Judas (standard:science fiction, 4177 words)
Author: Cyrano	Added: Nov 04 2012	Views/Reads: 4737/1919	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Frank is two thousand years old, face to live through eternity with his deceit.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

behind him, touched his arm. 

“Excuse me... sir... excuse me...” 

Frank turned to face her. 

“Well, now. Hello again. I hope you haven't lost anything?” He teased,
smiling broadly. 

“No...no, I haven't, but I would like you to know that I tried to find
you, the following day, in fact, for several days. I even asked the 
station manager if I could speak to you. Not knowing your name he said 
he couldn't help me. Thank you for what you did. You were my hero that 
day... what's your name?” 

“Frank...” And she remembered he paused, as if still thinking. “Yes...
Frank?” 

“You sound a little uncertain.” She laughed, quizzing his seeming
indecisiveness. 

“No...no...Frank. That's my name, Kathryn?” 

Kathryn's eyes widened, deepening the furrows of her brow. 

“How did you know my...?” 

“Driver's license...remember? Kathryn Robinson.” He replied, jumping in
on her question. 

“Yes..yes...but what an incredible memory. I mean, well, it's been
almost a year.” 

“Exactly a year... to the very day, in fact. It was raining that
evening, too.” Frank stated. 

“Really? Good grief, I believe you're right. Look...Frank? It is Frank,
right?” She hesitated, now questioning her own uncertainty. 

“Yes...Kathryn.” He answered. This time he was much more positive and
smiling. 

The depth of blue in his eyes was staggering, she recalled, eyes that
could be trusted. But more than that, she remembered the silver chain; 
the one he wore around his neck, and from which hung silver medallions. 
She had first seen it on that night when he pulled up in the car, and 
was leaning across the seat. Kathryn remembered thinking how ancient it 
looked, in an odd sort of way. 

“Could I possibly... you know...well, maybe I could buy you a drink.
Please do not think me forward; I'd just like to thank you properly for 
returning my purse.” 

Frank, having watched her awkward squirm, gave her a wild,
incomprehensible grin, which immediately scorched its way into her 
heart. 

“That would be fine.” He responded. “Did you have a day and time in
mind?” He asked. 

“How does Saturday evening work, around seven?” 

“Perfect.” 

“Perfect!” Kathryn repeated, turning away in joyful fashion, her polka
dot skirt twirling. She was halfway up the escalator before she 
realized she'd not specified where to meet!” 

“Frank....Frank...” She called above the heads of fellow passengers, but
Frank was gone, disappeared. 

When she reached the top of the escalator, she quickly turned back,
hurrying its descent under her breath and pushing past folk, eager that 
she shouldn't lose sight of him again. Frank had gone. Kathryn paced 
the platform, shoving commuters aside. Frank was nowhere to be seen. 
Finally, she knocked on the door of the Station Master. It was answered 
by an untidy, obese man with coffee stains on his shirt, and sweat 
dripping from his brow. 

“I'm sorry; I'm trying to get in touch with one of your workers. Frank.
I don't know his other name... I was just speaking with him and, well, 
I can't find him.” 

“Frank, you say?” 

“Yes. About thirty years old, tall, dark, wavy hair, blue eyes; very
blue actually; quite tall, over six feet. ” 

“Just wait there, ma'am, I'll take a look at the roster.” 

“Thanks...hurry will you.” 

Kathryn, now nearing home, felt a nervous tremble weaken her knees,
recalling the events that had led up to tonight. Her breathing 
deepened; fiery lava burned in her chest. The trains were arriving 
thick and fast, herding masses of people disembarking while she stood 
at the Station Master's office, trying to peek in, making sure he was 
doing what he'd said, but is now too far beyond the door, and peering 
through the crack didn't reveal anything. She thought back to that day, 
a year ago. Frank pulling up in the car and then, without a sound, he 
and the car were gone. No sign of him up or down the road. It might 
have been a daydream, and she might have passed up that moment as 
exactly that, till today, till he remembered her; remembered her name. 
It was no daydream, and now he'd managed it again, 365 days later, just 
vanished. Gone... eaten up... digested in a swarm of people moving 
along the subway platform. She stood and waited anxiously for the name 
and any information as to where she might find him. 

The door to the station office widened, the gap was filled by the obese
and sweaty Station Master, holding a clipboard in his hands. “No-one 
named Frank on the roster, love. Not today. Not any day as a matter of 
fact, are you sure you got his name right?” He asked, scratching his 
head, a large sweat patch revealing itself under his arm. 

