Hawthorn and Child (22 page)

– Stop. Wait. Please.

The boy looked back.

– Fuck.

He looked scared. Childish scared. His face wrinkled by bad-dream fear.

– No, please, wait.

The boy opened the front door and ran out. He ran on to the road. T-shirt, long shorts, trainers. Then he stopped dead. In the middle of the road. And turned around.

– Come back. I won’t hurt you. I can tell you things. We can talk. I have things no one else knows. No one at all. Ever. Come back.

The boy stepped further away. He looked like he might be crying. What was wrong with him?

– Come on, man. I will not hurt you.

The boy walked backwards, staring at him, until he bumped into a parked car. He ran around it, got it between them, put his hands on the roof. Circumauto.

– I want to have a conversation with you. That’s all. Tell you some things. Then it’s over. I promise. I promise you.

There was a siren. To his left. A squad car turned the corner. It braked a couple of houses away from him. A light came on and shone in his face. Nothing happened. He looked for the boy. He was gone. More sirens. Another car, unmarked. The sky was dark. There was nothing left on it.

He stepped back into the house and closed the door.

Jesus took a knife from his sandal. From the straps down there somehow. Where he had a sheath, a little leather knife holder. So. He took the knife from its place at his ankle, and he rose to his full height with the knife in a chisel grip. In his mind Jesus saw mouths talking, eating, sharing food. He saw an embrace, a handshake, a delicate murmured negotiation, an understanding, all the rooms opened up and the life of this man made brighter, wider, more interesting. And yet. There was so much time. Jesus brought his knife down the man’s torso, splitting his cloth and his skin and his muscles and notching his ribs like a stick run down a wicker basket. And the blood clung to Jesus.

He imagined Jesus at this age. Early twenties. Rough as a branch, tall as a tree. His naked body in the river, laughing, watched and content to be watched. He imagined his voice raised to his mother. His fist raised to his father. His
disappearances
, for days. He imagined him fucking the strongest of women, hinting at kingdoms, showing them visions and miracles, attending to wants they did not know they carried. What is a blank time for, after all? What is the point of lost years if not to fill them with losses? He imagined Jesus standing over the flayed, shock-shouting man, and deciding in his amplitude of time to urinate on the wound and to laugh at the sadness he provoked in the strangest room of all.

Because this is human.

Jesus was a bastard. In the dark pit of his fear he carried the hope that for a while, Jesus was a bastard. An intolerant fucker, good with a knife.

He closed curtains, pulled down blinds, closed windows. He dragged a sofa from the living room and pulled it halfway up the stairs and jammed it there and something in his shoulder ripped. He went into the boy’s room and switched off the light. A computer game was still running. He pulled out the plug. He went to the bathroom and pissed and flushed and washed his hands. The gloom was dense. He could hear sirens. All distant, none close. He could hear cars. The curtains in the large bedroom at the front were already closed. He crawled across the floor and kneeled and peeked through. There was a jumble of cars. Lights. There were people being ushered out of houses either side of him. They were getting organized.

He sat slouched with his back to the wall. Parents’ bedroom. Cluttered. He could be tired if he wanted. It was all there. He could climb on to that bed and be asleep in five minutes. He would dream of the desert and the water and of walking and running. He could disappear into what he knew, what he’d thought of. No one would follow him.

There was a noise.

He tensed and stopped breathing.

Like a clopping sort of gurgle. Tiny. He looked at the door. Nothing. He would have heard. He looked at the ceiling. He’d only been in the house five minutes. Ten. No.

It came again.

There was a … thing, at the end of the bed. Like a box sitting on a table.

The boy had stopped and turned because he had
remembered
.

He stood up, then ducked. He crouched his way across the carpet and looked in the crib. It was not what he wanted. The baby was months old. It stared at him and didn’t seem to mind. There was a smell. It needed changing.

– Hello?

He threw himself to the floor. It came from downstairs.

– Anyone home? Moss? Moss? I’m not armed, Moss! I’m on my own. There’s a baby upstairs. Front bedroom. I just want to get her out, OK? Nothing else. So don’t fucking shoot me.

