The Battle for Jesus

By Simon Lawson

In 2006, the Archangels, St Michael and St Gabriel, are tasked by the Souls in Heaven to unify the world and avert the perils of global warming; only to find a White House mired in war and deaf to the consequences of climate change.

Jesus returns to help, but is torn between his love for Mary Magdalene and the mission.

The Battle for Jesus is the battle for humanity, the ultimate game-changer that has to be won at all costs. The climax of the story is a vicious battle, hand to hand, in central Washington, which shocks the world.

This story is bold, entertaining and progressive, carrying a mighty moral punch.

Simon Lawson is a natural writer, combining a soft touch with a healthy tempo.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Simon Lawson
• Release date: May 4, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463775127

Simon Lawson

The author started writing at preparatory school, Charney Hall, in the Lake District of the North of England. Devoid of TV and radio, the students, young as they were, told stories to each other. He moved on to Ellesmere College where he concentrated on English, aiming to get his passion for fiction onto paper. Most Holidays were spent on a farm, but there were trips to France and the USA. The highlight of his youth was hitchhiking around the US, and the wholesome character of the American people has always stayed with him. After school he went into the electronics industry, then took assisted passage to Australia seeking a broader lifestyle. He studied commerce and creative writing in Australia. The Battle for Jesus is his debut novel. A 21st Century story, set in the US, ten years in the making. Simon Lawson is a natural writer with a soft touch.

Book preview

Prologue

The Battle for Jesus is a celestial story set in 2006. It is fiction. But, global warming is real and threatens our existence.

The only window of opportunity to avert the perils of global warming is now. What happens in one part of the world affects another. Extreme weather, a harbinger of what is to come is already upon us. To get onto the right track, our leaders in government need to be held accountable for their actions and enact the demands of the people. They need to reject the wastage of war, discard the idea of domination in favour of unification and marshal our resources to fight the common cause that imperils us all.

This book is dedicated to saving our planet and all creatures great and small.

1

2006

A sticky note on Jesus’ computer screen said that Mr Muchmore wanted to see him. He peered over the workstations hoping for a chat with Luke, the chief editor, before going up to meet the great media baron. But Luke was away.

Jesus noticed the deep pile carpet and the quiet of the room as he walked into Mr Muchmore’s office; a sharp contrast to the hard floor and plastic tapping of the keyboards in the newsroom.

So good of you to come, said the Anglo-American, thickly set in a dark grey suit. And you’ve got yourself a coffee, good, good. Please, take a seat, he said, retreating to his executive chair.

Jesus sat opposite a broad, chunky desk inlaid with red leather, stacked with newspapers and magazines. This was Muchmore’s domain, his empire. Jesus looked across to the vast windows. Some view.

Oh yes. Mr Muchmore swung around to take in the skyscrapers. Powerful, I love it, Jesus.You don’t mind me calling you Jesus?

Everyone does.

So it’s not a pseudonym?

No, no, it’s my real name.

Oh, right. He swung back. I wanted to talk to you about your column. I know it was Luke’s idea, but I like to think I had a hand in it. You’ve built up quite a following.

Yes, thank you, the feedback’s great.

Mr Muchmore formed a steeple with his hands. Yes, it would be. But Jesus, some things, although they are very successful – and your column is, no doubt about it – but sometimes, well, they just don’t fit. They don’t fit in with what we’re about. Mr Muchmore pointed to a wall strung with pictures of scantily clad women. That’s what we’re about, page three, our little charmers. The news, to me, is just the annoying bit between the ads. Tits and bums is what makes the money.

You are commercial, Mr Muchmore…

Yes, people ask me what do I want? What am I after? And I say much more. I’ve never hidden my ambition from anyone. I tell ’em, he said, parting his hands to form a globe. I wanna own the world. What do you want, Jesus? What drives you?

Drives me? asked Jesus, unsure of the question.

Yes, what makes you tick?

