Remember Why You Fear Me (40 page)

She bent her head towards him again—but not yet, still not yet, another kiss, that’s all, a loving kiss. “It won’t be so bad,” she said. “I promise. It itches at first, it itches like hell. But it stops. And then you’ll be as light as air. As light as feathers.”

She folded her wings with a tight snap. “I’m still getting used to that,” she smiled. And she climbed off him, and sprawled back in her seat. The neck twisted, the limbs every which way—really, so ungainly. And she went to sleep. She’d taken to sleeping with her eyes open. Harry really wished she wouldn’t, it gave him the creeps.

Another set of tappings at the window. Harry looked around in irritation. There was the last cherub. Mewling at him, rubbing his belly. Harry liked to think it was the same cherub that he’d first seen, that it had been loyal to him somehow. But of course, there was really no way to tell. Tapping again, begging. So hungry. “Daddy,” said the satnav. “My son,” said Harry. “Daddy.” “My son.”

Harry wound down the window a little way. And immediately the little boy got excited, started scrabbling through the gap with his fingers. “Just a minute,” said Harry, and he laughed even—and he gave the handle another turn, and the effort made him wince with the pain, but what was that, he was used to that. “Easy does it,” he said to the hungry child. “Easy does it.” And he stuck his hand out of the car.

The first instinct of his baby son was not to bite, it was to nuzzle. It rubbed its face against Harry’s hand, and it even purred, it was something like a purr. It was a good five seconds at least before it sank its fangs into flesh.

And then Harry had his hand around its throat. The cherub gave a little gulp of surprise. “Daddy?” asked the satnav. It blinked with astonishment, just as it had echoed Harry’s own expressions when they’d first met, and Harry thought, I taught him that,
I taught my little boy
. And he squeezed hard. The fat little cheeks bulged even fatter, it looked as if the whole head was now a balloon about to pop. And then he pulled that little child to him as fast as he could—banging his head against the glass, thump, thump,
thump
, and the pain in his arm was appalling, but that was good, he
liked
the pain, he wanted it—thump one more time, and there was a crack, something broke, and the satnav said “Daddy,” so calm, so matter-of-fact—and then never spoke again.

He wound the window down further. He pulled in his broken baby boy.

He discovered that its entire back was covered with the same feathers that made up the wings. So for the next half hour he had to pluck it.

The first bite was the hardest. Then it all got a lot easier.

“Darling,” he said to Esther, but she wouldn’t wake up. “Darling, I’ve got dinner for you.” He hated the way she slept with her eyes open, just staring out sightless like that. And it wasn’t her face anymore, it was the face of a cherub, of their dead son. “Please, you must eat this,” he said, and put a little of the creamy white meat between her lips; it just fell out on to her chin. “Please,” he said again, and this time it worked, it stayed in, she didn’t wake up, but it stayed in, she was eating, that was the main thing.

He kissed her then, on the lips. And he tasted what would have been. And yes, they would have gone to a safari park, and no, they wouldn’t have gone back to Venice, she’d have talked him out of it, but yes, America would have been all right. And yes, they would have had rows, real rows, once in a while, but that would have been okay, the marriage would have survived, it would all have been okay. And yes, children, yes.

When he pulled his lips from hers she’d been given her old face back. He was so relieved he felt like crying. Then he realized he already was.

The meat had revived him. Raw as it was, it was the best he had ever tasted. He could do anything. Nothing could stop him now.

He forced his legs free from under the dashboard, it hurt a lot. And then he undid his seatbelt, and that hurt too. He climbed his way to Esther’s door, he had to climb over Esther, “sorry, darling,” he said, as he accidentally kicked her head. He opened the door. He fell outside. He took in breaths of air.

“I’m not leaving you,” he said to Esther. “I can see the life we’re going to have together.” And yes, the head was on a bit funny, but he could live with that. And she had wings, but he could pluck them. He could pluck them as he had his son’s.

He probably had some broken bones, he’d have to find out. So he shouldn’t have been able to pick up his wife in his arms. But her wings helped, she was so light.

And it was carrying Esther that he made his way up the embankment, up through the bushes and brambles, up towards the road. And it was easy, it was as if he were floating—he was with the woman he loved, and he always would be, he’d never let her go, and she was so light, she was as light as feathers, she was as light as air.

