The Art of Standing Still (39 page)

Josh cried out as his shoulders were jolted by the impact. He hung there, still and silent. Why didn't he perform another miracle? Why didn't he call upon God and all his angels to rescue him? Why did he let these wicked men have their own way? Why did he just hang there like some stupid, dumb animal . . . like a sheep at the abattoir? Like the guilty sheep in that Bible story. It died so the person could be forgiven.

The crowd that had been laughing and jeering fell silent, shocked that they had become part of the baying pack. Shocked at their guilt.

Jemma let out a sob. She put her hand to her mouth and clung more tightly to Mary. Oblivious of Josh's pain, the knights gambled for his clothes. The thief on the cross to the left jeered at him, while the other protested his innocence.

There was a loud cry, ‘
Heloy
,
heloy!
My God, my God
, Lama
zabatanye
, Why did you forsake me?' Then he spoke directly to his mother, commending her to the care of his friend, John.

Finally he cried out again, ‘My father, hear my plea, for now this thing is done. My spirit I send to you now into your safe hands.' Then he hung his head.

Jemma felt weak and spent with grief. She sat on the floor, unable to cry any more, and watched. The knights broke the other prisoners' legs. Then she watched with horror as one of them picked up a spear to jab into his side. In rehearsals, she had held her breath every time, as the knight thrust it at him and the trick blade slid harmlessly into the shaft.

Something was amiss. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up and her scalp began to prickle. Was it the way he lifted it, or some instinct, a voice inside her? She ran forward, ducked through the cordon of ushers and wrenched the spear out of the knight's hand.

‘Wait! There's something wrong.'

The other knights hurried to pull her away.

‘Look,' she hissed. ‘The blade, it doesn't look right. If you stick that into him, you really will kill him.'

The knight examined it carefully, testing it by jabbing it into his palm. Then he looked at her.

She held her breath as blood dripped from the puncture in his hand onto the grass.

Someone had tampered with the stage prop. A small sliver of wood locked the retractable steel blade into place, and the tip had been sharpened.

‘What on earth . . . How did this happen,' the knight muttered.

‘I have a good idea,' Jemma said. ‘Carry on before anyone notices.'

He took another spear and made feeble jabbing movements towards Josh's side, delivering his lines in a slightly shaky voice.

Someone had tried to kill Josh.

She looked over her shoulder. They were taking him down from the cross, and Mary, his mother, was weeping over the body. Jemma knew she didn't have long. Her next scene was the resurrection.

She stumbled to the green room, hunting for Fry. That bully, that cheat, that . . . Judas. His clothes were in a pile. She felt in the pocket and took his car keys. ‘He won't get far,' she whispered.

‘What are you doing?'

‘Harlan! You made me jump.'

‘Stealing from people's wallets.'

‘I wasn't.'

‘I'm calling the police.' Harlan reached into her handbag and pulled out her phone.

‘Good idea. Go ahead.'

‘What?'

‘Call them. We'll need them soon.' Harlan stood with her phone in her hand and her mouth open.

Jemma held her scrawny shoulders. ‘Harlan, listen to me. This is really important. I need to find Alistair Fry and stop him getting away.'

‘Why, what has he done?'

Where do I start?
‘Look, Harlan, I need to get back on stage. If you see him, don't say anything just ring the police.'

She crossed the field to the abbey, half running, half stumbling. Still no sign of him. She searched outside, behind the trees, but there wasn't time to reach the farmyard.

She arrived as they were carrying Josh to the cave-tomb and joined the other women. It could have been Josh who died. She found herself weeping with the other women.

‘Oh, if only I could die too, No one, surely no one could ever be as sorrowful to have seen the things that I have seen . . . to have loved and lost so much . . .' She paused. These were not the words she had learnt. These were the thoughts of her heart, gushing from her lips in a torrent. She returned to her script. ‘That Christ my Master most of might, is dead and gone from me.'

The angel appeared and sent the women to tell the disciples the literally earth-shattering news of the resurrection. Jemma wept alone by the tomb.

She heard footsteps approaching and looked up. There was a man dressed in a hard-hat, jeans, and wearing a yellow vest with a Monksford council crest. He carried a rake and a broom.

