He looked a bit like Dylan in the sixties, without a guitar. On a clear blue day in Palestine, two thousand years ago. We’d got the time and place nearly right, only missing the main events by a year or two. Still, it was great – resting in the shade of a fig tree on the south-eastern slope of the Mount of Olives. The air was fantastic! This had been my suggestion for the young offenders’ outing and an inspired one, I thought – or at least, less disastrous than last year’s choice.

I was just reminding them for the enth time to stay close – “Are you listening to me, Patrick?”

“Yes, Miss” – meekly mocking. The others snorted.

“It’s me that’ll be held responsible if you bugger up history!”

Patrick wasn’t a bad lad, at heart – or in fact, at all. He’d just never had a chance. Violent stepfather, then his mum taken by cancer. Drugs and petty crime; the usual. Trinity House. Out, back again. “Oh Patrick, what are we to do with you?”

“Dunno, Miss.”

Anyway, so Jesus – I forgot to say, he was accompanied by five or six young men, I suppose his disciples, well they all stopped and looked in our direction. I had the Visiquell safe in my pocket and it was working fine, so they couldn’t see us, I was sure, but still... One of the disciples gestured impatiently. Something about the fig tree. I tried to understand what they were saying, but without a translataid (budget cuts) it was hopeless.

Then a breath on my cheek – “Sorry, Miss. See yers.”

“What are you doing? Patrick! Come back!”

Too late – he was already out of range, visible. Walking with that limp he turns into a swagger. The disciples moved as though to protect Jesus, to cut him off, but he wouldn’t let them. Then Patrick knelt and kissed the hem of Jesus’s garment. It was actually – although at the time I could have throttled him – quite moving. Our Patrick’s always larking about, taking the piss. Not now, though.

He got to his feet. Jesus embraced him. I knew then, we’d lost Patrick. So – damage limitation. Take everyone you can, and go.

***

I should be filing my report, instead I was reading the Bible. Patrick spat in the face of a centurion. Flogged, then crucified. History changed as I riffled back through the pages. Here was the fig tree. Jesus cursed the tree because it – no – no – the words shimmered and dazzled. I was back on the Mount of Olives, Jesus looking at me over Patrick’s shoulder. He saw.

The word barren vanished from the page. Jesus blessed the fig tree. I put my hand to my belly, above my womb. And praised God’s mercy.