They’d all agreed, being with Jesus had been a right old laugh. He could get a bit holier-than-thou sometimes, obviously, but not with them, not with the Gang, just with the plebs, just with the ones Jesus sometimes referred to privately as ‘Mr and Mrs Ordinary.’ With the Gang he was different, he would clown around; sometimes, in the middle of one of those sermons of his, with him sounding so earnest and solemn, he’d catch their attention, and he’d pull a face or cross his eyes or stick out his tongue for a split second, as if to say, God-get-me-out-of-here! Or Can’t-wait-’til-we-can-sink-a-few-beers. And at the beginning, before he got famous, the hours had been good too—it had been so
easy
, a little spot of preaching in the afternoon, then the rest of the day could be theirs. They could go fishing, they’d get tickets for a gladiator game maybe, they’d just kick around the synagogue eyeing up the girls, not doing much. Jesus wearing that big lazy grin of his—Jesus always took his work seriously, yeah, but he took his
play
seriously too, and there were nights he’d go to taverns and order these enormous jars of water, just plain tap water, then turn them into wine—and
fortified
wine too, these babies were forty percent proof, and then the Gang would carry the jars back to Jesus’ place and then they’d lounge about and get pissed. And some nights, when he was in the right mood, or when they’d got him pissed enough most likely, they might get him to perform some miracles too. One night he turned Simon Peter into a goat. God, they’d laughed at that. God, even Simon Peter had seen the funny side eventually.

They all agreed, it had been such bloody fun, and it didn’t much matter whether they
believed
too much, Jesus didn’t ask them to justify their faith. He’d just say, go with the flow, don’t embarrass me in public, you’re my apostles now—and that was fair enough. Some of the stuff he came out with was nonsense, even Jesus knew that. The night after he’d said that ‘meek shall inherit the earth’ bit he’d laughed like a drain, he’d rolled his eyes with them afterwards when they went out on the lash and said he’d never live that one down.

It was hard to pinpoint the exact moment when it all just stopped being fun. But the Gang agreed, it was around the time Jason Zerrillo had appeared upon the scene. And it may not strictly have been Zerrillo’s fault, but that didn’t matter, no one liked Zerrillo, Zerrillo was an out and out tit.

He hadn’t even seemed much of a problem at first. “I’ve got a surprise for you tonight!” said Jesus, “I want you to meet someone!” All the apostles had planned a quiet night in, a bit of manna, some fatted calves, an awful lot of wine. “This is Jason Zerrillo!” said Jesus. “And he’s a mime artist!” And that made sense of his appearance, at least: he looked so peculiar with his painted white face, his white gloves, his top hat, his mouth a dab of black lipstick pulled into a knot. And Jason Zerrillo showed them what he could do—he walked against the wind, he pretended he was trapped in a box and kept patting against the invisible glass looking for a way out. “That’s great,” said Bartholomew, “yeah, that’s a riot. Now, who wants a bevvy?” “No, no,” said Jesus, “tonight we’re going to have a bit of
culture
, Jason’s got lots more, he’s going to
perform
for us.” And the Gang sort of shrugged, and they supposed that was all right, there wasn’t a lot of culture in their lives, the closest they got was when Jude got really paralytic and started lighting his own farts. Jason did his whole repertoire for them: he pulled an imaginary rope, he walked up and down imaginary stairs, fought imaginary duels with imaginary rival mime artists. He watered and sniffed at imaginary flowers; he plucked one of the flowers out of the imaginary earth, then with a show of exaggerated bashfulness, eyes downcast, finger in mouth, presented it to Jesus. Jesus was entranced. “He’s really very good, isn’t he?” he said. “When I first saw him there in the crowd I thought he was having a fit, or needed exorcizing from demons. But he’s actually quite a talent.”

The show lasted nearly four hours. The apostles all agreed privately that the mime was very skilled, but that his act needed some judicious editing. “And I didn’t buy that mute thing for a moment,” added James, son of Zebedee. “I bet he could really talk if he wanted to.”

The next night Jason Zerrillo was back again at their digs, waiting for them. “We going out on the tiles tonight, boss?” Simon the Zealot asked Jesus. “No,” said Jesus, “I want to see some more mime.” Simon said, “But we didn’t go drinking last night either, I’m gasping!” And Jason Zerrillo smirked. He pulled his face into an uncanny imitation of Simon’s, his eyes blubbing, bottom lip stuck out in a sulky pout, and he played an invisible violin. Jesus laughed. “You prick,” raged Simon, “you want a knuckle sandwich?” And Simon advanced on the mime artist, but Jesus held up his hand. “Lo,” said Jesus, “no branch can bear fruit by itself, it must remain in the vine. Neither can you bear fruit unless you remain in me.” Simon the Zealot looked perplexed. “And what the hell’s that supposed to mean?” he asked. But Jesus wouldn’t say.

