The Golgotha Gate

By

John A. Rickard

Copyright John A. Rickard

All rights reserved.

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Cover illustration and text layout by Ian Rickard

And thine the Human Face, & thine

The Human Hands & Feet & Breath,

Entering thro’ the Gates of Birth

And passing thro’ the Gates of Death

William Blake: Jerusalem

Table of Contents

Title

About the Author

Dedication

Book Headings

BOOK 1

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

BOOK 2

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

BOOK 3

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

BOOK 4

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

BOOK 5

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Epilogue

About the Author

John A.Rickard began writing at the age of 11. Schooling, and the need to contribute to the family coffers from the age of 14 in a variety of jobs, followed by six years service as a soldier, meant that he was 23 before he was able to take up writing full-time - as a journalist.

He has written millions of words during his working life - but The Golgotha Gate was his first full-length work of fiction.

His second book is Beyond Pride and Prejudice LYDIA'S LIVES. This is a light hearted follow-up to Jane Austen' most widely read novel.

His third book is the short story collection THE LITTLE BUDDHA'S BIG MIRACLE IN LAI SHAN ROAD.

He is currently writing his third novel (working title) Lipstick Samurai/A Kiss for Sorge.

www.rickpress.com

Also available by the author:

BEYOND 'PRIDE AND PREJUDICE' : LYDIAS LIVES

THE LITTLE BUDDHA'S BIG MIRACLE

IN LAI SHAN ROAD

Dedicated to all those I have loved, do love and will love.

BOOK ONE

They will come back, come back again,

As long as the red earth rolls.

He never wasted a leaf of a tree

Do you think He would squander souls?

Rudyard Kipling

There is not room for Death,

Nor atom that his might could render void:

Thou – THOU art Being and Breath,

And what THOU art may never be destroyed.

Emily Bronte

BOOK TWO

Life is itself but the shadow of death,

and souls departed but the shadows of the living.

All things fall under this name.

The sun itself is but the dark simulacrum,

and light but the shadow of God.

Sir Thomas Browne 1605–1682

He who has saved one man,

it is as though he has saved the world.

Talmudic saying

BOOK THREE

For now we see through a glass, darkly;

but then face to face.

Corinthians. St Paul

BOOK FOUR

from the dank dark thoughts that shiver

Upon the sighful branches of my mind.

Such is, what is to be?

The pulp so bitter, how shall taste the rind?

I dimly guess what Time in mists confounds

Yet ever and anon a trumpet sounds

From the hid battlements of Eternity,

Francis Thompson

BOOK FIVE

Shall mortal man be more just than God?

Shall a man be more pure than his maker?

Job

BOOK ONE

PROLOGUE

Epiphany Book

Because there was no room for them in the inn.

St Luke

For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given: and the government shall be upon his shoulder: and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counsellor, The mighty God, The everlasting Father, The Prince of Peace.

Isaiah

‘COME on, let’s face it!’ said the speaker hidden behind the high wooden backed booth at the far end of the tavern. ‘If a man walked in here and said he was the Messiah of the second coming would you believe him? Most likely you’d say he was drunk or mad or both!’

STOP! PRESS THE ‘PAUSE’ BUTTON!

Let’s get the scene properly set: The Who, Where, When, What, Why basic rules of the reporter.

When: January 6. Evening.

Where: Murphy’s Tavern. Holiday revellers long since gone.

Who: Murphy; one Stranger at the bar; the unseen speaker in the booth. And perhaps the speaker’s invisible audience. It could be the One above, millions below, or just you – the single auditor.

Why: The question most asked since before the Creator laid down the Garden of Eden tenancy rules for Adam. We do not know for sure whether Adam himself actually asked the question as he arose from the dust that was his womb. If he did, doubtless stony silence was what Adam received by way of a reply from Him who had raised him up. The eternal question: Why? One to which there has so rarely been a satisfactory response throughout history.

