Book of JUDAS

Chapter Four-1

Chapter Four

Sutton Dean, Oxfordshire

Two days later, Philip and Simon walked out of Tudor Hall’s main entrance and across the gravel drive to where the grey Mercedes that had belonged to their grandfather was parked. Bairstow had originally intended to sell it but had been temporarily persuaded otherwise by the brothers.

“How long will it take to get there?” asked Simon, walking around to the passenger door as Philip de-activated the central locking.

“About twenty-five minutes,” he replied. “It’s not far; he lives just the other side of Oxford.”

The day after they watched the videotape of their recently deceased grandfather the brothers had met with Felix Bairstow again. He had asked them what their intentions were, and they explained that they had decided to discover a bit more about the Book of Judas before rushing into a decision. Bairstow had fully supported the idea and readily agreed to give them Professor David Palanski’s contact details as specified in their grandfather’s will. Later that evening, Simon had duly called the professor and set up an appointment for eleven-thirty the following morning.

On the way over, Simon told his brother about the professor’s nervous, short attitude on the phone. Oddly, he had declined to meet with them at first but when Simon mentioned it was to do with the Book of Judas and that their grandfather had suggested they meet in his will, he abruptly changed his mind. On the drive across town they discussed the questions they would put to him.

“We just don’t know enough about him − do we?” said Philip, listening to his brother’s final remarks.

“Anyway what kind of professor is he? What’s his chosen subject?” he said with a smile on his face.

“I’ve no idea, maybe we can ask him − we do know that grandfather must have trusted him implicitly,” replied Simon. “I don’t think he’d have given us his name unless he was entirely familiar with the story.”

“Makes sense,” commented Philip as he spotted a sign saying Moorcroft Drive. “This is it − keep your eyes open for number twenty-eight,” he added.

The property was a three-storey semi-detached house constructed around the 1930s and identical to every other residence in the street. The third floor was really no more than two attic bedrooms but with the steep steps leading up to the tiled porch and its pointed roof, its façade gave a flattering impression of its size. Simon pressed the bell and looked down over the metal rail guarding the steps. Down below at the base of the house he noticed an elongated glass window that provided the cellars with an element of natural light. Looking back along the front garden, he observed that it was small and overgrown. There was an old ash tree surrounded by creepers and bushes near the front wall that had lost its shape through a combination of age and neglect.

The door opened and Professor David Palanski appeared.

“Please come in,” he said, gesturing for them to come inside.

“We have met before haven’t we, Professor?” asked Philip with a bemused smile as he recalled the hasty departure of the man wearing the long black overcoat at their grandfather’s funeral.

“That’s right. Now please come through,” he said, ushering them through the hall. Passing a staircase on their left they continued along the narrow corridor until they entered a large kitchen with a tiled floor and a square wooden table in the middle.

The professor walked over towards the cupboards around the sink leaving the brothers standing around the table observing their surroundings.

“You were at our grandfather’s funeral weren’t you?” quizzed Philip.

“That’s right, I’m a very old friend of Sir Lawrence and against my better judgement I decided to attend the service,” he said ruefully. “It was important to me after all we’d been through together; I had to pay my last respects to the great man even though I knew it could be tempting fate.”

With his back to them, the professor stopped what he was doing and stood rigidly for a moment staring up at the ceiling. The brothers watched him curiously; he was evidently very troubled by something. Pensively, he turned around and rubbed his forehead with his hand before suddenly regaining his senses.

“Sorry,” he apologised shaking his head, “can I get you a cup of tea or coffee?”

“Coffee for me,” said Simon and Philip nodded his agreement.

“What did you mean by ‘tempting fate’?” asked Philip inquisitively.

“Sorry,” Palanski apologised again. “That must sound quite melodramatic to you but there’s a lot you don’t know − when you learn the truth you’ll understand the incredible danger that’s facing us out there!”

The answer was very disconcerting. The brothers glanced at each other with the same confused thoughts running through their heads − What’s he mean “us”? And why are we involved?

“What danger?” blurted out Simon, his irritation growing by the second. Privately he cursed his grandfather for not having had the faith to confide in them.

“Professor?” added Philip inquisitively when no answer was forthcoming to Simon’s question. He’s a strange man, he must be in his mid-sixties and a bit absent minded, even eccentric, he thought, looking at his dishevelled grey hair and unkempt beard.

“Look, I think you’re both owed some explanations. Why don’t you make yourselves comfortable in the drawing room – that’s the door to the left when you go back in the hall − I’ll bring your coffee through in a minute.”

“Ok,” replied Philip more warmly. There was no point getting confrontational and he could see his brother’s temper rising. They turned and made their way back through the gloomy hallway. Entering the front room with its large bay window overlooking the front lawn, Philip stepped over, pulled the grubby net curtain to one side and peered out at the elevated view of the residential street beyond.

“He must live alone,” said Philip, looking around the room in dismay.

The air was musty and on the floor at the foot of the sofa lay an old food tray with the remains of a recent meal. Once upon a time the room must have looked quite regal with its ornate cornicing around the ceiling and the oil paintings hanging by drawstrings from the picture rail but now it just looked neglected. All the furniture, bookcases and open surfaces were gathering a layer of dust. As Simon scoured the room in bewilderment, his eyes fixed on a sight that made him gasp with amazement.

