Richard Beard - Acts of the Assassins

‘About the cross, and Golgotha,’ Bartholomew says. He has milk froth on his moustache, and Gallio hopes for a last-minute confession, a decisive offering before Departures. Instead Bartholomew asks a question. ‘At the very end, when Jesus died, was there light?’

Hopeless. The disciples give nothing away, but they’re happy to take from others. ‘You had to be there.’

Gallio immediately regrets his unkindness. Bartholomew missed the crucifixion because he was scared, or preparing an escape for Jesus, but at Humberside Airport Gallio has no further use for him. A bit of kindness won’t hurt either of them.

‘Yes, now you mention it. I’m trying to remember. I think there was light.’

Bartholomew is joyful like a child. He wants the same story at every bedtime, even when in daylight there are more convincing versions available. He ignores the implications of an anaesthetic-infused sponge, even after Gallio has brought it to his attention. Jesus looked dead but in fact was sedated, which connects into a new plausible story: Joseph’s tomb was pre-stocked with medicines and dressings. Even so, given his injuries, Jesus needed three days to gain strength before his accomplices could move him.

A gate number appears on the flight information screens.

‘Better make a move,’ Bartholomew says, hands flat on the table, but Gallio can feel the levelling of those Galilee brown eyes, saying talk to me one last time, while you can. You may never see me again, and I am a disciple of Jesus. ‘You’ll not stop looking for him. You know that, don’t you?’

‘The investigation is ongoing, and for the time being the Wanted bulletin remains valid. I’ll be looking for Jesus while that continues to be my job.’

‘I feel I’ve neglected you. Somehow I got very busy, even in Caistor, but we should have spent more time together. I sense I could help.’

‘Where’s Jesus?’

‘Everywhere.’ Bartholomew drains the last of his coffee, a regular dark-skinned guy with a beard wearing pale Middle Eastern robes. ‘When you find him you’ll know, but maybe he’s not the one who’s hiding.’

Since identifying the body of James, ages ago in the stable in Jerusalem, Cassius Gallio has worn the disguise of a Swiss pharma rep, a religious tourist, an academic, and most recently in Caistor a normal human being muddling through while giving his time to the Church. None of these pretend people are him. If the quest were the other way round, and Jesus were to look for Cassius Gallio, he wouldn’t know where to start.

‘Maybe I should stay,’ Bartholomew says. ‘Point you in the right direction. I’d like to help you feel his love.’

Bartholomew’s flight is called. Boarding. Claudia suddenly remembers he hasn’t checked in but she rushes his e-ticket details to a self-service terminal. His destiny is not to stay in England, and when confronted by automated check-in Claudia is the answer to his prayers.

‘Open yourself up to him,’ Bartholomew says, as Gallio ushers him in the direction of the gate. ‘He knows who you are.’

‘Me? By name?’

Cassius Gallio stops on the concourse, and Bartholomew does too. A flight crew has to dodge to avoid them.

‘You were there at the crucifixion. He never forgets a face.’

‘You should go through,’ Claudia says, but Cassius Gallio gives Bartholomew a last opportunity to tell the truth.

‘Nobody comes back from the dead, my friend. That’s common knowledge. Tell me what really happened.’

Bartholomew does not take this opportunity at Departures to change his mind. ‘I’ll pray for you,’ he says, ‘that you find what you’re looking for.’

‘You need to go through Security,’ Claudia says. ‘Go now.’

‘Jesus did not come back from the dead,’ Gallio says. ‘I hope you can live with yourself.’

‘Don’t worry about that. Worry about the fire that’s coming, when Jesus returns and has dominion over the earth.’

‘But if he doesn’t?’

‘He is coming, along with the cleansing fire.’

‘Go,’ Claudia says. ‘And good luck.’

He embraces them both, whether they like it or not, but Cassius Gallio has one final question. He whispers into Bartholomew’s ear. ‘Who is the disciple Jesus loved?’

But Bartholomew has already gone, showing his boarding card, joining the queue for the scanners, and he never answers the question. Gallio watches him through Security, though he can’t think of anyone less likely to set off the alarms. Bartholomew has no hand luggage. He has no pockets .

Back at the White Hart Gallio and Claudia rut like animals. Cassius Gallio sometimes opens his eyes on her, or changes positions for the benefit of Jesus, should he condescend to be watching. See? See what you’re making us do? If god exists we have no privacy. There is no time on our own, up to our secret devices.

Gallio finishes. He starts again. After the second bout he comes back from the bathroom and Claudia is on the phone. To Valeria, Gallio thinks. He doesn’t know why he can tell, but he can.

‘Who are you talking to?’

Claudia disconnects her call, checks the screen for Call ended .

‘I have a family. Any objections?’

Her cover, her legend. Every ambitious spy is married, and lonely, because the secret of the secret police is that they search for connections they never find. They endure a lifetime of detection to discover that life has no detectable meaning.

Gallio speculates a scenario in which Valeria suggests to Claudia the idea that she should sleep with him. He takes Claudia’s phone from the unused second bed and puts it screen-up on the windowsill. They rut like animals. Coming back from the bathroom, Gallio sees she’s asleep. He checks her call log. Deleted.

When Claudia wakes beside him Gallio holds her, skin to skin, treasuring the touch of her while he can. He moves his lips close to the softness of her ear. ‘We could move here,’ he says, ‘leave our problems behind.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

She twists to look at the other bed, then at the windowsill.

‘You don’t need your phone.’

Gallio feels how much she longs to reach for it, to confirm her existence in the world outside this room at the White Hart freehouse in Lincolnshire. Through the wall, from Bartholomew’s former room, they can hear chat TV, bursts of studio laughter. There’s nothing to keep them in Caistor. Even their made-up reason has left.

‘You could bring your girls over. We’ll enrol them at the grammar school. They say it’s one of the best in the country.’

‘Want me to check its rating?’

‘Leave the phone. I’m serious. We could build a new life here. Just the two of us, and your two children.’

The dilemma of Jesus is a complex case best left to Valeria, while Claudia and Cassius Gallio stay out of harm’s way, cultivating a mild version of heaven in provincial England. They don’t need much: a service pension and retirement villa, occasional sunny spells as they love each other to death in a territory that’s safe and sound. Caistor will be eternal life, or feel like it.

Claudia’s phone vibrates on the windowsill. They look at the white light from the lit-up screen, doubled in reflection on the window. The phone stops vibrating — voicemail, or the caller hung up.

‘I’m sorry,’ Gallio says. He touches her stomach, her hip, pulls her into him. ‘We shouldn’t have done this.’

Easy to say. Most words are easy to say. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.

The phone vibrates again, moving across the gloss paint of the sill with each new shudder. It stops. It starts again, and unless the caller gives up soon the phone will reach the edge and fall. Claudia gives Gallio his hands back and gets out of bed. She answers the phone, turns away until the far side of her face and her underarm reflect in the black of the window. She snibs her hair behind her ear. Her buttocks contract.