THE STAGE IS DRESSED AND LIGHTED: PUSH THE ‘RESUME’ BUTTON

‘Listen to me,’ said the hidden speaker. ‘For centuries Messiahs were burned as blasphemers or chained up as lunatics. Why? They are a bit kinder today – they put it down to too much drink. It’s always been crazy when you think about it. The responses, I mean. When hundreds of millions have confidently asserted: HE will come again! Details as to how and when have varied according to the age, prophesies believed, and personal belief. But most have said they really look forward to the event.’

SO, continued the speaker, for the Second Coming it simply boils down to......

Any time

Any place

Any one

......The three things that never change, and have never changed.

Has He already been and gone without our noticing? Hardly likely – unless He knocked on the door, received no answer and decided like an irate landlord the current leaseholders were not worth waiting for. But I personally know that isn’t so.

Is He here? A child, a man? Is He on some Death Row, waiting not for a cross this time but fiery death in a chair, or in the stink of a gas chamber?

Is He being held, bound, drugged, stupefied in your local asylum for the mentally ill in London, New York, Moscow, Tokyo or in ten thousand other hell holes? Bound and gagged because He said: ‘I am Christ of the Second Coming!’

If still a child is He now studying in a Los Angeles high school or in a Cairo madrassah; if an infant is He now having a grazed knee bound by a comforting carer in a Vladivostock nursery. If full grown is He a street cleaner, beggar, dishwasher, tailor, motor mechanic, stock market shares trader – any one of a billion human beings in any one of the world’s thousands of towns and cities?

All areas of natural speculation, and although in the nature of things there is no reason why they could not be matters of fact, I know that they are not a reality. For I know the reality! He is here – but He is none of these things.

Let’s consider the matter. Some 2,000 years ago a carpenter and a country girl had a child. Since then hundreds of millions have believed the carpenter was foster father to the child, whose mother was a virgin and whose true father was God. They believe the child grew up to be miracle worker, a healer, a man-god who was executed and then rose from the dead.

Right? Right!

And almost from the start those who believed were taught that there would be a second coming of this Son of Mary and Joseph, the Messiah. He would return – and there were many in the early days who believed it would be as early as the day after tomorrow. The urgency seems to have gone out of it all in recent centuries. But it’s still a central core of the faith – He will return.

But here’s the odd thing. As soon as there’s more than a hint that the Return is imminent – or has indeed taken place – the non-believers scoff, career churchmen ruffle their skirts, and believers either panic or hope the Coming will not be too soon – a distant day after a very distant tomorrow will do. The rarest creature on the planet – apart from a true new Messiah – is the man or woman who will eagerly say: ‘Welcome, Lord.’ The world is still full of innkeepers with No Vacancies signs on their doors.

‘Why is this?’ you ask. Why is the welcome mat so conspicuous by its absence? Is it because most of us hate unexpected change (unless it’s the big one on the lottery)? Or is it because believers and unbelievers alike equate the Messiah’s Second Coming with the Immediate End of the World. Armageddon? A big mistake, that. He is hardly like to return and immediately say, ‘Well, that’s it, folks! YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED! I’m here again to wrap it up on behalf of my Father.’

Just what will happen, only He can say – and he’s not talking at the moment. But it’s unlikely that history will be repeating itself this time around – at least not in detail.

Nevertheless, although Daniel and John the Evangelist might have been a bit over the top with their prophesies, a mite heavy with the sulphur, brimstone and fire in the new recipe – you can bet your bottom dollar, shekel, pound, yen, rupee or deutsch that something nasty this way comes – if this time around the world ignores what He has to say.

The signs are not good.

And while I speak of ‘He’ as a gender convenience and a bow in the direction of tradition it may well be that the new Messiah is a female. I KNOW the Messiah is with us – but I cannot say if the new Messiah is boy or a girl.

*

I DO know the Messiah is the child of Joe and Mirriam Richardson. Joe, in a hypnotic trance, went through the Golgotha Gate, back to Jerusalem 2,000 years ago and entered into the persona of Christ. I don’t know how it happened, it may have been some form of previously unknown spiritual or physical symbiosis bridging space and time, a link across millennia. As for the why, in some way Joe became an instrument in a new act of creation. For that, he paid with his life. My role in the affair may carry an even greater price tag. For both of us – another Why.

