Chapter 5: The resurrection number 34

The resurrection number 34

Simon Whitaker or Diesel as everyone he now knew called him had always thought the bloke was a bit of a cunt. I mean who goes around calling themselves Jesus Christ? Arrogant arsepipe. He was always hitting on his girlfriend anytime he got the chance. Diesel wasn't the jealous type and Angie had a genuine dislike of the man but he still felt he couldn't trust him to be honourable. It wasn't particularly Angie that the bloke hit on it was without exception every bird on site. And what was beyond him was that his success rate was unreal. It was as if, rather than endure the perpetual pestering that continued despite rebuttal women seemed to give in. Just to get it over with! He knew a number of wankers who claimed they were Druids. Some girls claimed to be witches. One bloke even claimed to be the reincarnation of King Arthur. But Jesus fucking Christ! The sheer arrogance! But two months ago a serious looking man who had dark hair and even darker eyes had turned up. He carried himself with a presence that Diesel knew was something he had never seen. He claimed to be a Druid but he was nothing like the Glastonbury types who flounced about with a pretentious pompous air. This man was not theatrical. He spoke with a light Welsh lilt and said little other than he had brought his friend Jesus back. Diesel had a spare caravan used to store tools and engine parts. The visitor asked him to make a clear space on the bed. Diesel did as he was bid before being told he might prefer not to witness what was about to take place. Being his caravan Diesel rightly felt that he should be involved. The Druid raised his eyebrows but acquiesced. From a bin liner in a similar pile in the back of the visitors landrover he pulled out a human head. Diesel involuntarily vomited. Hair matted in dried blood he recognised the severed head of the man he knew as Jesus. At a workmanlike pace, ignoring the traveller's reaction, the Druid brought out the torso and limbs, one leg in two pieces and arranged the grotesque jigsaw in approximation of a man. Brock, the Druid looked to the other man in concern; 'you going to be alright son?'

Diesel could not summon words but nodded. 'Have you got a padlock or something? He's not a pretty sight and I've no more idea than yourself about how long it'll take him to get, you know, back to normal like.'

Diesel again nodded and fumbled through his tackle until he had found a clasp and lock to seal the abomination away from prying eyes.

'Well I best be on my way, lad. I know he's a cunt but can I trust you to let him do his thing? To be frank, despite my hatred of Christianity, he turned out alright. Just leave him be. He'll either rot or not. Make sure he's left to get on with whatever it turns out to be.'

Offering his hand to the traveller who was wiping vomit to respond in something like a civil manner. 'I'm Brock if you have a visit from a Skree or Lipton. Otherwise you haven't seen me at all.'

Diesel shook the Druids hand. It was quite clear from the baring of the man that he would submit to any request.

As he walked toward his Land Rover he nodded back. 'He's who he says he is you know. Believe it or not he's fucking Christ.'

For the first couple of weeks Simon Whitaker wondered if he was the patsy of some horrific murder. He mentioned nothing to Angie. If the shit did hit the fan he'd deny all knowledge and the fewer people who knew the better. Then on a sunny spring morning when he was left alone on site curiosity got the better of him. Carefully Diesel slipped the key he'd kept buried deep in his jeans pocket and felt the click as the u bend sprung free from the locks body. Pulling the clasp free he pulled the door an inch, no more, ajar. The laser like plane of light drew a line across what had been the component parts of a man. Somehow, by some miracle the parts were now fused. The skin retained the white, lifeless look of a corpse and no breath nor blood flow was evident. The shock was on a par with the horror of his arrival but something was changing. Diesel was a devout atheist and mocked his new age site neighbours. His mind had no compartment for what he was seeing. Hurriedly he fumbled, re locked the door and lent branches, tyres and other detritus to make it appear abandoned and empty. This was weird voodoo and he was fucked if he was getting any more involved than he already was. Fucks sake! Which was worse? Having the dismembered body parts of a man he only knew by his stupid nickname in his spare caravan and a good fifteen years if the filth, who had never taken a shine to him decided that he was the responsible one. Or the alternative. That all his understanding of science was just another story. That some sort of re animation was taking place. That life was bleeding into a corpse. That gravity had inverted. Or even worse; that the rancid, womanising, drunken, druggy who'd stretched his hospitality way beyond his patience was indeed Jesus Christ! It couldn't be possible. Diesel had no truck with the supernatural. All his life he had scoffed at the idiocy of astrology. Empirical evidence was the only measure of reality. The idea that a woman could be made pregnant by immaculate conception. That a man could come back from the dead. These were the imaginings of the gullible. Fairy stories for the weak of mind. So through the doubling down on his alcohol and drug consumption he managed to almost forget about the spare caravan and its contents. He compartmentalised it. Some days he didn't even think about it. And spring saw the green weaving of convolvulous, brambles and grasses and lichen patches disguised its appearance. Nevertheless the itch never left. There was no way he was taking a peep inside the thing and no one cared to do so either.

Some people find God from a mystical experience that blows open their materialist outlook. Some seek god to make sense of their apparently meaningless existence. Some people simply choose to believe finding it the most comforting option. And others have him walk right in despite every single particle of evidence to the contrary. For Diesel it came in the form of a filthy guest a Druid had dumped on him.

As resurrections went the one that had caused most repercussions was relatively painless. The so called mate Judas, so called best mate no less had proven a grassing cunt. After all the free wine he'd given the cunt over last few years as well. Jesus thoughts went back to the day. After the gang of homeless street drinkers both hung out with had been on a right old session most were crashed out. Empty and half empty wine bottles were scattered around the snoring heap of men and the whores they consorted with . Jesus was nodding off himself when he heard Judas.

