The Unhappy Medium 3: Wretched Things: A Supernatural Comedy, page 11
‘Look, old fella,’ said Helena, playing the good cop. ‘Please, forgive mein papa. He is tired. He is angry, I grant you, but he is also right. Ve really need to bring this quest to a conclusion. Vot do ve do?’
‘We keep going,’ answered the old man. ‘As I have said, the caves cannot all have been sealed. Of that, I am certain. But, it will take as long as it takes. There are still more caves to test. Here …,’ he continued, holding out a hand, the leathered fingers shaking. ‘The map … bring it to me.’
Helena opened her bag and pulled out a large map of Eastern Crete. ‘Here, … Papa, … help me spread it out for him.’
Reluctantly, her father ambled over and took one side of the map, stretching it out on the ground before the Cretan then securing it with four large rocks.
‘It’s in front of you,’ said Helena.
Still looking dead ahead, the blind man nodded. Slowly, he lifted his cane.
‘Not this pantomime again,’ huffed Dr Kraakenhausen, rolling his eyes.
‘Shhh, Papa,’ urged Helena, frowning reproachfully. ‘Let him verk.’
The cane wobbled uncertainly in the old man’s liver-spotted hands, hovering just above the map. Back and forth, the tip of the cane edged over the paper. Finally, it stopped, and, with a painful deliberation, made contact with the map below.
Then, as his dead eyes rolled in their sockets, the cane began to move again.
First, it slid quickly and decisively to their current location, tapping with a flickering uncertainty as he sensed. It shifted, sliding east, tracing the valleys and summits with uncanny accuracy as it went, almost as if the man’s milky eyes were still functioning.
Suddenly, with a jerk, it came to rest.
‘There!’ said the blind man, confidently tapping the map. ‘We look … there.’
Dr Kraakenhausen glanced at the blind man doubtfully, then leant forward and marked the map with the fountain pen he’d retrieved from his linen jacket. Sighing, the archaeologist stood, joints cracking noisily in the still mountain air, scepticism spreading across his face like jam.
‘Believe that, and you’ll believe anything.’
‘You are not obliged to believe anything,’ shrugged the blind man. ‘But, that is where my senses say we should go next.’
‘Ja, right,’ snorted the archaeologist. ‘Like the last time … and the time before that.’
‘Now, Papa,’ said Helena, placing her hand comfortingly upon his shoulder. ‘Don’t lose heart. Ve vill keep going, see vhere this new lead takes us. Vot else can we do?’ she smiled. ‘Perhaps a liiitle bit of good news might cheer you up?’
‘Vot a fool I am,’ blurted Dr Kraakenhausen, suddenly remembering. ‘Forgive me, daughter. How remiss of me! Ehngland! Of course! Tell me … vot happened?’
‘Vales, father,’ explained Helena. ‘Not Ehngland. And ja ….’
‘You got it!?’
Helena smiled the thinnest of smiles.
‘Ja, Papa …,’ she beamed. ‘I got it!’
‘The book!’ exclaimed Kraakenhausen. ‘You got the book!?’
She nodded with satisfaction, and on seeing this, her father performed a ludicrous little jig, new enthusiasm blowing away his earlier frustrations like cigar smoke.
‘Fantastiche!’
‘Not so simple as I’d hoped, admittedly,’ added Helena. ‘You ver right about paying for protection.’
‘There vos … trouble?’ asked her father, visibly concerned. ‘Mein Gott! Are you ok?’
‘Ja, ja …’, replied Helena. ‘A bit of shooting. Nothing I couldn’t handle. Ve ver away long before the authorities arrived.’
‘There were others?’ asked her father. ‘Purgatorians?’
‘Undoubtedly,’ confirmed Helena. ‘A priest and some arrogant Schwein in glasses, plus some other collectors with a bit of attitude. Voz ok. The Purgatorians fled. The fools! The rest agreed on a book each and wve left the way ve’d come. It vos nothing.’
‘There was more than one book?’
‘Ja, three of them,’ explained Helena. ‘Ve have ours. That’s the important thing, ja?’
‘Ja! Ja!’ replied Dr Kraakenhausen proudly. ‘Oh meine dear girl, meine precious Helena. Truly, you are as hard as ein nail. If only your mother could see how you have grown up. So tough, so resourceful, so very brave. You know, child, we named you after Helena, Constantine’s mother, the first archaeologist in history, and one very tough Frau. It voz Helena who found the True Cross … the most sacred of relics. Imagine that! How appropriate this name has been for you, for like a new Helena, you are so very strong. No papa could be prouder than I am of you.’
