If Jesus was real, he would not arrive in a halo of soft focus. He would be a postcode in a rubble-strewn district of the Levant. A wet rattle of grey dust returning from the ruin of a Gazan high-rise. An Arab man with the dirt of the occupation under his fingernails. The genealogy of the dispossessed written in the sweat on his brow. He would be the immigrant stumbling through the Kentish surf. Lungs a heavy sponge of salt and oil and death. A stateless ghost in a high-vis world that only counts the dead. What if he returned as Hind Rajab? Six years of light extinguished in the back of a black Kia. Surrounded by the cold metal of his own people’s ghosts. Screaming into a dead phone line while the tanks hummed their low mechanical hymn. The red machinery of the heart stopped by a precision strike. No angels came to the rescue. Only the dial tone and the smell of scorched upholstery. A child’s blood staining the map of a promised land. What if he was the miscarried hope in a water...