving her away from Clarkson and Alex. “I’m neither that conceited nor that clever.”

  “You came to the hospital just to…”

  “No,” he said. “Rachel – I’m not Kensington.”

  He had her gaze now, even as his own eyes blurred.

  “I will read you before I read him,” she said. “Tell me the truth.”

  Connor took a deep breath and then held her eyes.

  “The Intel,” he said. “It suggests a nuclear missile will be launched in eight days, toward a target…”

  “Where, Dad?” asked Rachel.

  Connor leaned over to whisper the answer in her ear, and withdrew to look at her widened eyes.

  “Oh, dear God,” she whispered. “That would be cataclysmic.”

  “I could tell them,” said Connor. “Should I tell them?”

  Rachel frowned. “But they will give a pre-emptive strike.”

  “Maybe,” said Connor. “Or maybe they will just show themselves ready, and the attack will be diverted.”

  “Equal defence, equal knowledge…”

  “But Alex says it is fake, Rachel – that the Intel is false. If so, I might precipitate disaster if I act: false news of an imminent attack, fear precipitating a pre-emptive strike, igniting an escalating nuclear exchange, sucking in all the allies in its wake. But if the Intel is true, and I don’t act, Rachel, I might be sitting back watching World War Three unfolding before our eyes, when I could have prevented it; when I could have balanced the stakes.”

  Rachel grimaced, but now Alex’s voice sounded. “You’re missing the point,” he said. “You’re focusing on the wrong enemy. It’s not either side of a tit for tat nuclear exchange that we should fight; the real enemy targets deeper and harder.”

  Connor looked back to his serious young face, and Alex stretched out his arms before them.

  “He’s telling the truth, Dad,” said Rachel.

  “How do you know?” asked Connor, holding Alex’s intense gaze, with his open gesture.

  “You know politics, he knows computers,” said Rachel, “but I know him.”

  Connor glanced back to his daughter, to her insight. “I know you know him, Rachel,” he murmured. “That’s why I knew you could help him.”

  “You were genuine?” asked Rachel. “About helping him?”

  “Of course,” said Connor. “I’m not Kensington, Rachel: I’m seriously not that much of a bastard, at least not yet.”

  Rachel grinned, and Connor grinned back – then he turned to Clarkson.

  “Here,” he said, handing the folder back, and Clarkson rose to his feet. “We’ve got work to do.”

  “Should we use him?” asked Clarkson, and he gestured to Alex. “He can recognise his father’s signature. He says his father is the real enemy.”

  Rachel was moving toward Alex, and Connor frowned. Use him? Use Kensington’s son? But now Rachel was turning.

  “It’s his choice,” she said. “It always must be his choice.”

  Alex walked over to the window to look outside, and Connor watched his back. How would it be for this young man? Almost killed by his father, now constantly seeking out his signature to save the nation again and again from his corruption?

  “It’s like a life sentence,” muttered Connor under his breath. “But surely there is an end to it. Surely there must be an end.”

  Alex was silent, and then he turned to face them.

  “I’ll help you,” he said. “But only for a time. And when the right time comes, I will move on.”

  “Very well,” said Connor. “Do what you can.”

  “Then do it with me,” said Clarkson. “Your father’s hand was most clearly outworked through my party. You will be able to most effectively clean up through our routes.”

  Alex took a deep breath and released it. “All right,” he said. “I’ll do it with you.”

  He followed Clarkson out of the door.

  Rachel lingered behind. Connor stood silently, and then she met his eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “about the Hitler thing. I just couldn’t stand…”

  “You were right,” he said.

  “What?” she asked.

  “You were right,” he said. “I needed you to tell me.”

  Rachel swallowed. Then she moved toward the door.

  “You know, Dad,” she said. “This thing with Alex, it will take its toll. It’s not just a normal job for him. It will never be a normal job.”

  “I know,” said Connor.

  “He…he needs…” She was hesitating, and he smiled sadly.

  “He needs you,” he said gently. “Already you defend him as family.”

  “Adopted, I guess,” she said. “Adopted.”

  “So be it,” said Connor. “Watch out for him.”

  “I’ll return your car and catch the train.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m resigning for now.”

  “I know.”

  “I…” She hesitated again, and then continued. “I love you, Dad.”

  He smiled sadly at her, and nodded. “And I love you, Rachel,” he said. “Everything I have is yours.”

  She gazed at him, smiled again, and then was gone.

  He was alone, in his office. Troubled, he moved back to the window and looked outside. People were still walking freely down the sunny street. They were blissfully ignorant that he might have ended their lives, were it not for Alex’s intervention.

  “Who knows how much time we have?” he muttered to himself, and he turned away from the window and back to his computer.