“Frank. Yes, I'm sure. He was wearing a station uniform. He wore a
silver chain around his neck. It held small silver coins.” She 
explained. As if doing so might jog his memory. 

“Frankly, love. I'm new to this station. I've just been transferred from
Liverpool Street, so I'm not certain if the roster has been updated in 
the last six months. What I can tell you though, there's no-one by the 
name of Frank on the roster for today. 

She remembered if felt like the platform itself had shattered and fallen
away beneath her. Nothing seemed right. Commuters hurried on by, 
stamping on everything she thought to be true. Then, she thought to 
herself: He remembered my name; he knows where I live, so he will 
surely come there. 

Kathryn thanked the Station Master, and then joined the jostle of people
heading for the escalator. Outside the subway, the air was April crisp, 
damp, and the street laden with traffic as lights blinked impatience. 
People moved like porcupines, bristling with annoyance. Kathryn merged 
in with the masses, just as annoyed, more frustrated, and deeper in 
thought. That was the last she would see of him, so she thought. Till 
this evening, at 7 P.M. 

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ 

Frank was sat on his own, looking out over the Pacific Ocean from Goat
Rock, on the western shores of California. He was a long way from the 
subway station in London, but for Frank it was no more than a thought 
process; a longer thought process than maybe Greece, or Turkey, or 
Galilee. He'd tried thinking in more sunless lands, amid colder 
climates, with deeper ravines and higher mountains, but he always came 
back to Goat Rock, especially when the bouquet of love scented his 
nostrils. 

He pondered alone, the thoughts deep in his ancient mind, while his lips
mumbled what those were. This is the penalty, right? Not the 
immortality, but the love. There was never going to be forgiveness for 
Frank. In fact, if Frank had a smell about him, it would be that of 
funeral flowers. He'd once been unfaithful; claimed he loved, claimed 
over and over, and for someone he knew loved him back. It was the 
deceit, not the lie. It was the unfaithfulness, the kiss of betrayal 
that had now confined him to live forever; through eternity, never 
again deceive...never fulfill any kind of love...never do anything but 
live with his betrayal. There would never be an end to it; no cancer, 
no single shot to the head, just the living with the memory of that 
dreadful moment in time... that moment of human weakness... all of it 
now standing alongside the lightning and thunder of history. Frank 
suffered the concussion of his acceptance to the wrong-doing and its 
final consequence. Above his head seagulls shrieked their condemnation. 
Frank immediately felt to his pockets for another cigarette. 

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ 

The Tottenham apartment was in darkness when Kathryn entered. She felt
for the light switch and was immediately bathed in a harsh, hurtful 
light. She immediately switched the light switch back to off, and moved 
cautiously toward the settee, where she kicked off her shoes, threw her 
coat to where she believed the chair to be, and crumpled onto the 
settee, throwing up her legs. She lay with one arm across her forehead. 
Her neck hurt, her feet were tired, and her mind was in excited 
turmoil. She'd been alone for two years, having finally found the 
courage to send her cheating husband packing. She'd taken a lot of 
knocks in life... but accepting his unfaithfulness... no way. Her 
husband wanted her, and he wanted his fantasy. So when she finally shut 
the door on him, she thought only this: I'm free... I'm free... but 
never truly understood the distance loneliness could travel. Years, 
like a highway, stretched out to the horizon as she lay on the settee, 
nearly dead for a moment, or as close to dead as one can be; knowing 
nothing, thinking nothing, feeling nothing, eyes closed, heart unheard, 
with no special temperature to the body, hoping that Frank was the one 
who would be faithful to her. 

Frank stood up, his eyes searching across the Pacific Ocean's
wilderness. It was snowing in New York, raining in Paris, burning up in 
Delhi, and he felt them all. Back in Tottenham the last sound of the 
midnight bells was fading. Kathryn lay sleeping, but he knew he'd never 
get close enough to kiss her cheek. The choice was his, he could go 
east or go west; all he had to do was decide. He stretched his legs 
over the James Dean 1955 Triumph TR5 Trophy, and blew away into the 
darkness. 