Gee, I dunno. I know I get involved, I get committed…

Overly so…

Yeah, well, I give a damn. Jesus placed his empty cup on Mr Muchmore’s desk. The world’s being taken for granted; I think it’s too good to throw away.

Yes, people like you always say things like that. Mr Muchmore flicked through The Global Star to page thirteen. Yes, er, here, in your article, and I quote, ‘The President said the United Nations is irrelevant’. So, you’re not a fan?

Who is? That’s what he said, he slagged the UN. Why? Why’d he say something so provocative? The UN’s relevant, it stands for all of us. It’s all we got.

Yes. Mr Muchmore gestured towards his picture gallery. But my readers are patriots. They don’t question the President.

Shouldn’t we be doing that for them? Getting to why he said it. Questioning his motives?

Ah, yes, but no. You see, Jesus, I don’t, so this paper doesn’t. Mr Muchmore produced an envelope from his top right-hand drawer. Jesus, we’re going to have to let you go – it’s a pity, it was a nice try, but you are not for us.

Oh no. Jesus shifted in his chair. What about my readers? I mean, your readers? We’ll lose them.

Possibly. It can’t be helped.

But, we’ve hardly got going…

Mr Muchmore pushed the envelope across his desk. No, well, it’s your copyright, you can take it anywhere you want. We just can’t use it. It’s not for us. I’m sorry.

So, you want me out? Like, now?

Well, there’s no point in hanging about, is there?

Jesus took the envelope. I guess not.

No. It’s for the best. Mr Muchmore stood up, turning his back on Jesus to admire Manhattan. Some things work, some don’t.

2

Luke arrived at Jesus’ workstation carrying an empty box scrounged from the mail room.

You knew?

Sure I knew. Look, Jesus, he’s after the satellite feeds to network his TV stations, and who controls them? The White House. You’re treading on his toes, their toes. He can’t afford any criticism.

It’s like it’s all over before I even get started.

"I don’t think so. Matthew had an appointment with me today. He wanted to buy your column. He came over to make the old man an offer. Go with him, go with The Washington Truth. I don’t know why you didn’t in the first place."

I wanted to do something for New Yorkers, get some runs on the board.

"Okay, so now you have – Matthew’s at Momma’s, get over there."

The elevator doors opened and there was Mr Muchmore, an indulgent face in a bowler hat, complete with briefcase and furled umbrella.

Make sure your wheels don’t fall off, Jesus said, as they stepped out into the foyer on the ground floor.

Mr Muchmore swivelled around. I beg your pardon?

Owning the world an’ all that. Mind your wheels don’t fall off.

Mr Muchmore laughed. Oh, I assure you they won’t fall off, my boy. And he pushed through the swing doors leading to the pavement and his waiting limousine.

3

The neon sign across the street said, Momma’s, good food, good for you. Jesus placed his box at the foot of a high stool and sat at the sandwich bar. Just when I get going, Muchmore dumps me.

I know. Matthew waved his red cell phone. Luke told me. Jesus, everyone gets fired once in a while. That’s the media business, that’s what it’s like.

Yeah. Well, what now?

Come with us. Matthew, the old sage, sipped his coffee, relaxed, laid-back, always in control. Team up with Mary. Play off each other.

She’s alright with that?

Sure, of course. Muchmore’s loss is our gain.

Yeah. I’ll have to make the move. Damn him. I told him to mind his wheels don’t fall off.

Matthew shook his head. You’d better order something.

I wonder how long it’ll take him to figure it out?

The Incas built an empire without wheels, noted Matthew.

Yeah?

Yeah. Look ’em up.

Okay, well, no need to help Muchmore.

What’ll it be? interrupted a young waitress.

Jesus glanced at the menu. The strudel, warmed up, with some ice cream.

Anything to drink? she asked.

Just the apple juice.

Got it. And if you don’t mind me asking, could I have your autograph?

Sure – you’re a volunteer?

Yeah. My dad. She tipped her head towards a gentleman serving further up the counter. Told me who you are.

