THIRTY THREE

The Old Crusader was lit up like some Xmas tree.

There was plastic everywhere.

Faux antique wood formed a manger in one corner; AI dolls playing and replaying the nativity scene in fluid, almost ballet-style movements. In another corner, two more dolls stood naked, fending off the snake that had curled around a nearby apple tree.

The pulpit rose up and over a constructed cave, a PVC boulder hemmed in its mouth.

But none of this bothered Reverend Harold Shepherd too much. What did bother him was the fact that they’d removed the old wooden cross that would hang on the back wall, replacing it with a horrible neon version. The original cross was out back where the stash used to be. Thankfully, McBride’s men had removed their Good Stuff before Alt’s people moved in.

Garçon ran about the building like a blue-assed fly, licking up to his money men, checking that the hired help were doing what they needed to be doing. Media types hovered around him. Actors had been drafted in; one in the role of preacher; various others to act as fluffers in the crowd. A multitude of cams watched and recorded from every angle.

Harold knew he should feel invaded. Raped, even, on behalf of the church. But this was a damn sight better than the alternative: McBride’s stash was history, and, regardless of this temporary upset, the church was free.

Harold had got his old girl back.

Hundreds of people queued outside in the rain, wowed in by the expensive advertising campaign. The Box, the Net, billboards across the city’s affluent Titanic Quarter all sang from the same hymn sheet: I AM THE WAY THE TRUTH AND THE LIFE. It was a killer hook. Those words alone offered every sucker in Lark City exactly what they wanted. The Old Crusader had never been so busy.

It was around seven by the time the show got started, the first chord of some grassroots country band signalling the beginning of proceedings by playing the classic old jingle, Plastic Jesus.

The fluffers were pushed to the front.

Crowds of wannabes filled the aisles, fighting for vid time.

The Preacher Man took to the pulpit just as the final chorus rang out, the band moving into a gentle instrumental piece as he reached his hands in the air, beaming at all gathered.

‘Brothers and sisters,’ he proclaimed, ‘we bear witness to more than just revival, here. Today we are in the presence of something altogether more glorious.’

Someone yelled a rather premature ‘Amen, brother,’ several others moaning in agreement, raising their hands and swaying along to the music.

The band stepped up a key.

The Preacher Man grabbed the mic: ‘We’re gathered here today like Mary the mother of God and the apostles of old to bear witness to a resurrection!’

Drums rolled like thunder. The chorus of Plastic Jesus rang out, the fluffers joining in. And then the crescendo, the cave at the front coughing up its huge PVC stone in a cloud of smoke, Alt’s slick, black logo easing out behind it.

Harold felt the colour drain from his face.

‘Wonderful, isn’t it?’ he heard Garçon say to one of his money men.

 

The Jesus doll stepped forward from the mouth of the cave. He wore a long white robe and sandals. He looked Caucasian; hair long, beard a lush shade of brown. In his hand was a wiretap and coil, Alt’s own brand. He raised it to the air in celebration.

The crowd went wild.

The Preacher Man descended from the pulpit to join the doll, wrapping his arms around it like they were old friends.

The cams were clicking away, the whole show captured in both HD and glorious VR and broadcast directly to numerous screens throughout the city and beyond. News of Jesus’ resurrection was spreading like fever.

Steve Croft stepped forward. He took the wiretap from the Jesus doll, placed it on his face. People were invited to wire wherever they were watching from, tasters available through any cell.

Steve didn’t expect to be at the front of the crowd nor did he expect to be the first person zoning to VR Jesus. He’d seen one of Garçon’s billboard ads down on River Quarter, one day, coming out of the plant where he worked. The ad read: HUNGRY? I AM THE BREAD OF LIFE, and while Steve was hungry, having skipped lunch on his latest ill-fated crash diet, the ad resonated with him in a more profound way.

Overweight and undernourished, Steve was not one of life’s winners. He struggled through each day, toiling on low-level tech work. At weekends, he zoned; wired for most of Saturday and Sunday, his current VR of choice a shooter game set within the Holy War. But those words on the billboard had spoken to him, drawing him to the Netpage on his cell. He watched Garçon’s interview on LARKVIEW and decided to sneak along to the Old Crusader to see what was going down. VR, after all, was Steve’s life.

He’d queued with the other revellers, zoning while he waited. It wasn’t Steve’s style to be found dancing but something possessed him tonight. Something made him more excited than he had ever felt in his life. The buzz, the atmosphere, the music, the acceptance; people around him – strangers he didn’t know – throwing their arms around him, noticing him. And when the Preacher Man cried, ‘Do you believe, brother?’ Steve really did. By God, he believed.

He stepped forward, grabbed that wiretap and placed it on his face.

Zoning, he found himself on Cranfield, one of Maalside’s beaches. It was a childhood haunt of his, the family holiday. The tide breathed in and out, the sky deep and clear like blue ink. Steve lay on a sun bed, cocktail in his hand, straw sombrero on his head.

He heard a voice, looked to find the Jesus doll beside him on a similar recliner.

Steve shuffled uncomfortably.

Jesus smiled, offered his hand.

‘Steve, so good to meet you. Now, don’t be alarmed. This is your safe place, somewhere you will always feel comfortable. When you come to see me, we’ll always start here.’

Steve shook with the doll then relaxed, took a sip of his drink through the pink florescent straw.

‘Now,’ continued Jesus, ‘we don’t have very long but there’s someone I’d like you to meet.’

There was a sudden roll of thunder. The skies darkened, the clouds rolling back to reveal a face that Steve recognised.

‘Great Uncle Jack?’

‘That’s right,’ the old codger said, chewing on his cigar. ‘Guess when you’re looking your kicks, I’m your man. Heh. There’s a thing.’

‘Guess so.’

The Jesus doll got up to leave.

‘If you need me,’ he whispered to Steve, ‘just holler.’

Steve looked back up at the sky. Jack was still there. The old man winked, took a drag on his cigar, held it, blew some smoke out.

Steve laughed, took another sip from his drink.

‘Remember how I did that when you were a kid?’ Jack said, his voice gravelly.

‘Sure’

‘Always made you laugh, Stevie.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘So, what do you want?’

‘Sorry?’

Jack’s voice quickened, as if irritated, ‘What do you want to do, boy, now you got me here?’

‘I dunno,’ shrugged Steve. ‘Just chill, I guess.’

Jack took another drag of his cigar. ‘Chill it is, then,’ he said.

A pair of sunglasses appeared over the old man’s eyes.

‘Oh, and Steve?’ he continued. ‘Maybe you want a top-up for that drink of yours. Here, let me.’

A hand appeared out of a nearby cloud, the old man clicking his fingers. Suddenly a young Asian girl appeared wearing nothing but an apron.

‘Now that,’ Jack said, ‘is the little hottie I told you about from my days in the war. You never did tell your Aunt about her, Stevie?’

‘No sir. Just like you said.’

‘Well, here she is. All yours.’

‘Wow!’

Steve smiled sadly. A tear filled the corner of one eye, and he reached under his shades to remove it.

‘What’s up, boy? What’s the frown for?’

‘I miss you, Uncle Jack.’

‘I know, boy. But I’m right here. Come by any time.’

Suddenly the wiretap was removed from Steve’s face. He woke from the VR, his teary eyes meeting the gaze of a beautiful girl dressed in a white robe.

‘Do you believe?’ she said to him, placing one hand on his shoulder.

Steve nodded before looking out onto the Old Crusader crowd. His tears flowed freely. The joyous roar, the clapping, the celebration was almost deafening.