What does it all mean? In part it means accepting – or rejecting – a paradox. The return of Christ was set in place at the end of His last earthly incarnation and triggered by people living 2,000 years in His future. Now.

***

Murphy finished straightening an ornament on top of the miniature Christmas tree at the back of the bar, a little glittery cross that had been standing lopsided. It seemed at times as though he’d been adjusting the cross for an eternity.

He joined the stranger at the bar and said, ‘It’s really weird the way he’s carrying on – talking nine to the dozen. He wasn’t drunk when he came in – otherwise I’d have barred him. He’s sober – he’s only had two large whiskies. He came in the day after Christmas and sat there talking – he wasn’t talking to himself, if you know what I mean, he was the same as tonight. He’s talking to someone – but there’s nobody there with him. It’s almost as though he’s rehearsing a speech. Every night for the past week he’s done it.’

The stranger sipped at his light beer, then said,. ‘He has company of sorts – but it’s nobody you can see.’

‘Christmas, December 25. You might think it strange that the second coming took place on that date,’ the stranger said, apropos of nothing and everything.

‘I’ve never thought about it,’ Murphy said.

‘Not many people have – they haven’t caught up with it yet,’ said the stranger. ‘The first time around it was what you might call a convenience date – a handy point of reference for the people of the time. So why use the same date now? Well, let’s just say the Big Planner who arranges these things occasionally likes a touch of synchronicity. A fable has long since become fact – so why not use accepted fable–fact to reinforce continuity?’

Murphy gave the stranger a sideways look; he was finding it difficult to focus on the man; seen at a glance from the corner of his eye the stranger looked eight feet tall and broad as a tank. Frontal views, and in straight focus, there was a difference. Then he was 5 ft 6 inches tall and thin and pale as a consumptive Victorian poet.

Murphy pointed to a book the stranger had brought with him. ‘A Christmas present?’ he asked.

‘You might call it that,’ the stranger said.

‘Is it a best seller?’

‘It’s not exactly what you might call a best seller, there are only two copies – one kept by the Author, and this one. But it’s never been out of the Top Ten in the literary discussion stakes.’

‘What are those red wax tabs on the pages?’ asked Murphy.

‘They are seals,’ said the stranger.

‘What kind of seals?’ asked Murphy. ‘There seem to be a lot of them.’

‘There are seven of them. They are to prevent the book being read – except by a person who has the key to the seals.’

‘That’s a funny kind of book,’ said Murphy.

‘I would not call it funny – in a humorous sense,’ he replied. ‘It is the Final Book of Daniel. Altogether not much of a laugh.’

‘So when are you going to break the seals?’ Murphy asked.

‘I’m not,’ said the stranger. ‘It is not for me.’

‘You said it was a Christmas gift.’

The stranger nodded affirmation. ‘It is a Christmas and birthday gift for a newborn child. I am merely a messenger.’

Murphy gave him an odd look. ‘If you don’t mind me saying so it’s a queer sort of gift to give a baby, not even a second–hand book – more twelfth-hand I’d say.’

‘Twelfth-hand? Oh, no! More – much, much more – than that,’ murmured the stranger.

‘It’s leather – it has a faint smell of goat about it. If it’s a gift, why isn’t it gift-wrapped?’ asked Murphy.

‘This gift has never had need for wrappings,’ the stranger said.

‘What is the book about?’ asked Murphy ‘I’ve never heard of it.’

‘It concerns prophesy. It contains the futures of all mankind.’

‘What do you mean futures? There can only be one.’

‘Not so! No future is ever set in stone – therefore no prophesy can be exact.’

The stranger finished his light beer and stood up. Murphy thought he’d grown several inches taller since entering the tavern. Nodding to the speaker in the booth he said, ‘I have to go. I would appreciate it if you would give the book to him when he leaves – he knows of the child. Also give him this card to go with the book.

Murphy, reluctantly, took the book and the card, which said, ‘For the chosen one.’ ‘But who is he?’ he asked, pointing to the speaker hidden in the booth.

‘His name is Kirkham, Doctor Kirkham, and he helped in his own small way to open what he calls the Golgotha Gate. He is, you might say, a godfather for the child for whom this book is destined.’