And from then on, wherever Jesus went, the mime was sure to follow. Every day that Jesus would cast some evil spirits into swine, say, or he’d heal lepers, or raise men from the dead, there too would be Jason Zerrillo. And before long he’d learned to mime
alongside
Jesus; so there he’d be, the son of God, performing these great miracles, and next to him for all to see was this white-faced clown, acting out the same scenes in exaggerated dumb show. The mime got quite as much applause as Jesus himself, but Jesus didn’t care. “This is my true and trusted servant,” he’d say, as he took his curtain call, “and I am well proud of him.” And of an evening, when the apostles wanted to relax, now they’d have to sit through a replay of all the day’s greatest hits, Jason Zerrillo fine tuning the adventures of the day and turning them into little comic episodes of thrills and hijinks without benefit of speech or props. His presentation of the parable of the Prodigal Son was quite masterly, and Jesus laughed, and shed a tear, and said that this was high art indeed, look, it worked on so
many
different levels.

The Gang met in secret. They all agreed they couldn’t take it anymore. Someone would have to tell Jesus—they’d go on strike, either the mime went or they did. But there was no telling Jesus anything anymore. He wasn’t the funny silly jokey preacher they’d once loved with the lazy smile and the wandering hands—he had fire in his eyes now, and his parables had become darker and more apocalyptic, and he’d sometimes lose his temper for no reason at all, there had been that time he’d knocked over all the tables in the temple, what on earth had that been all about? The only time Jesus seemed happy now, the only time they ever saw him smile, it was when he was watching his pet dance about and gurn and juggle invisible balls—Jesus would giggle until the tears rolled down his cheeks, Jesus wept. They knew that if they forced Jesus to choose, he wouldn’t choose them. They had to take matters into their own hands.

And then there was that awful supper. Andrew had suggested they all go out for a meal, it was about time they had an evening out—and Jesus had agreed, much to their surprise, but of course he’d insisted he take his favourite toy with him. The mime bounced about and pulled faces, but for once Jesus wasn’t amused, he just glowered into his food, nothing could cheer him up. At last he said, “One of you will betray me.” And the apostles didn’t know where to look—they’d
all
betrayed him, really, hadn’t they? But it was for his own good, and he’d see that one day, it was an
intervention
, Jesus would feel so much his old self when he’d been cured of his mime artist addiction. They’d all drawn lots: Judas had been the one to go to the Romans, he’d shopped Jason Zerrillo, said he’d been calling himself King of the Jews or some such nonsense. Judas was given thirty pieces of silver; he told the rest of the Gang that that was nice, they could buy Jesus a nice present with it, that’d make him feel better, something fun, maybe a gift token, he could get whatever he wanted.

The Romans came with swords. And there was some confusion—it was dark—everyone was drunk—Jason Zerrillo was skulking in the shadows pretending to be a camel passing through the eye of a needle of all things. And the Romans got the wrong guy. That’s what happened. They got the wrong guy, and when the apostles tried to explain the next day there were so many forms to fill in, so much red tape to wade through, really, they couldn’t even begin to make sense of it.

Jesus was crucified. They nailed him to a cross at Golgotha. And the skies blackened with thunder, and Jesus cried out to the Lord. And the apostles stood by, awkward, guilty, God, was there egg on their faces! And in front of the cross, Jason Zerrillo danced about, his arms stuck out at right angles like a scarecrow, wincing at an imaginary crown of thorns, miming what it would feel like to have a spear stuck right into your side. And Jesus looked down on him, and said, “Not now. Really. Not now.” And died.

The next day the Gang met up for coffee. They could barely look each other in the face for shame. “I don’t think,” said Matthew heavily, “there’s going to be any way we can put this right.” “All we can do,” said James, son of Alphaeus, “is carry on his work. Do what he’d have wanted us to do. Whatever it takes.” “Whatever it takes,” they solemnly agreed, and they all shook hands, and they left the cafe, and went out to preach across the world, and never saw each other again.