'Jesus mate, I'm just popping down the all night garage. We're out of rizlas! You get a kip. I'll only be a few minutes.' With a furtive look Judas sloped off and Jesus thinking nowt of it fell sound asleep. Last he saw of that cunt. Next thing he knows….well you all know the story. Fucking Cunt! Jesus thought. It had been a painful death, four hours is a long time up on a cross. But bar the broken legs, nail holes and spear wound his corpse had been in relatively good nick. Obviously the numerous overdoses were easiest and since some genius had invented the hypodermic needle he'd had his fair share of those. But this had to rank right up there with the very longest. It was always hard to judge how long he'd been dead for but pulling aside the corner of the curtains it was clear that he'd missed the second half of winter. 'Result!' He grinned. After his birthday was over the long crawl through the first three months of the year has never been his idea of fun. Thirty yards away he could see a handful of people sat around the smoky embers of the previous nights fire. He recognised Diesel and Angie but the other three failed to spark any recognition. Of more interest was the crate of Karpackie 9% lager someone had kindly readied for him and better still it looked like an iPad was being passed round and there was nothing Christ liked more after a good resurrection was a few lines of Columbian marching powder.

Angie felt sure she'd seen the curtain twitching inside Diesel's spare trailer. The one he used to store all his junk for fixing cars and bikes, a skill he laboured over yet seldom seemed to get far with. A few weeks back she'd asked him if she could have a rummage through to see if any of her art materials were in there. Diesel had grown weirdly defensive and said that only car spares and tools were inside and firmly discouraged her from rooting about in there. Now there was undoubtedly some movement in the trailer.

Christ checked over his body, running his palms down his legs, flexing both. He pulled a few stretches to check all was working and began to look around for clothing. A heap of blood stained garments were scattered around him and soon he was dressed. Lacing up his boots and pulling tight a baseball cap he felt ready to roll. 'Ok mortals! I'm back!'

Two kicks and the door burst open and the glaring spring sunshine brought relief from the departing shivers of another death shaken off. Still a tad unsteady on his feet he unzipped his jeans, whipped out his cock and drained his bladder down the caravan side.

' When did that wanker turn up?' Angie asked her gobsmacked boyfriend.

'Er, he rocked up last night Ang! I forgot to tell you. It was late on and I didn't want to wake you.'

Bollocks! Angie thought and left the small band of crusties to let the boys get reacquainted. Last she'd heard he'd been off on some far fetched mission with his shaman mates Skree and Lipton. Word was they were all dead after some accident at sea. She was quite fond of Skree and Lipton. Just her luck that they two had snuffed it and the mysoginistic twat was the one to survive. Last time he was here he hung around for months, trying it on with her at any opportunity. She'd managed successfully to ensure she was not left alone with him for the best part of it until a night she'd regretted ever since. Fuck knows why she'd given in. He'd plied her with free wine. He always seemed to have crates of the stuff and once properly plastered he'd slipped her an e. She had to confess that it was in the loosest sense consensual but she wouldn't have given in had she had her wits about her. After the briefest of foreplay she'd succumbed to in her 34 years he'd flipped her round, bent her over the bonnet of Diesels escort and pummelled her face in to the paintwork. The shame had left a bruise on her psyche she'd never shaken off. Once he'd spurted his muck he'd swiftly whipped out his cock and wiped it on her skirt. 'That's better' he'd said as he walked away as though nothing had happened. Of course there was no way she could tell Diesel. It would have killed him. The first and last time she'd cheated on him. She just hoped this was to be a flying visit. Angie hated the cunt.

'This here is my old friend Jesus!' Diesel introduced the freshly resurrected dude to his traveller buddies.

'Nice to meet you brother!' The three mumbled. Nodding, two offering their hands to shake. Matty, the more observant of the group noticed the stigmata. A hole, perhaps an inch in diameter, clean through the new arrivals palm.

'I guess that's how you got the nickname' he offered nodding down at the palm he'd just shaken.

'Ah! Yeah! You guessed right.'

Christ couldn't be arsed with the palaver of telling the truth. In all the time Diesel had known him he'd never once noticed the holes through his palms. His world was slowly being turned upside down. He'd seen a collection of body parts that could not possibly have been alive, reform and now. After knowing the guy for a number of years he could see that both his palms had holes right through them. Was this really Jesus Christ? The son of God?

Downplaying it Jesus ran with Matty's misreading of the situation. It was, after all much less far fetched than the truth.

'I had a bit of a falling out with some people over a drug debt. Lucky to get away with my life if I'm honest. But not before the bastards nailed me to the floor!'

Jesus broke out in laughter with his story. 'Ever since I got the nickname Jesus! It's the cross I have to bare!'

The group cackled. It made a kind of sense. Not to Diesel but he was keeping quiet until he could question the man he thought he knew alone.

'Well so long as we don't have to pray to you.'

'Or worse still go to church!'

They all laughed, bonding as men do over jokes.

'I'm not being cheeky but can I trouble you for a can?' Christ asked looking at the crate of strong polish lager.

'Dig in brother!' Matty encouraged.

Offering the iPad his way, Ady, Matty's mate proffered a selection of the finely chopped white powder and a rolled twenty pound note.

' Don't mind if I do!' And the son of god hoovered up the largest line with a greed born of three months abstinence.

'Diesel mate, I have to ask but did you hear what happened to Skree and Lipton? They were the closest friends I've had in years. I became separated from them a few months back.'

Diesel shook his head. 'I'm sorry mate. No one has heard of them for months. I hope I'm wrong. I really do but there's very little chance that they are still with us.'

Christ bowed his head. Then something happened Diesel had ever even considered possible. A couple of tears fell down onto the iPads surface, one catching the corner of a powder line and instantly becoming absorbed rendering the cocaine, a substance more valuable than gold, rendering the drug all but useless. Ady quickly retreived the tablet to save the rest.

'No worries brother. I can dry it out.'

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