‘He must be the fellow mixed up in all this Messiah business. The one whose friend was killed! There have been all sorts of opinion polls about that pair,’ Murphy said.

The stranger replied, ‘I take little notice of opinion polls. It was an opinion poll that nailed Christ to the cross.’

Murphy understood little of this. ‘And who are you?’ he asked.

‘Michael,’ said the stranger.

‘That’s a good Irish name!’ Murphy declared, a sense of relief in his voice, ‘very popular in Ireland.’

‘It was a popular name, one might say everywhere, aeons before there were snakes or saints in Ireland,’ said Michael, for the first time smiling.

Suddenly there was a loud cry from the hidden speaker. ‘Why?’ he shouted. Then again, ‘Why?’

Michael said, ‘Why? Interesting question – the eternal question.’

‘There is a tale that the serpent, a distant relative of mine (he had legs in those days), asked that question the day before the creation of Eden.’

‘Our Master said, Serpent, I have a job for you.’

‘Yes, Lord, said the Serpent, basking in the rays of the newly created sun and not too happy to be disturbed, but only too aware that when HE wanted something done it was best to obey without question.’

‘Tomorrow I am planning a Paradise for my new creation, Man. And you have an appointment there. This is what I want you to do. And so he unveiled His plan for Eden.’

‘The serpent said: I don’t understand. Please repeat it.’

‘The Creator repeated His plan.’

‘Why? asked the serpent.’

‘He received no reply – as so often is the case,’ said Michael.

Michael salvaged two soggy potato crisps from a glass dish and chewed on them. ‘The Serpent actually asked two questions. The first was: Why are you putting rotten apples in your new Eden? The second was: Why must I be the fall guy?’

Michael shook his head as though a sad thought had crossed his mind. ‘The serpent was deprived of his legs, Man lost his innocence and Death came into the world. The Serpent was also condemned to loss of speech, hence his hissing. That’s what you can get for asking the wrong questions – and forgetting that freewill has its limits. There are some who say it was a pretty harsh sentence – for a first offence. Especially for the Serpent – who was only carrying out orders.’

‘Does that include you? Is that what you think,’ asked Murphy, relieved that he’d finally caught hold of a few words of a conversation that for the most part had flown high over his head.

‘Sorry,’ said Michael, suddenly in a hurry, ‘I can’t stay to discuss the whys and wherefores in more detail. But you – any one of you – might consider this: Is the answer to be found in the question itself?’ As he passed through the swing doors into the dark night he called out, to no one in particular, ‘I’ve lots of messages to do. It’s a busy time for me – I must fly!’

***

The monologue had ceased and there was a brooding silence for several minutes before the speaker rose and approached the bar, empty glasses in hand. ‘I apologise for any inconvenience – I have been in a state of confusion recently, and I rarely drink. Thank you for your hospitality, and good night. I have a funeral to attend tomorrow,’ he said and began heading for the exit. ‘Before you go,’ Murphy said, ‘I have something for you. The customer who was at the bar left this book for you – he said you are Dr Kirkham. Is that right?’

Kirkham nodded. ‘I saw his reflection in your bar mirror – I thought I had seen him before somewhere. Did he give his name?’

‘Yes, his name is Michael,’ Murphy said as he handed the book and card to Kirkham.

‘It would be,’ murmured Kirkham. He read the card. ‘Someone else will have to complete the delivery,’ he said. He stared at the book and held it gingerly as though he’d been handed a ticking bomb. He fingered the seals. ‘They look like red wax but I get the feeling of enormous strength.’

‘What is the book for?’ asked Murphy.

‘It could hold the key to the future,’ Kirkham said. ‘It could open the door to hell – or a new Eden. Much will depend on the reception given to its new owners.’

With that he passed out into the night. As he left Murphy called after him, ‘I remember you. You’re mixed up with that Messiah man. It’s him you’re going to bury!’

The soughing wind blew in little eddies of snow as the door swung to and fro. But there was no reply from Kirkham.