‘Sir, I have looked both far and near to find my Lord – I cannot find him,' she said.

‘Woman, weep not, but mend your cheer, I know full well where he was brought,' he said.

‘Sweet sir, if you have taken him away. Tell me so and lead me there.'

‘Mary, do not grieve; see my wounds; it is I. For mankind's sins I shed my blood, and all this bitter pain did bear.'

He lifted off the hat and showed his face, washed clean of the blood. But his hands still bore red marks, the imprint of the nails. She reached out to embrace him.

Touch me not, my love, let be,
Mary, my daughter sweet.
To
my Father in Trinity
For I ascend not yet.

A sense of hope filled her, the restoration of what was lost and the longing for what is yet to come. Josh's eyes were so full of love and pain that she longed to cling to him, but she obeyed and watched as he walked away across the field.

Tired, yet elated, she found Ruth and Eliza. The mystery plays were over for her, and she could concentrate on her next role – that of a journalist exposing an evil, corrupt, and murderous man.

‘Have you seen Alistair?' she asked.

They shook their heads. ‘Not since the garden of Gethsemane.'

She had his keys; he couldn't get far. She scanned the crowd. He was bound to turn up for the curtain call. She sat with them as she watched the final judgement. Josh, the blood washed from his face, stood majestic in a white robe, on the stage to the right of the throne. God commanded the angels to summon the ‘good' and ‘bad' souls.

It had been Ronnie's idea to plant these representatives of the entire human race in the crowd. The actors, dressed in plain contemporary clothing, mingled with the audience until summoned for judgement. Then they were assigned either to paradise or the fiery pit. Ruth had turned down Ronnie's suggestion for a working hell-mouth, belching smoke and real flame, due to the fire hazard.

‘That's what they had in the middle ages,' he said.

Despite the lack of real fire and brimstone, the effect was electrifying. People looked shocked; some laughed and some looked close to tears as the bad souls were sent away to destruction and the good souls welcomed to Christ's presence. The impact was even greater because those being judged were people like them, not actors in medieval costume. They were judged on what they did for the hungry, the sick, the naked, and the imprisoned. ‘When any that had need, night or day, asked your help and had it soon.'

Jemma felt her heart flip. At last she understood. She saw what Josh meant, she knew why Ruth needed to tell this story, and she knew what had kept Eliza Feldman alive against all the odds. She wanted to sing, to shout, to tell everyone of the life-changing, soul-changing message of how one man's death could liberate everyone. She could feel Ruth nudging her. It was time to take a bow, a curtain call – if there had been a curtain.

She took her place between the disciples Peter and John and gave a curtsey. She looked up the line at Josh. He was smiling, relief all over his face. It was finished.

But it wasn't finished for Fry. She looked to the place where he should be, but she couldn't see him. Panic started to rise. What if he had gone? What if he had run away and escaped from the police? He could be anywhere. She broke away from the line as the applause died away and ran to the ruins to search for him.

Scene Thirteen

JEMMA CREPT ALONG THE PATH TO THE STAGE ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE
abbey, Pilate's residence. It was deserted. She looked into the green room again. It was empty. The dressers had joined most of the cast and crew by the abbey.

She ran to the car park. The dark blue Mercedes stood, just as it had this morning – so he didn't have spare keys. Good. At least he hadn't escaped. Unless he had gone on foot or had an accomplice to transport him.

She walked back to the green room and changed into her jeans, carefully hanging up the beautiful cotehardie and wondering what would happen to all the costumes. Several possibilities had been batted around, including an exhibition at the Town Hall and potentially reviving the plays each year. Everyone groaned at the last suggestion. Jemma wondered if her nerves could stand it. But to her the plays had come alive; they had existence beyond scripts and costumes and church hall rehearsals. They were living, breathing, life-changing things.

As she grabbed her bag from the chair, she noticed that Fry's clothes were still folded neatly on the pile. So was his spare costume. That was odd. He was supposed to have changed out of his Judas costume and put it on the hanging dummy. He must have brought extra clothes, perhaps some kind of disguise to slip away unnoticed.