  CHAPTER FOUR: A Response

  John Robertson stood in Saint Peter’s Cathedral. The church was quiet. He looked up from the central aisle to the red, green and blue of the stained glass windows above. Christ was feeding the masses. Peter and the others were in the boat with Christ, surrounded by the storm. Paul was being blinded by the light…

  John lowered his eyes to look at Jesus on the cross, with the crown of thorns on his head. He remembered Joshua, kneeling in the street between the Cathedral and Parliament, wearing the ancient metal crown on his head. He was drawing all darkness to himself, carrying it into the grave so that others might be relieved of it.

  John remembered the pain of the offering! The pain of Tristan’s bullets, throwing Joshua’s bo
dy back to the ground. He was choking! And yet then came the peace of the realisation of that offering. “It’s finished,” he said to Rachel, with a smile. “It’s sorted!”

  Death had taken him…and then he had returned.

  John still remembered that morning, replaying it in his mind. He was lying against the white stone wall next to the church, dozing at Joshua’s grave, and then a voice was calling him, and hands were shaking him. It was Joshua, in front of him! His smile! Surely a dream! Surely his deepest desire! But then Joshua drew his hands to the bullet holes in his own chest, and Rau appeared, seeing him too.

  Now John wandered forward to the altar, reaching out his fingers to touch the white linen, the silver chalice of wine, and the silver plate of wafers. This was the body and blood of Christ – the one offering, to carry the darkness of the world into the grave and to overcome it, so that all might be given the chance to truly live.

  He fleetingly closed his eyes. “Have your way,” he prayed. “You are the Master of everything good. Have your way.”

  He went down to his knees, pressing his head to the wood of the altar, offering himself in return, and peace filled him; peace, and love. He smiled into the altar. Then he lifted himself to his feet, and turned.

  Mark Blake was standing behind him. John cast his eyes over his purple bishop’s tunic and then lifted his gaze to Mark’s blue eyes.

  “Greetings, Mark,” he said.

  “Greetings,” replied Mark, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Good to see you, John.”

  “Good to see you too,” said John. “Office work getting a bit tedious?”

  “Great to have an excuse to get out of the box,” said Mark.

  “Hope you don’t mind…”

  “Of course not,” said Mark. “Hope I’m not interrupting…”

  “I always love…”

  “Of course you do,” said Mark.

  “This is his house,” said John, gesturing around the church. “His home. His family.”

  “Where else would you be?” asked Mark.

  John smiled at him, and then heard another voice from the back of the church.

  “That’s right,” she said. “Where else would you be? Not in a ‘real’ job, that’s for sure.”

  Mark’s eyebrows lifted, his smile widening, and then he bowed his head to John.

  “That’s my cue,” he said. “Make way for the wife.” He backed away to the side aisle, and disappeared down the corridor behind the choir stalls.

  John turned to find Rachel striding down the aisle. Her long brown hair was a bit messy around her shoulders. He liked it that way.

  She arrived, her white cheeks a bit flushed, the stethoscope barely visible in her trouser pocket.

  “Ah, John,” she began, reaching for his arm. “There’s something I have to tell you.”

  “What’s that?” he asked, and her blue eyes set on him.

  “I’ve resigned,” she said.

  “What?” he asked. “But you’ve only just started as a consultant.”

  “I’ve resigned,” she repeated, and John searched her face. Was she still in pain? Was she still carrying the trauma of everything that had happened? She held it to herself, always so very close to her own chest.

  “Is it about Joshua?” he asked. “Or James? I thought you were feeling better.”

  “So many issues,” said Rachel, smirking. “Hard to keep track! No, it’s not about Joshua or James, I’m feeling much better about them. It’s about Alex.”

  “Alex?”

  Rachel gestured down the centre aisle.

  John saw Alex sitting in the very back row on the aisle, his arms crossed over his chest, his face ashen, and John swallowed in memory. In his mind’s eye, Alex was lying over the altar, his father’s gun to his temple…Yet now, in front of John, Alex sat quietly, almost deathly still.

  “He looks terrible,” muttered John.

  “He is terrible,” said Rachel, “some of the time. Much of the time.”

  John searched the compassion in her face. She was giving up her job for him?

  “The money…” began Rachel.

  “We’ll cope,” said John. “We can still use the money I got from selling my business.”

  “I don’t know how long…”

  “I know,” he said. “Do what you have to do.”

  “Us…He…”

  John smiled sadly at her. “Think I’ll get jealous?”

  “No,” she said. “Of course not. But it’ll take a lot, John.”

  He frowned, and then reached for her hand and walked with her down the aisle.

  Alex looked stiff. He was staring forward toward Jesus on the cross and the altar, the place where his father had been snatched away.

  John remembered reaching out to him, while Kensington was pulling the trigger. A shot had thrust Kensington’s body away. But then Alex had screamed…

  John now reached out to him again, touching his shoulder.