Murphy locked the door behind him and returned to the bar. He shivered; the wind through the door had chilled the room. ‘I need a drink – several drinks,’ he muttered. As he drank he began carefully to pack away, ready for another year, the Christmas tree decorations. As he reached for the glittery little cross he saw it was once again lopsided. ‘That’s that for another year,’ he said as he taped the lid firmly to the shoe box that was the permanent home of the gaudy little baubles and the cross. ‘It ought to be cleaned – or replaced,’ Murphy murmured. ‘I wonder how much crosses cost now.’

CHAPTER 1

Joseph Richardson

AT 33 I was a successful newspaper and magazine journalist when the hypnotherapist John Kirkham made a rather unwelcome entry into my life. I’d previously ‘heard’ of him in the sense that once in a while I’d seen him on TV chat shows, or scanned articles he’d written for the press. We all have a file and forget section in the brain, and that is where the Kirkham material had lodged in my consciousness – for all intents and purposes unseen and unheard.

So it came as a shock when my editor at International Affairs told me Kirkham was my next major assignment.

The editor at International is Charles Wooster (but with a name like Wooster he is, naturally, always known as Bertie).

Unlike the P.G. Wodehouse character there is nothing effete or weedy about Bertie, either physically or mentally. He usually stands erect at 6' 4", although he loses height when there is a slight bow to his shoulders at times of extreme fatigue or distress.

When Bertie broke the news to me about Kirkham, my first question was: ‘Why me?’ It wasn’t a question he answered immediately. ‘Dr Kirkham has agreed to a request that he be interviewed by one of our writers – as well as allowing in-depth observation of his work.’

Bertie got up, walked to the window, and surveyed the world 15-storeys below.

‘You know,’ he said, ‘there was no great controversy about Kirkham’s work – at least that part of it that had to do with his pain relief and healing sessions (although some doctors have had a great deal to say about that!). However, his more recent activities dealing with pre-birth regression – that is, the ability of a person to in effect travel back in time and assume the body and mind of long dead people – to see and experience what those people have seen and experienced – that has caused some controversy.’

Bertie had turned his back on me as though embarrassed by the subject.

‘As a matter of fact,’ I said, ‘I didn’t know.’ I paused. ‘You seem to forget that I’ve only just returned from a three-month assignment covering the new oil and gas field developments in the Caspian area.’

‘You’ll have seen from my reports that there’s likely to be a major explosion in the area. And I don’t mean gas main explosions. The Yanks, the Iranians, the Russians and the Chinese are only four of the players carefully measuring the distance to each others throats. It’s in one of those God-forsaken areas so little known to the world’s dumb billions that Armageddon could start there and be well underway before most people had finished their breakfast cornflakes.’

‘That’s the story I need to be following.’

Bertie turned. ‘Of course I’m aware of what you’ve been doing. But you need a break from that kind of high pressure reporting from time to time. And this is one of those times.’

He gave me a quizzical look. ‘The story needs someone who is a fair investigator, but who is prepared to approach the subject with a cold, calculating, analytical mind.’

He grinned. ‘I think you fit the bill. Just treat it as an off-beat story – but one that needs to be handled with respect.’

I grinned back. ‘I suppose I ought to protest – but I know it won’t do any good. You wanted an old cynic, and you’ve got a young one – me.’

‘Good man,’ he said. ‘Take your time – the and I know you won’t forget that first-hand experience gives greater depth to a story.’

‘What are you implying?’ I asked.

‘If the report is to carry any weight, pro or con, you should undergo hypnosis – become one of Kirkham’s subjects. He has agreed to this – but only if you are completely willing.’

We shook hands, and as I turned to leave, I said, ‘I’ll think it over.’

***

When I left Bertie I took with me an obituary file on Kirkham – for later reading, I decided. My first priority was a drink.

Before heading for home I went to the Ink Spot, a favourite oasis and the watering hole of generations of London journalists before Fleet Street lost so many of its newspapers in the flight to cheaper, hi-tech premises.

But in the early evenings some journalists still returned from the aseptic newer Thames dockside office sites to more familiar and welcoming surroundings. One or two I knew were there that evening, and over a slow drink in