“Where are you?” But it’s not his voice that replies, not his hand clamping down on my arm in a vise-like grip. It’s hers. What the fuck?
And then I feel her other hand. It lands hard across my cheek. My head wobbles back and forth, as I try to make some sense out of what’s happening, and still this insistent ringing in my ears.
“Judas, you can’t do this,” she abjures me. She squeezes my face between her hands; her blue-tinted eyes are boring into mine, much as I try to avoid them, and her nose is turned up in a moue of distaste—probably because I reek of liquor. Do I care?
No, not really.
And yet I know she’s only speaking the truth. Words of frustration well up in my brain, attempt to make themselves heard, but get lost along the way, and to my disgust, I feel a tear slide down first one cheek, then the other. No, I refuse to cry in front of her, she’ll only use my weakness to her own advantage.
Too late.
I brace myself for whatever scathing comments she cares to make, glaring at her defiantly, albeit drunkenly, although if I were thinking clearly I could just push her away and move. But I don’t. And she doesn’t.
“Judas Iscariot, you’re in love with him, aren’t you?” She’s dropped her voice to a surprised murmur; there is no detectable malice in her words. Why not? She hates me, I know she does. Why is she acting like she even gives a damn? Because she cares about him. My weary mind provides the answer, she loves Jesus too. Just not in the same way that you do, even if she sometimes acts like she does.
I don’t answer immediately, but she proceeds as if I have replied in the affirmative. “You need to snap out of this, or you won’t be of any use to him.” A statement, no commentary. Simple fact.
“Nothing we do will help,” I manage to get out, thickly. “Nothing. ’sall ordained.
You know it, I know it, we all—”
If I’d been paying better attention—or paying any attention at all, actually—
perhaps I’d have seen her motion to Peter, but I’m not, remaining oblivious until much to my surprise I feel myself being lifted in those huge hairy arms—damn, that man is stronger than I gave him credit for being—and I’m being tossed ignominiously into the pond. And it’s fucking cold. And I’m fucking wet, and very much pissed off.
But also very much soberer than when I was thrown in, which I am sure was her objective. Damn, I hate it when she’s right. But there’s no time for this petty crap now. And no time for wallowing in the slough of my self-pity. There is work to be done. And I don’t mean preparing for his end.
Why has it never occurred to me before? Two thousand years of doing what I’m told has dulled Judas’ brain. Two thousand years of going with the flow, following orders, and following the script. So, here’s a novel thought—how about a rewrite?
Let’s change the way this story ends. And let’s give it a happily ever after, for once.
Sound good? It does to me. Now, if only I can get these idiots to go along with my ideas before they give up. Or worse.
Chapter Twenty-Three: Jesus
All in all, I have to say things could have gone better. But they could also have been a lot worse. We were very much taken by surprise. We weren’t prepared mentally, or otherwise. It’s too soon, for this. It shouldn’t have happened. Not yet.
Not like this. This isn’t right. Still, all things considered, I’m grateful Kaplan didn’t arrest Judas as well as me. Very grateful. Although I’d certainly appreciate his company here, no question of that, but not at the price of his freedom.
I’m also grateful that at least he’s removed the handcuffs. I suspect Sheriff Kaplan used those as much as a show for Judas’ benefit as anything. Once we were out of sight he removed them, and allowed me to sit beside him in the front of his vehicle for the drive into town, rather than in the back, where I suspect most prisoners are relegated. Still, it was so painfully excruciating to watch Judas’
agony. He struggled so valiantly, did my Judas—and I have no qualms about calling him that now, not after last night—but it was simply meant to be. Like every other time. I recognized Lucifer, even in disguise; I’ve seen him in too many of those to be fooled by any of them. I’m grateful he restrained Judas, and kept him out of harm’s way. Whatever his motive was, I have no doubt Judas can handle him. I’m not sure what happened after I was taken away. All I can say is I’m sure Judas wasn’t quite as amenable as me, and he probably showed it in some way, either verbal or physical, or both.
Kaplan has been rather kind, considering the seriousness of the charges that have been brought against me. Pretty heinous charges, but I expected no less, to be honest. Sadly, I’ve heard the same thing often enough before. From what he’s told me, I can tell he’s not too fond of Judas—or Mr. Jarvis, as he calls him. That’s not my concern at the moment. I wonder what Judas is doing? I worry about him. I know he won’t react well to this. It will take him some time to pull himself together. But once he does, and I pray he does quickly, he’ll be here, I know he will. I know him too well to doubt he’ll come to me. And when he does, I’ll have to reassure him everything’s all right. The question is can I convince myself of that before I see him? I’ve no choice in the matter, I must. For his sake. For our sake.