  Alex shivered, and shook John’s fingers off. But Rachel laid a hand on his shoulder, and his tension eased.

  How old was he now, twenty? Rachel was fifteen years older, almost old enough to be his mother. Alex trusted her.

  Fascinated, John looked between them, and then sat himself quietly next to Alex, looking forward.

  Alex’s gaze was still intense, still fixed on the altar.

  “What do you see?” asked John, and Alex shrugged slightly.

  “The altar,” he said. “The chalice. The cross.”

  “No,” said John. “What do you really see?”

  Alex swallowed, and closed his eyes tightly. “More than I want to see,” he whispered.

  “Share it,” said John quietly. “Share it, so you needn’t carry it alone.”

  “There is no one to share it with,” whispered Alex. “No one strong enough; no one wise enough.”

  John suddenly wanted to grasp his hand. He resisted, knowing Alex would shake him off. He glanced up at Rachel’s hand on his shoulder, a doctor. Was she strong enough? Was she wise enough?

  “Support,” said John. “We will give you support.”

  Alex shrugged and opened his eyes again, looking back at the cross.

  “For a time,” he said, “and then no more.”

  John looked up at Rachel’s eyes, to her determination. She was wholly drawn to his side, to help him. Why? It was as if she was bound to him, and to his fate. She had been there – she had risked her life to cry out for his salvation. And now she was putting her career on hold for him.

  Why? Was he to her a son? No, John thought, surely she was too young. Was he…oh, yes, of course: a brother! He was a brother to her.

  “She won’t leave you,” said John. “Once she makes a decision, once she bonds, there’s no going back.” He grinned at her, and she smirked back at him.

  Alex’s expression softened for a moment, and he glanced up at Rachel’s face.

  “Thank you,” he whispered. Then his face changed again, and he was looking back at the cross.

  John noticed him gripping something in his right hand: a golden chain, and a crucifix. He nodded at it.

  “Catholic,” he murmured.

  “My mother’s,” said Alex.

  “The Protestant cross is usually empty,” said John, and he reached toward Rachel, to the plain golden cross lying hidden on her chest. He held her eyes, her knowing consent, unhooked it and pulled it down on his hand, hanging it before Alex’s eyes. “Why is the Protestant cross empty, Alex?” he asked.

  Alex tore his eyes away from Jesus on the cross to the empty cross hanging before his eyes.

  “I don’t understand,” he whispered, and John nodded.

  “You will,” he said quietly. “One day you will.” And he passed the empty cross back to Rachel.

  The young man…he was caught somehow in that place, John could see – caught in the crucifixion.

  “Stay here,” murmured John. “Stay as long as you like.”

  “I’d bet
ter be going,” said Alex, and he rose to his feet and circled back to the glass doors.

  John glanced at Rachel, who was following after Alex.

  “Are you going back in there?” she asked, and Alex shrugged.

  “It’s what I have to do,” he said. “It’s what is needed.”

  “Then I’ll go in there with you,” said Rachel.

  Alex glanced back at her, smiling sadly. “You should stay here,” he said. “My father’s thoughts are not for the faint-hearted.”

  “Am I faint-hearted?” asked Rachel, smiling wryly, and John watched Alex’s face stiffen, as if with some cursed memory.

  “That’s not what I meant,” he said. “Selena…” And Rachel shook her head.

  “I’m not Selena,” she said. “I am an adult.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” said Alex. “He is powerful – more powerful than you are.”

  “You speak as if he is still alive,” said John, and Alex glanced to him.

  “Is he not still alive?” asked Alex. “In my heart and mind?”

  “He needn’t be,” said Rachel. “He shouldn’t be.”

  “Shouldn’t be?” Alex asked. “He’s my father.”

  “Alex…” began Rachel.

  “He is my father!” Alex cried out, and his voice filled the entire cathedral.

  John saw Rachel’s eyes widen, and then he stepped forward.

  “Keep us around you,” he said, and Alex shook his head, as if to clear it.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Keep us around you,” said John. “Both of us.”

  Alex frowned at him. “You don’t understand me,” he said. “Even you.”

  “Then help me to,” said John.

  “I wouldn’t wish it on anyone…”

  “Help me to!” said John, and he reached instinctively to grasp Alex’s hand.

  A shudder passed through Alex’s body – and he shook off John’s hand.

  “Don’t touch me!” he said, and John swallowed as Rachel again reached to lay a hand on Alex’s shoulder to calm him.

  “I’m sorry,” said John.

  “You don’t understand me,” said Alex. “You have no idea what you’re dealing with.”

  “What am I dealing with?” asked John.

  “Me,” said Alex simply. And then, suddenly, he laughed.

  John gazed at his sudden lit face. Where had that come from? Humour, in the midst of intensity?