It Was a Cover Up

There were very few memories that Spagzie had of his father. He’d been abandoned at the tender age of eleven, about four years before his mother died from the overdose.

The memories he did have of his father were mostly those mundane things that seem to stick in your head for no particular reason. Like hearing his pocket full of change approaching before you’d actually see him. Or the way he used to get incredibly animated watching the football, screaming at the telly each Saturday morning.

Of those memories, only one of them was interesting. And it just so happened that this memory would go on to shape Spagzie’s worldview for the rest of his life. Sometimes, he found himself thinking back to that day, especially during those long, lonely hours sat in the cold stairwell without a soul to talk to. When there, he could find himself lost in his own world, sometimes of his own making, and sometimes memories of times past. Back when everything felt much simpler.

Today was one of those days.

At nine years old, Spagzie hadn’t yet acquired his nickname. No, back then, he was known simply by the name his parents had christened him. It would be some time until Spagzie would be born anew.

“Alright mate,” his father had said when he walked through the front door with his mum.

“Callum’s been learning about God,” his mum had said, heading into the kitchen to make a start on dinner. And it was true, little Callum was at big school now, and at big school they tackle the big subjects. Like God and maths and stuff.

Little Callum, he ran up to his dad – who was slouched down in the armchair of the living room, where he spent most of his time – eager to tell him all about the big man upstairs.

“Daddy, you know about God?”

“Call me Digby mate, remember?”

“Sorry Dad-, Digby.”

Digby was never comfortable with being a father. If truth be told, he wanted it aborted when he first heard the news. It worried him no end that a kid would just get in the way of his football time. But even still, he tried his best when he could. Of course, if Fulham were playing, the kid could fuck right off. But today, as it happened, there was no game, so Digby was quite welcoming to the distraction of his son.

Callum jumped up on his dad’s knee and told him all about God. He told his dad how God had made the heaven and the earth and how He made people and how His son had to die so the world could be saved. He told him everything he felt his father should know.

Digby sat listening to his son, patiently taking it all in. On the outside, he presented a calm exterior, enjoying his son’s passion. But on the inside, he was fuming. What were they teaching at those schools nowadays? His son would need to be put right.

“See, that’s the thing about religion, mate.” Digby said to little Callum, “They’ve been lying to you this whole time.”

This was Digby speaking, the fumes of the Airfix glue sticking to his face, burning the inside of his throat. He tried to hide the habit from his son, but deep down he knew it was impossible. He took solace, however, in the understanding that it was only through the glue that he was able to reach such revelations about the world and how it worked. So, on the whole, he wasn’t too concerned about keeping it a secret.

“It’s based on a poor product,” Digby continued, the fumes of the glue dancing around his brain, barely keeping the nausea at bay.

“What do you mean?” Callum asked, his eyes as wide as saucers.

“You see,” Digby began, settling into story mode, “it goes like this…”

In ancient times, absolutely ages ago, there was a bloke living just outside of Jerusalem. He was a struggling businessman, always looking for ways to earn a living. And on one of the few breaks he allowed himself, he was relaxing and reading the newspaper.

“Were there newspapers back then?” Callum asks.

“Of course there was.” Digby volleys. “Don’t interrupt.”

So, there he is, our struggling businessman, reading the day’s paper. Glancing through, he looks at the latest horoscopes, horse racing results, footie scores, and grain market updates. Done with all that, he closes the paper and, again, read the headline on the cover.

Local lunatic in need of punishment, it said.

“Now,” Digby says, “Being of an entrepreneurial spirit — and always looking to make a crust, a bit like myself — our man here gets an idea.”

You see, for a while, our hero experimented with woodworking, but soon discovered he was no good. Being the ever frugal bloke, however, he didn’t want to get shot of the scrap wood, so instead used the pile of planks as a bench — the very same bench he happened to be sitting on as he read the paper.

His idea, the stroke of pure genius, was to make the most of the wood.

“Close your eyes for a bit,” Digby says to his son, who dutifully obliges. From his pocket, Digby pulls a paper bag and a small tube of Airfix glue. The good stuff. “I won’t bore you here,” he says, pouring a long line of glue into a paper bag, dropping his nose deep inside and taking a big, deep breath, “But our businessman, through much trial and error, makes something he thinks will work. Then lugs it to the local prison.”

Digby secretes his glue and bag back into his pocket, letting it work its magic in his brain. “You can open your eyes again,” he says to his son. Even though the glue worked wonders when it comes to assisting in the unravelling of the world’s complexities and allowing Digby to see history in a linear timeline, he didn’t want his son to see him with his nose in the bag. There were some things you just had to keep hidden from kids.

Our man, the entrepreneur, carries his creation for miles and miles, dragging it through the sand and across cobbles to finally lay it at the door of the prison.

He knocks on the door, and is greeted by a warden.

“Hello,” the warden says.

“Hello,” the man replies, “I’ve seen the paper. In there, you’ve got someone who needs to be punished. Here’s the answer.” He kicks the large wooden cross propped up against the prison wall.

The warden takes a look, before saying: “Come right in.”

“Let me not bore you again,” Digby says, the glue dripping in gelatinous globs down his shirt front, “but we can fast forward a tad here.”

Long story short, the city – whoever was in charge of Jerusalem back then – buys our man’s cross. They bloody love it. Such a harsh and cruel execution is just what the heretic needed.