He was in the living room. He’d come through the back garden. The way Moss had come. How did he know his name? He couldn’t watch the front and back at the same time. He hadn’t watched anything. He couldn’t do this and that. He couldn’t. Jesus. Babies, and men who knew his name.

– Moss? You hear me? You still here?

– Who are you?

– Child. My name is Child. You know me.

No he didn’t.

– No I don’t. Child?

– Yeah you do. I arrested you last year at your flat. Remember? You had that fight with your neighbour.

He remembered a van full of cops. His wife screaming in the stairwell. He didn’t want to remember it. He stood up. Moved away from the baby. She was awake and she didn’t seem to mind anything.

– I don’t remember you.

– Yeah you do. We had a talk about the noise yeah? About your neighbour. About going to the council. Doing it right. You got it sorted, yeah? All that.

Glasses. Raincoat. And his partner, a skinny white man with a grin.

– Oh yeah.

– OK.

He was in the hallway.

– You find the baby, Moss?

– She need … she need a change.

– Just hand her down to me, will you, Moss? Then I’ll be out of your way.

Saying his name all the time.

– No, man. Can’t do that.

Why not?

– Oh come on, Moss. Seriously. They did like a morning of hostage negotiation training and I was fucking hung-over man, you know?

– How did you get here?

– I drove.

– Where did you fucking come from? I’ve been here like ten minutes.

– We saw you running. We were coming out of the Transport Police. Finsbury Park bus station. You went past like Usain fucking Bolt, Moss. P.C. after you.

He was calm. Relaxed. His voice. He was even cheerful. Moss wiped his forehead and looked at the crib.

– Then you were all over the radio. So we came up this way. Someone saw you getting through the fence. Neighbour. Road will be sealed off by now. Major incident shit. Congratulations.

– Why did you come in here?

– To get the baby.

– Just like that? I could have shot you.

He moved towards the bedroom door. Stuck his head out and pulled it back. He couldn’t see down the stairs. He edged out.

– Well, yeah. There’s a hysterical kid out there who left without his sister. It was either me come in or him, and the way he’s carrying on I wouldn’t really blame you if you shot him.

– He forgot her.

– It happens.

– He OK?

There was a pause.

– Yeah. So, now. You going to help me? I talked to you before. I know you’re reasonable, Moss. You let me walk out of here with a baby in my arms I’m the fucking hero, you know? I’ll get a medal out of it. He could see just shapes in the darkness. Shadows and other shadows.

– If there’s reward money I’ll split it with you.

He could see the glow of light from the street. He could see maybe the top of his head. The sofa was blocking the view.

– Move back a bit so I can see you. Stand by the front door.

He did it. He was tall.

– Turn on a light.

– Yeah?

– Yeah. I want to see you.

They would wait. They would wait until this guy walked out with the baby or without the baby. He wouldn’t walk out without the baby.

– I have a gun on you.

– Yeah.

A shadow changed shape as he reached out. He was groping along the wall.

– Can’t find it. Oh.

Click. He squinted, Child did. They both did. One arm out to the light switch, the other raised as well, palm forward. He wore a stab vest over a T-shirt. One of the fasteners, under his left arm, was loose. He wore jeans. His glasses were halfway down his nose. He was tall and looked strong.

– You remember me?

Moss kept his body hidden. He was behind the sofa, behind banisters, at an angle, out of the light.

– I remember you.

– Not armed, see? Pockets are empty.

He turned slowly in a circle.

– I just want the baby, and I’m out of here.

– I need to keep her.

Child looked at him with a sort of grimace.

– Why? Why would you want to do that?

– You send the boy back in and I’ll let you have the baby.

Child raised his eyebrows. Gave a sort of smile.

– That’s not going to happen, Moss.

– Well that’s it, man. Either the baby or the boy. That’s fucking it.