So it’s worked out for you? Jesus asked, sensitive to her request.

Oh yeah, big time, we’ve never been happier. We perished in Sobibór, but here we are, starting over; the whole family’s here, she said, full of butterflies at the thought of obtaining Jesus’ autograph. She pulled a copy of The Global Star from under the counter. Just sign by your column. So I can frame it.

Jesus Galilee, okay?

Yeah, fine, she said, leaving to get his order.

See, you can still draw a crowd, joked Matthew.

Of one, we need the world. Jesus signed the newspaper. You’d better look at this. He handed Matthew Mr Muchmore’s letter.

The waitress placed the juice, with a serviette under it, in front of Jesus.

Matthew studied the letter. Wispy, greying hair crowned a bronzed face from an age when he sat outdoors all day collecting taxes. That’s a good cheque for a few weeks work. You might want to reconsider his wheels.

I’ll leave it to the Souls. And then to the waitress. All done. Good luck.

Thanks. She stored the newspaper under the counter. Love to chat but I’ve gotta keep serving, peak time.

Matthew returned the letter. You didn’t sign anything? Anything at all?

No, he didn’t want it. Jesus swivelled around, peak time, the staff were run off their feet, taking orders, wiping and readying tables for the next customer. He came back to Matthew. Anyway, I own the rights, Luke wrote that up for me. Thanks for coming, Matthew, I mean joining us, joining the fight.

You knew I would.

Yeah, but Pete hasn’t. And I thought John would.

I can’t speak for John, but Pete never got on with your mom and he’s never going to play second fiddle to Mary. Matthew raised an eyebrow. Mary isn’t worrying you, is she? You can’t avoid her for ever.

Jesus wiped the counter with his serviette. No, well, a little, I don’t want to avoid her. I won’t be able to, will I?

No, so play it cool, office wise. Start first thing Monday.

Jesus raised his glass. To pure in heart in Washington.

That would really be something.

4

Half way to the airport and the limousine began to shudder with a disturbing flap, flap, flap. Mr Muchmore tapped on the partition. What’s the problem?

I’m not sure, Sir, she’s pulling to the right. I’ll have to pull over.

The chauffeur got out and went round to the passenger side.

Mr Muchmore wound down his window. Well?

It’s a flat.

That’s all we need.

I can fix it.

Mr Muchmore got out of the car. It’ll take too long, get a tow truck or something, get some help.

I’m sorry, Mr Muchmore, I check the tyres every morning.

These things happen.

5

Jesus lived in a street of tenements only five bus stops from the newspaper, a world apart from Manhattan. He loved it; not the buildings, the people. They were accepting and wholesome. Eve, too, loved the area primarily because it was full of rats – and the kids, soccer crazy, had turned the street into their stadium, so they were always around to care for her.

Who’s going to win the FIFA World Cup? asked one of the children, running a wet cloth up and down Eve’s length.

Who knows? Jesus packed the last of his things into his Mustang. Australia?

Nah, came a quick answer from a midfielder washing Eve. No way.

They’ve got the form. Who’ve you got in mind?

Brazil, Argentina, England, France, Germany. They could answer any question on soccer, however obscure, but had no interest in basic maths.

Why not the US? suggested Jesus.Wouldn’t you want that?

Sure, but it’s not going to happen, one of them said, towelling Eve.

If you think that way, it won’t.

Brazil, Brazil will win, said a child.

Yeah, they’re good. Jesus closed the trunk and lowered the drophead. Help me in with Eve.

Eve slithered onto the passenger seat and the children curled her tail into the footwell.

Ethel, Jesus’ landlady, came down the steps of his tenement with a piece of paper in her hand. Now, Jesus, I’ve rung my cousin, Ruthie. She’s got a place like this, but it’s a basement. It’s opposite a park, perfect for Eve. I told her about Eve, she said okay if she’s no trouble. She is no trouble, so she’s okay. Here’s the address. She handed Jesus the note. Ruthie is expecting you. I’m sorry you’re going, we’re all gonna miss you. You gotta swing by the Trade Centre. Nathan would never forgive you if you left without saying goodbye.