‘Oh, mein Papa,’ said Helena, blushing. ‘Stop it, you’re embarrassing me. I’m just glad to see you smiling again, you old softie. I know this quest is taking a lot from you.’ she patted him gently on the arm. ‘Do you think that this book vill make a difference?’
‘Oh, ya! I am quite sure it vill help enormously,’ replied her father. ‘This cursed island is avash vith ghosts. It is time that some of them verked for us.’
*****
‘For the love of God!’ wailed Eric the Greek. ‘Why, Crete?’ Purgatory’s prime bureaucrat was furious, throwing his spectral arms up and down, flouncing for all he was worth around his austere Purgatorial office.
‘Well, don’t blame me,’ protested Alex Sixsmith, shrugging. ‘Jameson made the decision, not me.’
‘Yes, but Crete,’ protested Eric. ‘Why Crete? Of all the stupid places to send Dr Barlow, he sends him … to Crete?’
‘What’s so bad about Crete?’ asked Alex. ‘Isn’t that just where the safe house happens to be?’
‘Crete has a hundred safe houses, Dr Sixsmith,’ explained Eric. ‘And for excellent reasons.’
‘Such as?’
‘No, even you cannot know of these things, Doctor,’ said Eric firmly. ‘There are strict protocols about Crete. Always have been. Even when I was still alive, it was so.’
‘Ok,’ shrugged Alex. ‘So you can’t tell me. But surely all Jameson has done is send Newton off to a villa somewhere to chill out. If he doesn’t know about this “big” secret of yours, then perhaps most likely he never will. Don’t tell him. I mean, where’s the danger?’
‘With Dr Barlow,’ sighed Eric, ‘there is always danger sooner or later. He has a way of finding things out, you know? He’s as good at asking questions as he is at getting into hot water. I have a terrible feeling about this.’
‘In all honesty, Eric, you’ve always got a bad feeling about something. From the outside, bad feelings are the only feelings you ever seem to have.’
‘Oh, I’m being emotional,’ snapped Eric defensively. ‘Is that it? Well, when Dr Barlow gets his questioning nose into dear old Crete, then we’ll see who’s “emotional”.’
‘Well, what do you want to actually do about it?’ asked Alex wearily. ‘You are too late to stop Newton going. He’s already flown. He’s been poolside, sipping retsina in the Cretan sun for two days already.’
‘He’ll be bored,’ lamented Eric. ‘Trust me. Barlow can’t rest, and that’s the problem. A bored Barlow is a dangerous Barlow. If he gets wind of what we’ve got down there … he won’t be able to stop himself.’
‘Well, keep him busy then,’ suggested Alex. ‘Give him something to do.’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know,’ shrugged Alex. ‘Don’t they have ghosts on Crete?’
‘Crete? Are you having a laugh?’ snorted Eric. ‘Crete is awash with ghosts. Minoans, Mycenaeans, Romans, Greeks, Brits, Venetians, Turks, Nazis … everyone and his wife is haunting the infernal place.’
‘Well then,’ said Alex, ‘give him a little wee joblette to keep him occupied. Once it’s done, send him home.’
‘I don’t know,’ sighed Eric despondently, ‘Who knows where that might lead? The laws of unforeseen circumstances loom large, I fear.’
‘Will be fine.’ suggested Alex reassuringly. ‘Look on your tablet thingy. See what comes up for Crete. Isn’t that how it works?’
‘Maybe … depends,’ huffed the Greek, foreboding skating across his face on dark frown lines as he began to pick at the screen, his fluttering fingers unlikely ever to get used to the technology. ‘Mmmm, surprisingly, there are a few,’ he conceded. ‘Some Romans messing up a taverna in Rethymno, dead ravers in Agios Nikolaos who are too drugged to realise they’re dead and … ah … this looks promising …. Bit of Nazi ephemera just popped up in Chania. Needs collecting and destroying. That sounds pretty mundane.’
‘Well, he’s not a million miles from Chania,’ said Alex. ‘He could a make a day of it.’
‘It may be a little more than a day,’ suggested Eric. ‘It’s not a shop, just some individual online. Seems our people have no idea where the location actually is, only that it’s in the Chania area. Dr Barlow will need to do some digging.’