When Kathryn woke, her hair was dry, windswept as if she'd fallen asleep
in a storm. Had she just dreamt the wildest of dreams? She had always 
feared motorcycles, petrified at the thought of speed, yet she had 
walked from her apartment in the middle of the night and got astride 
the bike, encouraged by Frank's smile of reassurance. They never spoke 
a word, just picked up their feet and rolled clear out of sight, 
tearing through streets, and onto open roads, down valleys, and soon 
she felt her soul starting to rise up with the mountains. Kathryn lay 
awake, trying to recall every detail. Where were they going, and all 
she wanted to do was fall asleep again. Where was Galilee anyway? Why 
were manuscripts blowing in the sand? Who was the man on the donkey? 
Why had she dreamt about Frank, a man she hardly knew, whom she'd 
always felt had a cool draught blowing all around him? 

The dream's clarity had disturbed her; she was brimming with questions
and with no-one to answer them, made her way to the bathroom. Under the 
force of the hot water, still confused, she at least felt liberated. 
The shower poured down its cleansing power. Kathryn stood, letting the 
force and the heat of the water comforted her. In her head, she knew 
what she wanted to say to Frank, if she ever saw him again. There were 
thousands of words drifting around her mind, but all of them, she knew, 
could be better said like this: 

The only honest words are: Come back, Frank. I want to be with you, I
love you. If you are listening to this, you must show courage and a 
sincere mind. If you don't, then I feel sorry for you. Let's see each 
other again, please. 

The water rushed through her hair, rinsing, cleansing grains of sand
that settled on the shower floor. Kathryn reached down, touching the 
sand to her fingertips. It couldn't be. It just couldn't. 

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
+++++++++++ 


Mark Robinson heard his pals yelling, screaming out, before another
smatter of fierce machine gun fire silenced those shouts. Mark froze to 
the ground, please God, don't let this be happening. He could see his 
buddies lying at the roadside, not moving, so whatever motivated him to 
move from under the truck is something only God had any control over. 
He scrambled and crawled, taking cover inside a shell-shattered, sand 
built home; its occupants long gone. Mark hollered... 

“Peter, Simon... answer me, lift an arm if you can hear me.” 

There was no movement. The men were dead. But assuming so wasn't enough.
Mark had to know, he had to know for certain, and he made a dash to the 
next building, sparking another splash of fire that whistled all around 
him, until impact. He fell into a space, thumped there by bullet to his 
chest. Blood clouded his lungs, tears burnt his eyes, and anger filled 
his heart. He'd never make it to them, but he'd die trying, and he 
pulled himself forward; the Iraq dust matting his blond hair, while his 
young life ebbing toward infinite darkness. All Mark knew was: if he 
were going to die, he'd do it beside his mates. Just yesterday the 
three of them were having a beer together, talking about home, their 
tour completed in one week. Mark wiped the blood from his mouth, 
feeling like it might choke him. Suddenly a body dropped down beside 
him, in the dust. It was a medic. 

“Hold this to your chest,” the guy yelled. Mark grabbed whatever it was,
and pushed it against the bullet's entry point. 

“What's your name soldier?” The medic asked, keeping his AK47 pointed in
the direction of oncoming fire. 

“Mark, sir. Mark Robinson.” 

“Okay, Mark. They call me Frank. Those poor guys must be your mates,
right?” 

“Yes sir. If you can help me get to them, I'll be the most grateful
bastard in the world.” The medic rested his hand on Mark's head; sweat 
ran like a river from the lad's brow. 

“They're in a good place, Mark.” Frank said. 

“No... no... they get to go home, sir. I promised. I promised them:
we're going home lads. We're going to Paris, then to Rome; we're going 
to be free men.” 

Mark turned painfully onto his belly, gritting his teeth, clawing at the
dust, pulling, aching, hurting, dying there in the sands of a land he'd 
never heard about three years before. 

“Mark... listen to me. I'm the only one you can be free with now. You
can't stay here anymore, don't listen to anything but what is in your 
heart.” 

Then the medic collected Mark up into his arms, and ran with him. 

“Leave me; leave me with my friends, sir. I beg you!” But darkness was
approaching and life was rolling back from where it came, like a cool 
wind. When Mark opened his eyes, he was laying between clean, cool 
sheets in a medical facility, a nurse was dabbing his brow with water. 

“There you are! You've been unconscious for two days, Mark. Try not to
move too much.” She said, dabbing lightly around his mouth. 

But Mark was already thinking: seeing it all happen in his mind, his
friends falling under fire; ripped open under a hail of machine gun 
fire. He'd heard their last breath, last sighs, shot to pieces quite 
literally. Mark saw that as he lay there, seeing those boys, his pals, 
and wished he'd died instead. There is no law, no preparation; no 
telling what takes over when fear for one's life is put on the line. 
They were dead, killed by men with boy's faces, and his stomach felt 
the punch of the age old question: why? 