She stopped to think, puzzled. That didn't make sense. He didn't know he had been discovered until she confronted him this morning. He must have planned this all along, to slide away at the end of his scene. Everyone else would still be on stage or occupied. It was the perfect cover. He could change clothes, abandon his car, and slip away.

She rifled through his clothes. His wallet and phone were hidden neatly underneath his folded jumper. Perhaps he had stolen someone else's clothes, perhaps he'd planned a new identity. Unless . . .

Jemma took off at a run. The lower field was emptying. She pushed her way through the crowds with their baskets and chairs and buggies. She caught Josh by the hand.

‘Come with me, quickly.'

‘What's happened?'

She didn't answer.

‘Alistair, is it Alistair? Where is he?'

Together they ran to the path. Mohan saw her face and started running with them. The three reached the copse and stopped.

There was a creaking noise coming from the branch as the hanging figure, head tilted grotesquely to one side, twisted slowly, clockwise, then anticlockwise. Judas in his final indignity.

‘Wicked!' Four teenage boys skidded to a halt beside them and stood transfixed by the grisly scene.

Jemma and Mohan waited at the edge of the wooded area, but Josh kept running towards the figure. Jemma paused for a moment, leaning against a tree to catch her breath. Then she pushed through the brambles farther into the copse. The first thing she noticed was the naked mannequin on the ground.

‘Call an ambulance,' Josh shouted.

Jemma stared at him, rooted to the spot.

‘And the police. Now!'

Two of the men who had played the disciples ran past her, one of them knocking her against the tree. She dashed forward as Josh and one of the men held Fry around the knees and lower legs, slackening the rope around his neck. The other man tried to slip the rope off the branch.

‘A knife! We need something to cut the rope.' Josh shouted over his shoulder.

Someone ran to try to borrow one from the caterers. Bram Griffin appeared from the other side of the copse and began hacking at the rope with his penknife. The final strands of rope gave, and they manhandled Fry's body to the ground.

Scene Fourteen

RUTH PUSHED HER WAY THROUGH THE GATHERING CROWD. ‘WHAT'S HAPPENING?'
She saw Jemma's pale face and wide eyes.

‘Have you called that ambulance yet?' Josh searched for a pulse.

‘Ambulance? Has someone been hurt?' Ruth felt a tightness in her chest.

‘N – n-no.' Jemma fumbled for her phone.

‘Tell me! It's Alistair, isn't it?'

Bram, Mohan, and the other men stood watching, helpless, as Josh frantically pumped Alistair's chest. His face was livid and his eyes bulged. Ruth knew they were too late. Josh shook his head and stood up. The blood seemed to drain to Ruth's feet, and she thought she would pass out. She looked on in horror, unable to tear her eyes from Alistair's distorted face and twisted body.

She felt a hand on her shoulder, turning her away from the scene.

‘No! I have to . . .'

‘Come on, there's nothing you can do,' Jemma said. ‘The ambulance and police will be here soon. Let's go over to the marquee and I'll make you some tea.'

‘No, I can't leave him.'

‘I'm so sorry. I did everything I could,' Josh said. ‘But he's gone.'

With Jemma on one side and Josh on the other, Ruth walked in a daze across the road. Jemma found a chair and Josh boiled the kettle.

‘I don't understand what happened.' Her voice was weak and hoarse. ‘Was it an accident or did someone kill him?'

Josh took her hand. ‘I don't know. The police will be here soon. It looks as if he might have . . .'

‘Suicide?'

Josh nodded.

‘Oh, no! Please, no.' Ruth felt her heart would break. ‘If only he had talked to me. There must be something I could have done. I pushed him away when he needed me most.'

‘It's my fault. I should have acted sooner. I should have gone to the police,' Jemma said

‘Why?' Ruth looked hard at Jemma, studying her perfect face and long, sleek hair.

‘I found out some things . . . Oh, Ruth, I didn't think it would end like this.'

‘What things?' Ruth asked quietly.

‘Things about Alistair. You don't want to know.'

‘Yes, I do. I need to understand. What did he do?'