‘Sounds promising,’ replied Alex. ‘He’s good at that sort of thing.’
‘Well, it could be helpful, I suppose,’ conceded Eric. ‘Some of these local units are clueless when the Internet is in the picture. They only know the relics are there because they’ve been giving off a bit of a stink.’
‘A stink?’ asked Alex.
‘Oh, you know. Spiritually,’ explained Eric. ‘The Nazi in question has been sounding off in his cell, indicating these relics may be leading to some mischief. National Socialist mischief.’
‘Well. we don’t want that,’ said Alex, trying to get a look at Eric’s tablet. ‘So, who exactly is this Nazi?’
‘General Maximilian Von Kraakenhausen,’ answered Eric, tilting the device away from his colleague’s line of sight. ‘Puffed up Prussian. Spent his World War on Crete, brutalising the locals. Horrible man. Many, many atrocities on his watch, I can tell you. He got away just before they could arrest him. Took the last plane back to Berlin in May ‘45, then vanished in South America. He was eventually tracked down by Mossad in 1963 after a fatal stroke in Argentina. Pity, his war crimes were most egregious. Should have faced living justice, not just Purgatorian.’
‘He’s gone all “vivid” then?’ asked Alex.
‘Yes,’ replied Eric. ‘Only started this week, but I’m told it’s been accelerating. We’ve got a watch on him. He’s banged up alongside all the other goose-stepping tosspots on floors 25 through 38. So many of them, goodness me.’
‘What exactly are these relics?’ asked Alex.
‘The usual Nazi mumbo jumbo: an iron cross, a Luger and some books on the occult. That sort of thing.’
‘I’ve seen it on the History Channel,’ confirmed Alex. ‘Demons of the Reich and all that.’
‘Exactly,’ said Eric. ‘He was quite the proponent of all that Wolfenstein silliness. But come ‘45, he was escaping too fast to pack it in his suitcase. Must have left it behind on the island for some random to discover.’
‘Well, if anyone can find it, it will be Newton,’ confirmed Alex with confidence. ‘He’s got a good nose for these things, and he detests Nazis.’
‘As anyone in their right mind should, Dr Sixsmith,’ exclaimed Eric. ‘Why … my job would be so much easier without Nazis. Have you any idea how much time I spend –?’
‘Does Jameson give him the job?’ interrupted Alex, keen to avoid the usual avalanche of jobs-worthiness. ‘Or someone else?’
‘Well,’ replied Eric, ‘I suspect it would be better if one of our local Greek officers got in touch. One of the Cretan branch can drop him his brief.’
‘Sounds great,’ said Alex.
Eric closed his tablet and sighed, looking out of his window towards the brilliant white columns of the building opposite.
And sighed.
Chapter 11
Chania
Meanwhile, at the Cretan safe house, Dr Newton Barlow was indeed bored. He was also angry … and irritated, the wretched sounds emanating from the villa next door now unignorable. The boorishness was incessant, swearing scattered in every sentence, no matter how mundane or exciting.
‘Who wants an effin’ biscuit?’
‘I think I’ve only blocked the pissin’ toilet again!’
‘’Ere, look at this fanny snap of Kim Kardashian, ya bunch of twatting wankers.’
Each football stadium chant or poorly executed gangster rap drove Newton further from any trace of mindfulness. His head pounding, he gave up the poolside and self-isolated in the spare bedroom, brooding.
With no other option, they’d done their best to escape, taking drives up into the mountains, searching out the more remote beaches and making the obligatory trip to Knossos to see the Palace of Minos and the Minoan-rich museum in Heraklion. As distracting as each of these may have been, the thought of what awaited them back at the villa hung like a veil of chip fat over the day. At the Museum in Heraklion, Newton had tried to lose himself in a huge Minoan fresco, the fragments depicting famous bull-leapers, though, somehow, he seemed to still be able to hear the monkeys next door at the back of his head.
‘What a mad thing to do!’ Gabby had remarked, pointing at the surprisingly enthusiastic young athletes in the fresco.
‘I doubt they really did that,’ laughed Newton. ‘It’s just mythology. They can’t have been much older than you. If you tried to do that … in real life, you’d be trampled and gored in seconds.’
‘That’s right,’ said Gabby. ‘Take the romance out of it, why don’tcha?’