“Are you seeing what I am?” said Simon incredulously, staring at the end of the room where the dining table stood.

Philip followed his gaze and nodded slowly.

Everywhere you looked there were open books and newspaper cuttings. Piles and piles of them sat around the far end of the room covering the table, the chairs and any available floor space. The wall beyond the dining table was covered from top to bottom in fading old press clippings. To Philip, the mosaic of newspaper articles cast a sinister shadow on the room. They were obviously dealing with someone who was totally obsessed. All across the floor, there were discarded copies of old books and manuscripts, many of them half open, completely hiding the beige carpet that lived beneath them.

Philip walked across to the table and started to leaf through the scrapbook at the top of the pile. It fell open at a cutting taken from the Sunday Times in 1982. The article was yellowing and crinkled with age. The headline read:

Death of God’s Banker Shrouded in Mystery

Below it, the article told the story of how Roberto Calvi, purportedly the banker to God and the Vatican, was found hanging under Blackfriars Bridge across the River Thames in the early hours of the morning. Philip skim-read the article. Very succinctly, the journalist put forward the case for a possible verdict of suicide on the one hand, but on the other suggested it was probably more likely the work of some sinister evil cult that had infiltrated the higher echelons of the Vatican. As he finished reading, Philip noticed something unusual: the initials “MM” had been written with a black marker pen in large letters just below the article.

At that moment, the door was pushed open and Professor Palanski entered balancing three mugs of coffee on a tray. Philip let the scrapbook close took a seat in one of the lounge chairs.

“Sorry about the state of the room,” said the professor; he had noticed Philip’s interest with the books on the dining table. “But the mess you see around you’s my life’s work.”

“May I ask what you’re a professor of?” said Philip directly.

Professor Palanski smiled.

“You may. I was expecting your visit even if I wasn’t totally happy about it,” he confessed.

He handed over the mugs of coffee before reclining into a cushioned sofa.

“You see that book there…” the Professor continued, pointing at an old, well-thumbed volume sitting on the floor near the fireplace. They could see that it was entitled The Rituals of the Holy Lands.

“Well that was my first published research over twenty-five years ago and the principle reason why I met your grandfather in the first place.”

He took a sip from his mug of coffee before replacing it on the side table.

“I’m a Professor of Ancient Theology specialising in the biblical lands and I lecture here at Oxford University. Your grandfather read that book and when some of the theories contained in it immediately struck a chord with him he got in touch. We met professionally on several occasions before he felt comfortable enough to tell me his whole incredible story to me,” said Palanski, looking up. “And now he’s related the entire story to you − isn’t that right?” he asked rhetorically.

The brothers nodded.

“Our grandfather also mentioned that you could tell us the myth behind the Book of Judas,” remarked Simon.

“The myth?” the Professor replied abruptly with a sharp intake of breath. “It’s more than a myth; it’s the key to our future − to everyone’s future.”

The words flew out quickly in his excitement.

Obviously, myths and non-believers are not welcome here, thought Simon. He made a mental note to listen and not contradict or pull holes in his version of events.

Momentarily taken aback by the Professor’s shortness, Philip held up his hand to restore the peace.

“Please Professor, tell us what you know,” he said calmly.

The professor stared intently at him for a second and nodded. The sudden agitation had surprised the brothers.

He’s uptight and apprehensive about something, thought Philip with a sense of foreboding for what he was about to hear.

“I promised your grandfather that I would tell you, and I will,” he replied matter-of-factly with order restored.

The brothers exchanged knowing glances waiting for him to begin.

“How well do you know your Bible?” the Professor asked.

Simon shrugged.

“Just what we were taught at school.”

“Well, let me begin by giving you a scripture lesson,” he replied.

“Well, I’m sure you’ve heard of Judas Iscariot. He was one of the twelve Disciples of Jesus Christ, the Son of God. His background and his origins were distinctly different from all the other eleven chosen Apostles. As you’ll recall, it was he who betrayed Jesus after the last supper by kissing him on the cheek in front of the Roman escort. It was his treachery that ultimately led to the crucifixion − do you not find it remarkable that this mysterious and unintelligible act of total betrayal should come from someone chosen by Christ himself as loyal and faithful disciple? Someone who shared his intimate company and followed him closely throughout his travels?”

Simon and Philip didn’t answer but waited for him to continue.

“The Bible actually answers this question but many modern day theologians refuse to accept its explanation, or worse, they choose simply to deny its existence. The actual truth is in the pages of the scriptures themselves but they are ignored or misinterpreted. In the Book of John, chapter six, verse seventy-one, Jesus says, ‘Have I not chosen you twelve; and one of you is a devil?’ and in Luke, chapter twenty-two, verse three, he says, ‘and Satan entered into Judas, who was named Iscariot, one of the twelve.’ Now that is what the bible says but the teachings of the Christian Church put a different story and meaning behind the words. The truth is…”

He stopped and rubbed his face with his hand. He could see that they were listening avidly to his every word.

“The truth is that Judas Iscariot really was the mortal incarnation of Satan himself − in the same way Jesus Christ was the flesh and blood of God, Judas Iscariot was the Devil’s own son!”

Surprised, Philip rocked back in his chair; he was unsure where this conversation was leading.