Nathan’s at the Trade Centre?

Yeah, by the flags. Don’t you let him come home and find you gone.

I’ll drop by.

Eve raised her head onto the windowsill of the passenger door.

Mind you do – thank you, Eve, Ethel said. Thank you for cleaning the place up. God knows it needed it.

Jeremy, you’ve been a great help, all of you, Eve appreciates it, Jesus said.

You’re welcome, Jeremy said, rescuing a soccer ball from the gutter and kicking it back into play.

Are you gonna visit? one of the children asked.

You bet. Jesus picked her up, whisked her in a circle and placed her back on the kerb. Washington’s not far away.

He got into the Mustang and the children crowded around. Jeremy, guys, put the manhole back. We don’t want anyone falling in.

Jeremy straightened his cap. We’ll do it, he said, looking to his mom.

We’ll get it back, confirmed Ethel. There’s gotta be a manhole somewheres at Ruthie’s place.

"Yeah. See Eve, we’re all set. Okay guys, we’ll be off. Brazil for the cup. Ginga!"

"Ginga!" whooped the kids, punching the air.

6

The tug, under the cockpit, pushed the plane away from the boarding gate so it could taxi along the white line to the runway. One of the ground crew jumped out to unhook the release, but it was jammed. Another put his boot to it. It had worked perfectly well all morning but now, for no apparent reason, it was stuck fast. They signaled the captain to wind down the engines, and Mr Muchmore unclipped his seat belt.

7

Constable Nathan Jackson of the NYPD recognised the red Mustang. You can’t park here.

Keeping it free for terrorists? Jesus said over an orchestra of jackhammers.

Wiseguy – hi, Eve.

Nathan, I came over to say goodbye.

Goodbye? Where ye goin’?

"Washington. Old Muchmore’s chopped my column. The Washington Truth’s picked it up."

Oh, Ethel has a cousin in Washington, cousin Ruthie. She lets places out.

Yeah, I’ve got the address, that’s a great help. Nathan, I’ll miss the beers we had together.

Plenty more.

Yeah, well… Jesus looked up at a pack of international flags.

World Trade Centre, every flag we can. They change them around, but they keep old glory and the UN.

The President said the UN was irrelevant.

The President, Nathan said with authority, lives in a desert.

It’s time I made a statement.

A statement?

Yeah. Jesus pointed towards the UN flag. Watch. He made a circular motion with his forefinger, and the flag turned into the wind. There, now it’s my flag, everyone’s.

Well, I’ll be. Nathan loosened his cap and scratched his head. Just look at that. Wow. You really are Jesus. Phewee…

Jesus smiled. I never said otherwise.

No, no, you didn’t. Wow. The world’s round, Jesus, it’s got no sides to it, that’s what I say. Wait till Jeremy sees it. He’ll tell everyone.

I told him Brazil would win the cup, but I think Italy will win this time.

They’ve won before. Worth a few bucks?

Just a few, not the house, you never know with these things.

Okay, well, thanks anyway. Nathan secured his cap. Come visit. We’ll be reading your column.

"The Washington Truth."

Yeah, we can get it here. I’ll look after your flag.

Okay. Jesus pulled away from the kerb.

The UN flag billowed out against the wind, but New Yorkers, always in a rush, were too busy to look up.

8

Washington was just a hop on the half-hour and there was always room in First Class. Out of the window, Mr Muchmore could see his previous flight still standing at its boarding gate surrounded by ground crew. Suddenly, he jerked forward, his tummy straining against his seat belt.

Sorry folks, sorry about that, the Captain said over the intercom, but we think the brakes have seized, we’ll have to check it out.