“Your friends were lucky, too.” The nurse said, lifting her eyes in the
direction of the other beds next to his. "Simon and Peter have been 
telling me all about you. How you lifted them off the streets, as 
though they were nothing more than feathered birds.” 

Mark's gaze followed the direction of the nurse's eyes, coming upon two
young men, both bandaged, both smiling. 

“Peter... Simon... what the hell... I thought you... I thought...” And
the emotion overtook him, and for a moment it felt like he was 
sleepwalking, dreaming, needing to reach out, touch them. 

“Hell, we aint missing out on a trip home, Mark. You're our freakin'
fairy god mother!” 

“But...the medic...the guy who helped me...?” His eyes turned to the
nurse, quizzically. 

“Take it easy now, Mark. Don't stress. You need to rest. Here, keep this
with you. It saved your life.” 

The nurse folded a silver coin into his palm. 

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ 

Katherine dried, then dressed, and entered the kitchen. She felt
surprisingly alive, she thought, considering spending the night on the 
settee. She would call on a girlfriend; make some light talk, hope to 
free her mind of what now endlessly occupied it. Saturday was always a 
shopping day, and since the break-up of her marriage, it was a 
tradition had slipped away. First, she thought, a pedicure. It was 
almost 9.A.M. But before that, there was another important matter to 
attend to, writing her weekly email to Mark, her twin brother. She 
would start by scolding him for not replying to her last email. It 
broke her heart when he'd told her that he was going to sign up. He was 
just twenty years old, a boy; the same boy who had pulled on her 
pigtails and put his arm around her at the end of the day. Though, God 
knows why, she knew it was his calling. Even so, she felt he had no 
real idea about what he was getting into. Mark, had written that he was 
due home on leave, and she could not wait to see him, hug him, fuss 
over him, cook for him and once again enjoy a meal together. She poured 
the boiling water into the teapot and carried the tray to her desk, at 
the window, overlooking the street. The bone china cup shivered in its 
saucer. She pulled up a chair, opened the laptop and began to type: 

Dear Mark: 

You have not responded to my last letter. I don't know exactly why. Your
emails have been late before, just a day or two, but it is almost a 
week with no word? I daren't let myself think anything other than 
you've been unable to find a way to communicate. Funny thing is I think 
I would know, I mean... you know what I mean. I can't say it. 

I'm a lot stronger now. I think moving into a new apartment helped. No
memories here. It was a good suggestion, thank you. It's been over a 
year now. I've also taken up art, you always said I was good at it, so 
why not. Even so, I feel a hopelessly mechanical approach to my 
subjects; perhaps it's just a lack of confidence. It's good therapy. 
There were questions in your last email that are hard to answer. I 
understand that you've built up great friendships, heaven knows I'm 
glad. When you said: I would take a bullet for any of them, it 
frightened me, Mark. Please be careful. Please. Dear God, with mum and 
Dad gone, you're all I've got left. I understand you love your pals, of 
course I do, but what about me, I love you, Mark. I need you to come 
home. 

Work is different, I haven't yet got used to my new role as Charge
Nurse, but I think it will work out. It's easy enough to get to and fro 
from the hospital; the subway comes almost to the door. It's perfect. 
Oh, by the way... hmm... how will I say this? I met someone! Really! 
He's decent, Mark. He's different, too. Not anything like someone you'd 
expect me to fancy. I can't wait to tell you about him, but I also 
don't know when I'll see him again. We had one evening; I won't call it 
a date. I asked him out for a drink... long story... lost my purse... 
he found a way to return it. That was just a month after I moved into 
the apartment. I never saw him again until a year later. I bumped into 
him in the subway. I'm babbling here, I know, but to cut a long story 
short I offered to buy him a drink, and he agreed, but I forgot to tell 
him where. What a ditz! Anyway, for some reason, some weird gut 
feeling, I knew he would turn up. Is that weird? I know. Okay, I'll 
stop being a nuisance. I'm not going to worry about you, but if you 
don't answer this email very smartly, I'll probably start being one, 
okay? Please write. 

Make my weekend complete. 

Love you, 

Sis. 

She hit the send key, and poured a cup of tea. She would phone a couple
of friends, arrange a pedicure and that lunch. 

End of chapter 1


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