‘It’s basic physics,’ explained Newton, trying to look reasonable. ‘The timing you’d need would be hairline thin. Not even cats can react that fast. And it’s not like you could get some practice in either, you know? Say with a helpful goat. You’d get one go at it, and then … splat! Where do we send the flowers?’
‘Odd thing to paint on a wall if it didn’t happen,’ remarked Viv. ‘I'm afraid I think it did happen.’
‘Me too,’ agreed Gabby.
‘Yeah? But you don’t really expect me to believe this. Wouldn’t surprise me if people on this island are convinced about the existence of Medusa or centaurs, and all the rest. Just plain gullible. Well, I’m more interested in the Minoan language.’ Newton, pointed at a case full of clay tablets. ‘See those marks? That’s Linear A, an as-yet undeciphered language. How exciting is that? Archaeologists have no idea what they mean. Not a clue. Best minds in the business have sweated buckets on those little scribbles. Linear B, they’ve worked out, but Linear A … nope. Still a mystery. I’d love to crack something like that. Can you imagine?’
‘I’ve seen translated tablets at the British Museum on a school trip,’ said Gabby. ‘They weren’t that interesting. Just seemed to be lists. Boring spreadsheets.’
‘Microsoft Excel in Plasticine,’ added Viv. ‘I doubt we’re missing out on much.’
‘Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong,’ replied Newton. ‘It’s lists like that that tell you the most about these ancient societies. Statistics are really useful for getting a picture of population sizes and agricultural practices. Data is everything. I’d love to see AI used to break these old languages. They’re codes, after all. You could use AI software, something like ChapGPT. Bet I could make that work if I had a quiet moment.’
‘Can’t you just go and ask Minoan ghosts?’ asked Gabby. ‘Seeing as how we have access.’
‘I would,’ insisted Newton. ‘If they’d let me.’
‘Wouldn’t they?’ enquired Viv.
‘No,’ said Newton. ‘They wouldn’t. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve asked to speak to Carl Sagan or Christopher Hitchens and have been turned down flat. You can guess the answer.’
‘Protocol?’
‘Protocol,’ replied Newton ‘“Not allowed to use work to pursue private projects.” So, if I can't talk to those guys, they sure as hell won’t let me talk to a Minoan.’
*****
That evening, back at the villa, things were sadly much the same. At one point, a pair of soiled Y-fronts were catapulted over the wall, landing in the pool and obliging Newton to fish them out with an umbrella. Dining further away that night didn’t work either because the neighbours rocked up there as well, became hideously drunk, and performed an unsolicited cockney musical about gonorrhoea and domestic violence.
The next day, Viv and Gabby insisted on making the best of things, as Viv and Gaby usually did. They cranked up their headphones or made the most of the quieter moments when their countrymen were either hungover or crawling the local bars. Newton chose instead to scribble in his ever-present notebook. Hour after hour, he looked for patterns in the absurd incidents that had been his Purgatorial experience. As usual, his meandering enquiries ended not in revelation but in comical dead ends, theatrical, supernatural nonsense overwhelming anything in the way of insight.
Consequently, it was a relief when his phone rang.
‘Dr Barlow?’ came a very Greek accent. ‘My name Theodoros Vasilakis. I have been asked to call you by our mutual friend, Mr Jameson, … in London.’
‘Are you …?’ asked Newton suspiciously.
‘Purgatorian?’ replied Vasilakis, ‘Yes, Dr Barlow, very much so.’
‘Cool,’ said Newton. ‘I thought I’d been sacked.’
‘Well, Mr Jameson did explain the background, yes. Unfortunately, I am sure that these things are not my concern. I have been asked to call you regarding a local matter here in Crete.’
Newton, perked up. ‘Ok. Go on.’
‘I gather you are up to speed on the obtaining and termination of certain … relics?’ asked the Greek.
‘Sure am,’ confirmed Newton. ‘And frankly, given the situation here at our so-called “safe” house, I could use some diversion. What’s the plan?’
‘I will be in Chania tomorrow,’ explained Vasilakis. ‘Better we talk in person, I think. I don’t trust the phone, you know?’
‘Suit yourself.’
‘Meet me at Café Minoa, on the harbour,’ said Vasilakis. ‘Around four p.m. As you may be a day or two on this task, I’ve taken the liberty of booking a room for you at the Hotel Amphorae. Do you have a problem with leaving your family for the duration?’