Not again, the passengers groaned. I want my money back, demanded a passenger. God almighty, what’s with this? complained another. That’s two in a row. They couldn’t even uncouple the darn thing, now this. Is there a mechanic in the house? Anywhere? A tug slowly pushed the plane back to the boarding gate and Mr Muchmore disembarked, following the passengers onto the next shuttle.

Again, like the others, he buckled up and waited, and waited, and waited.

This is the Captain speaking. Hydraulic fluid has pooled below the front wheel…

Mr Muchmore unbuckled his seat belt, walked off the plane, strode through the departure lounge and out of the terminal. Taxi! he shouted.

Where? Are you crazy? the cabbie said.

No, my flight’s been cancelled.

Take another one.

No, I’ve tried, you take me to Washington.

This thing’s never been out of the city. It’ll be double fare, you gotta pay for me to come back. It’s cheaper to fly.

I know. Take three hundred now. Mr Muchmore pushed hundred dollar bills through a portal in the perspex security panel. I’ll pay for the gas. Another three when we get there. Fair?

The cabbie scooped up the notes. Yeah, crazy fair.

Mr Muchmore sat back on the worn leather bench seat and speed-dialled his office. Are we going? he ordered the cabbie.

It’s your money…

Ah, Alice, Mr Muchmore spoke to his PA. I’m at the airport, there’s been a monumental stuff up, no planes, none that work anyway. I’m going by taxi.

Alice suggested his limo, but that had a flat. Take your jet, it’s serviced, it’s ready now.

No, that would mean crossing town. No, I’m okay, really, I’ll phone when I get there.

Mr Muchmore pocketed his mobile and settled in for the ride. He rarely saw the countryside. To him it was the bothersome part of the world that got between the cities, like the news stories getting between the ads.

They passed a large green highway sign for a service centre.

Best fill her up, the cabbie said.

Okay. They stopped next to a row of gasoline pumps opposite a restaurant. Can I get you anything?

The cabbie nodded towards Momma’s. I wouldn’t mind an apple juice. They give it away.

Okay, I’ll see what I can do.

Mr Muchmore used the washroom, and returned with two plastic cups of juice to find the front right-hand tyre collapsed like a doughnut.

It’s a nail. The cabbie took his cup. Thank goodness it held till we got here.

Mr Muchmore swigged his juice. Let’s get the spare on.

There’s no spare. I lent it out this morning.

Jeezus, Mr Muchmore swore. He crumpled his plastic cup and tossed it into a waste bin. Would a hundred cover it?

Easy, they got tyres.

No. I mean fix the tyre and get you home?

What are you gonna do?

Walk. Mr Muchmore handed the cabbie a hundred dollar bill. Wheels and me don’t mix.

This ain’t Wall Street.

I’ll be alright. And with the tap of his hand he secured his bowler and set off towards the highway.

9

Jesus, in the slow lane, took the exit to the Orchard Road which was a mile past the service centre that Mr Muchmore was just leaving. Eve, come on, over here, we’ve got to talk.

She placed her head on Jesus’ thigh.

Eve, if it wasn’t for the kids I wouldn’t have been able to pick you up. You’ve gotta cut down on the rats, lose some weight, get leaner. What’s Mary going to say? He briefly looked down at her. It’s no good. If I can’t pick you up, Mary can’t, so whatever it takes, okay?

Eve went back to poking her nostrils out of the window.

Jesus dropped a gear and followed the semi-trailers up the exit ramp and over a bridge.

Ahead, the long-distance lorry drivers, or teamsters as they are called, were pulling into a truck stop famous for its Momma’s. The Orchard Road cut hours off their drive time. They could catch up with friends, have a quiet snooze in the back of their cabins and still hit their deadlines.

All this, Jesus reminisced, started from an apple pie on his mom’s kitchen table.

He drove through the countryside. At a crossroad, an old wooden coach sign, black lettering on white, pointed Philadelphia to the left, Washington straight ahead, and ‘Westward ho!’ to the right. Jesus crossed over.