*

Jesus sipped wine and watched the door and wondered why the old man in the corner of the room was so worried. He had learned, over the years, to close people off from his mind. He had become like others. People sat by him now and noticed nothing odd. They felt no strange consciousness wandering their own; they did not feel suddenly understood. They rarely experienced the alarm of realizing, mid-thought, that they were overheard. He could see that the man was worried.

– What troubles you, Father?

And even still the old man seemed surprised. He peered into Jesus’s gloomy corner and licked his lips and squinted to see and stood and took up his cup and came over, limping.

– Who are you?

– Jesus of Nazareth.

The man’s eyes strained and he shook his head.

– I am fucked, my brother. My wife is dying. My son is ill and has no money. My leg is swollen. There is no god.

– There is a God.

– There is no god.

– No, really, there is. Look.

And Jesus showed him God.

– What about me? I take the baby out. I leave her on the doorstep even, and I come back in. You keep me.

– You’re no good.

– She’s quiet. She OK?

– She’s fine. She’s awake. She’s just lying there.

– Why am I no good?

Moss touched the knife. These people. They covered the city with points. Dozens of points. Hundreds of points. Thousands, probably, of points. Millions of points. They covered the city with points. Each point wobbling in the new dark. There was a jelly over the city, and they had strings with which to section off and slice it.

Moss never tried to think of a modern Jesus, a Jesus today. Such a thing was beyond him. It was beyond everyone. Jesus would be a shock, a violent intervention, a calamity. He would fuck things up. He would terrify all settled minds, petrify the structures. Such a thing, as a man, could not be imagined. This is why people did not believe.

The baby cried. Once. Just a little half wail. Then a gurgle and a cough. Then another half cry or half laugh.

– When Jesus was a boy …

– What?

– When Jesus was a boy. There was trouble.

– Can I put my arms down?

– Yes.

– I’m not religious.

– A boy was found. By the river. He had been beaten. He had been badly beaten. A woman, who was a nurse, she found him. She had not even intended to go that way, but for some reason, when she was walking home after seeing a new mother, she turned to walk by the river. She found this boy. About ten years old. Unconscious. Bleeding. His nose broken. A rib cracked. Bruising. Very bad.

Child put his hands in his pockets. Moss held his eyes.

– Don’t do that, man.

Child took his hands out of his pockets.

– Sorry.

– So she called some men, and they carried him home, and the nurse tended to him and he was OK. He would be OK. And when he woke up the men asked him what had happened. He refused to say. He would not tell them who had beaten him.

– Just let me take the baby, Moss. We have guys who are trained for this sort of thing. You know, talking.

– I thought you wanted me to keep you?

He said nothing. He just nodded.

– Some of the men knew that this boy was a bully. The beaten boy. They knew that he picked on others. They suspected that one of these boys’ older brothers had perhaps wanted to teach him a lesson. They asked around. They learned that recently the beaten boy had been picking on Jesus. Saying things about his mother.

– Moss.

– What?

– Do you even have a gun?

He said nothing. He turned his head and looked back towards the baby.

– You won’t read this story in the gospels.

– No?

– No. This is from the suppositions of the Association.

– The what?

– The suppositions of the Association.

– What association?

– The Association of Christ Sejunct.

– Saint John?

– Sejunct.

– Say junk?

– Sejunct.

– What’s that?

– The Association of Christ Sejunct is an association of Earth-bound sinners who keep alive in our hearts and in our daily lives, with an honest strength and an honest weakness, the solemn consideration of the sublime figure of Jesus our Saviour and Balm, in the years during which he is separated from our knowledge of him – from his circumcision to the age, by the Gospel of Luke, of twelve, when he attends to and questions the teachers in the Temple, and from then until the beginning of his blessed ministry.

Child nodded. He was smiling.

– That’s quite something, he said.

Moss nodded.

– Who is in the Association?

– I am. And my wife. And some others. And you, now, as well. You are in the Association.

– OK. I’m in it? How am I in it?

– Anyone who hears about the Association of Christ Sejunct is in the Association of Christ Sejunct. You will start to wonder. Now it’s in you to wonder. You will wonder, and you will come to believe things. About what else happened. In all those years. The gap in the story.