And now, standing on the hill a few days later, our man is looking at his cross, and the bearded, loin-cloth clad man nailed to it.

All in a day’s work, the man thinks, holding a wad of cash in his hands.

“You see where I’m going with this?” Digby asks his wide-eyed son, seeing three of him through the fog of Airfix glue playing havoc with his brains.

“I do…” his son replies.

The man, happy with his work, goes to bed. The next day passes without incident. He heard something about the body of the executed man (the method of which the papers had taken to calling a crucifixion) being taken to a cave. The day after, too, was fine. A little windy, but nothing too bad.

The problem arose on the third day.

Our man woke up to the day’s newspaper on his doorstep. Bleary eyed, he crouched down to get it, and took his seat on the usual pile of wood, which was, of course, now two planks lower down.

Rubbing his eyes, he took a look at the front page of the paper: Crucified man rises from the dead!

Shit, our man thinks. He reads the article which, to cut to the chase, basically says: This fella Jesus Christ, who we bloody nailed to a cross to a few days ago, has only gone and been found alive again. Mental.

Our man, he’s freaked out.

The execution method he sold to the city of Jerusalem, to put it bluntly, didn’t work. Worse, in fact. By some quirk of fate or black magic or whatever you want to call it, the guy they killed only bloody came back to life.

What do I do? What do I do? What do I do?

He read the first article from a few days ago, for he had a habit of keeping old newspapers, to look at why they crucified the poor man. Turns out, he was claiming to be the son of God. All holy and that.

A lightbulb goes off in our man’s head.

Quick as a flash, he runs to the local market, where he knew all the latest gossip would be circulating around the various busybodies milling about the place. Standing on the outskirts, he has a quick glance around, and identifies his targets.

Ishmael, Matthew, Mark, Peter, and John were all known for being the biggest gossips in the city. Safe to say, a few well-placed remarks would work wonders. He couldn’t have the people of Jerusalem knowing he was a shoddy carpenter, or worse, involved with reanimation rituals or something like that. Even if it was a fluke the guy had come back to life.

One by one, he makes his way around the market, dropping a few select pieces of information here and there to the gossips:

“I hear he really is the son of God — how else could he do that?”

“There’s definitely something holy about him.”

“I don’t know how he did that, but clearly he was telling the truth.”

“Blokes only the bloody son of God, ain’t he?”

“I hear Luke down the pub saw that Jesus walking on the lake last week.”

And just like that, his day’s work was done. Back at home, he enjoyed the remainder of the day indoors, reading a few books here and there. Perhaps watching a bit of telly.

The next week passed without issue. Then the next month. Then six months. Safe to say, nobody was any the wiser about his involvement. His well-placed rumours had successfully covered his back. In fact, they were doing a whole lot more than that.

The word on the market was that the whole city was starting to believe that this man, this Jesus, really was the son of God. They were starting to believe all his stories about being the most holy man on earth.

“You see,” Digby says, “The whole story of Jesus being reborn is nonsense.”

“I can’t believe it,” Callum replies.

“Well, do. This bad carpenter somehow made a crucifix so bad that it not only didn’t kill its victim, but also gave him enough strength to push that big rock away from the cave.”

Digby told his son that once a following had sprung up around Jesus, he cashed in on the whole thing, and started to make a mint off it. Thing was, he had to keep up the charade of being the son of God, lest they realise he was just a normal fella.

So Jesus formally created a religion, and called it Christianity. A bit cheeky, when you think about it. Naming a whole religion after yourself. That’s like Digby starting one and calling it Digbyology. Anyway, he had some of the gossips from the market – who were by this point complete believers in Jesus’s holy nature – write a book. They, too, went a bit overboard.

They actually wrote several books and bound it all together. And most of them named the books after themselves too! Jesus handled the bit about how the world came to be himself. Although he couldn’t figure it out, so just said God – his dad – did it all in six days, then had a little kip on the seventh. Job done.

“Is that what really happened?” Calum asks his father.

“Of course it is. They don’t teach you it in school ‘cos the church has got too much money. Once they started raking it in, they had to keep the ball rolling, didn’t they?”

After explaining all this to his son, revealing what was the biggest con in the history of the universe, Digby asked him to close his eyes once more. As he took another big hit of the glue, the fumes rushed to his head. Passing out in the chair, he was happy in the knowledge that he’d imparted yet more wisdom to his young apprentice.

The fumes took over and Digby was out like a light.

The young Spagzie, stunned by his father’s encyclopaedic knowledge of history and theology, looked upon him with reverence. Without his father, he’d have no idea the school was lying to him. He’d have no idea that the Bible left out such crucial details.

He didn’t know at the time, but this would lead him on a spiritual journey through the ages, and ultimately to his own religious awakening. Now he knew the true origin of Jesus Christ and Christianity, he wanted to keep this secret with him at all times.

Seeing his sleeping father, he gazed down at the bag. The intense aroma of glue wafting up to sting his nostrils. With curiosity getting the better of him, young Spagzie picked it up and took a big sniff.

This day would stick with Callum, the young Spagzie, for his whole life. His father had changed the way he saw the world in two ways. Spagzie knew, for certain, the true origin of Jesus Christ. And too, a lifelong love of all things chemical was born on that very day.

The young Spagzie – the nine-year-old son of his glue-addict father – blacked out, letting the bag drop to the floor. And there he and his father slept, only awoken when it was time for tea.