Further along, opposite a chapel, Nicholas sold farm produce from a roadside-stall, and Thomas, his stepfather, ploughed a field down an embankment. St Michael, the Archangel, was up a ladder painting the spire of the chapel. Jesus, aware of the trucks behind him, cut across the oncoming-traffic to park on the grass verge by the stall. He opened the passenger door to let Eve stretch her tail.

Got any apples? She’s on a diet.

Pythons don’t eat apples, Uncle Jesus, Nicholas said, a strapping twelve-year-old in blue overalls.

We’ve got to slim her down.

Apples won’t do it. They’ll give her gas.

Well, what will?

I don’t know, stop her eating, I guess.

Jesus selected an apple and tossed it towards Eve, who rose up and caught it. Let’s try. Put a bag of ’em in the back while I talk to your dad? How’s school going?

The Mother teaches me. You know that.

Nicholas, you’ve got to go to school. The more you put it off, the harder it’s going to get.

School’s slavery.

This is America. School is not slavery.

I can smell slavery, Uncle Jesus, I know slavery and I smell slavery.

Nicholas – But he relented. Okay. Don’t leave it too long, that’s all I’m saying.

Jesus side-slipped down the embankment.

Whoa. Thomas pulled on the reins and the huge Clydesdales came to a halt.

The two men hugged across the wire fence.

Giving the car a run? Thomas said, spying the Mustang.

"Yeah, well, kinda. Muchmore’s dropped my column and Matthew’s picked it up. I’m on my way to The Washington Truth."

To work with Mary?

That’s the idea.

Finally. If it hadn’t been for Pete, you would have married her ages ago.

Long dark furrows had been etched into the field. There’s work to be done, Jesus said.

There’s always work to be done, but Martha and I take time out, we go out, Thomas said, a slim man of medium height with a round swarthy face and bright brown eyes.

How is Martha?

Never better, she works in the White House. She’s the President’s PA.

You’re kidding me?

No. He lets his wife choose his PAs, and she chose Martha.

Well, at least his wife knows what she’s doing.

That’s right. Thomas checked the dirt clagged to his boots. Jesus, we’re happy. He used the toes of his boots to dislodge some clods of earth. We’ve got our second chance. He looked up. Take yours. You’ve earned it. You both have. There’s no Pete, just you and Mary. You can do what you like. He placed his hand on Jesus’ shoulder. Buddy, the world turns, whether you’re on it or not. He released his hand. Come and stay, bring Mary. Nicholas is always talking about you.

Thanks. You’re right, I know it. He looked into the distance. Still no school?

Nah, Martha’s tried everything. He won’t go. Give him time, these things take time.

Yeah. I’ve told him, Jesus patted his friend’s shoulder. I’d best be going, see Mom and be off.

Jesus climbed the embankment and Thomas returned to his plough.

Jesus! Thomas shouted after him. We’re here for you, okay? This is your chance, grab it. He gathered up the reins. Giddy up. And the draughthorses lunged forward.

Jesus, his back to Thomas, acknowledged by waving a hand above his head. Nicholas had already placed a bag of apples on the back seat of his car and Eve was stretched out, in the grass, sunning herself. He crossed the road to the chapel.

St Michael, a portly vicar in a black cassock spotted with white, came down his ladder. He wiped his hands on a rag. Paint everywhere, old boy.

You’re covered in it.

Turps will get it off. Well, how are you? Thomas loves his farm. It’s all coming together.

Yeah. Jesus shook St Michael’s hand. The truck stop’s full.

That’s your mum’s doing. St Michael knelt to open a large can of paint. Matthew phoned.

Yeah, well, they dumped my column, so I’m off to Washington.

You should have started there in the first place. St Michael decanted some paint into a carry-pot and mounted the ladder. It’s your business, but now’s your chance – I say, Jesus, can you handle Peter?

The question came from half-way up a spire.

Jesus steadied the ladder. I always have.

Are you sure? He won’t listen to your mum or Mary. St Michael dipped his brush. "Sorry to bring it up, old boy,