Gethsemane Revisited

James Brophy

Description

Jerome is an unremarkable young man who discovers he has a remarkable gift. He cantravel back in time...There are three rules to his time travelling adventures - he cannot change history, only hewill remember what happened and he can never prove it.Jerome delves into the past, meeting famous people and asking the questions he's alwayswanted answers to - but as time passes, his desire to share his secret becomes overwhelming. A confession to a brother leads to his family thinking his special powers are merely delusions. But who is right? He must set off on one final journey back to the past to answer this questiononce and for all.

Sujets

• Fantasy (canción de Mariah Carey)
• Escocia
• Contemporary fantasy
• Scotland
• Fantasy

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 28 octobre 2020
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781800467460
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

About the Author
James Brophy grew up in Belfast during ‘The Troubles’, but most of his working life has been spent in Dublin, where he currently lives with his wife Martina. Deeply involved in Irish politics, he has a lifelong fascination with history and travel, which influenced this novel.



Copyright © 2020 James Brophy

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

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ISBN 9781800467460

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

Grateful acknowledgement is made for permission by ‘The Dylan Thomas Trust’ to reproduce excerpts from the poem, ‘After the Funeral’.

Many thanks to all my family and friends who contributed so generously of their time in helping me to write this story. Particular thanks to my wife Martina and daughters Catherine and Jenny, and also to Jane Adams for her insightful guidance. And a special mention for my sister Maura for her unflagging support and amazing confidence that I could complete a novel.
Contents
About the Author
Introduction

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
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47

Epilogue
Introduction
It could be that every message has its time, and perhaps mine is not now. Or maybe it’s the understanding and acceptance of the message that require patience. We will see. I have done what I believe was asked of me. This is my story; only I know what happened, and I know what happened.
Chapter 1
Nuremberg, Germany; 5th August 1929; 11.05am
“ Dr Goebbels, may I speak with you a moment?”
He turned and stared at Jerome; a politician’s face, inscrutable but ready, if necessary, to alter to a smile of recognition. Slowly, his small eyes narrowed. “Do I know you?” He walked cautiously towards Jerome, who was clutching a light-brown envelope in his left hand.
“No, but I want to speak to your Führer and…” Jerome raised his left hand slowly. “I need to give him this envelope. It contains photographs that I think will be of great interest to him.”
Men – many in their brown, Sturmabteilung (SA) military-style uniforms – continued to pass in and out of the sunlit entrance hall, oblivious to this conversation.
Goebbels’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Is this some sort of blackmail attempt?”
“No, not at all,” confirmed Jerome.
Goebbels moved very close to him, much closer than necessary for normal conversation. It was almost as though he were sniffing Jerome to get as much sensory information as possible. “Who are you?” he asked slowly. Goebbels was small in stature, but, if anything, this seemed to add to the edge of menace in his voice.
“My name is Jerome Black. I’m not from this country and…” he lowered his voice before continuing, “of much more relevance, Dr Goebbels, I am not from this time. I can be here for only a few hours, and I need to speak to your Führer .” Jerome offered the envelope to him; they were so close that he needed to step back to make it clear the offer was being made.
Goebbels said nothing, but looked him up and down briefly, and then stared directly into his face.
Jerome feared he was about to be dismissed or worse. “Dr Goebbels, I’m someone unique. This is the only opportunity your Führer will have to talk to me.” Jerome stared back at him. “I assure you I’m not mad.”
Without looking at it, Goebbels took the envelope and called over two men who had been standing patiently behind him. “Watch this man; I’ll be back soon.” He was about to go when he said tersely, “Search him,” then, looking at the smaller of the two men, he added, “thoroughly.”
Jerome was ushered into a quiet, windowless room with pale-blue walls from which the paint was beginning to flake in places. It smelled of disinfectant and reminded him of the nursing home where he had visited his grandmother, Helga. He thought of her at that moment, remembering her passion and defiance, even when she knew she was dying. The image reassured him, and he felt his resolve strengthen.
The body search was thorough and, in Jerome’s view, unnecessarily intimate. They showed an interest in his watch, but returned it to him without comment. Their check of his passport was careless and did not even extend to a comparison of the photograph with his face. He was, however, questioned about the contents of the second envelope, which he had in the inside pocket of his jacket, but Jerome had taken the precaution of writing in German on the envelope, “STRICTLY PERSONAL, FOR THE EYES OF ADOLF HITLER ONLY”. He pointed to this and said firmly that he could not divulge its contents. The smaller man squeezed it carefully and, satisfied that it contained nothing dangerous, returned it. Surprisingly, Jerome’s silver ring was the object that aroused most interest, and he was sure it was interest rather than suspicion. They wanted to know the significance of the design on the ring; though when he explained it was the national emblem of Scotland, they seemed to lose their curiosity. He noticed they also were wearing silver rings but with a swastika rather than a thistle design on the front.
The three men sat and waited, saying nothing.
“Do you think he’ll be much longer?” asked Jerome eventually, more to break the uncomfortable silence than with any realistic expectation of a helpful reply.
The guards shrugged their shoulders and made no further response.
Jerome looked at his watch and did not try to hide his agitation. Ten minutes more elapsed before he spoke again. “Would you inform Dr Goebbels immediately that I cannot stay much longer?”
The two guards moved their heads together to converse quietly. “You’ll have to wait here until Dr Goebbels returns,” said the smaller one with smiling conviction.
His colleague tugged a cigarette from the breast pocket of his brown shirt, lit it and stared distractedly at the concrete floor, as the smoke drifted upwards to the two bright light bulbs and across the cool room. Jerome inhaled the polluted air deeply and felt some of his tension ease.
Shortly afterwards, the door opened. Goebbels came part way into the room, scanned it, then walked purposefully towards Jerome and stood over him. “Where did you get those photographs?” he demanded.
“The originals were in newspapers. The photographs are printed copies,” Jerome replied.
“What newspapers?”
Jerome began to stand up, but Goebbels’s firm hand on his shoulder arrested his progress. “Please remain sitting, Herr Black. What newspapers?”
Jerome breathed hard before replying, “German newspapers. The details are on the bottom of each photograph.”
“But the dates are in the future. Are you telling me these are from German newspapers in the future? Is that what you’re saying?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying, Dr Goebbels.”
Goebbels turned to the two men and gave a dismissive smile. “Well, I’m afraid you’ll have to do better than that, Herr Black. I ask you again, where did you get those photographs?”
The two guards moved forwards in their seats, their faces alert with anticipation.
Tilting his head back, Jerome looked directly at the sallow, menacing face just above him. “Dr Goebbels, I’ve come a long way – an unimaginably long way – to see Adolf Hitler, not you. In just under four hours, I’ll be gone, never to return. This one time only your Führer has an unparalleled opportunity to know about the future. Not crystal-ball gazing about what might happen, but details about exactly what will happen. So, are you going to deny him this unique chance to know the future?”
For a few moments, Goebbels did not move. Then, unfolding his arms, he smiled benignly, sat down and brushed a few flecks of dust from the knees of Jerome’s pinstriped trousers. “Indulge me for a while longer, Herr Black. Tell me, where are you from?”
“I’m from Scotland; the city of Glasgow.”
“Scotland; you are British?”
“Yes.”
“May I see your papers?”
Jerome handed him the passport.
For a moment, Goebbels seemed taken aback as he stared at this unfamiliar document. Then, frowning with suspicion, he rubbed his fingers gently over the stiff, burgundy-coloured outside cover, as though assessing a delicate piece of material, before opening it slowly. “You speak very good German; how come?”
“My father is from Germany.”
Goebbels’s eyes lit up as he continued to s