The Unhappy Medium 3: Wretched Things: A Supernatural Comedy, page 12
‘Nah,’ replied Newton. ‘They will be glad to get rid of me. I’ve been crawling the walls here.’
‘Then, it is settled. 4 p.m., Dr Barlow,’ repeated Vasilakis. ‘I look forward to meeting you.’
‘I’m off for a few days,’ announced Newton, joining his significant other and his daughter by the poolside.
‘Sorry, darling, what was that?’ asked Viv, removing her headphones.
‘Been sent a small job to do in Chania,’ explained Newton, trying to be heard over the squawking from next door. ‘Up the road.’
‘Oh dear,’ replied Viv, topping up her glass. ‘Will you be gone long?’
‘Couple of days,’ answered Newton.
‘Excellent,’ affirmed Gabby, raising a thumb.
‘Thanks for that,’ said Newton.
‘Well, you have been a bit out of sorts,’ observed Viv. ‘Maybe a bit of work will put you right.’
‘Yeah,’ added Gabby. ‘Take yer time.’
‘Charming,’ sighed Newton, as an empty beer can clattered noisily onto the concrete beside him. ‘Hells bells, how are you two putting up with this crap from next door? It’s driving me insane. Are you both on Valium?’
‘Got to be stoical about these things,’ smiled Viv. ‘There’s bugger all we can do about it. Just have to ignore it, make the best of things.’
‘Stoical, is it?’ laughed Newton. ‘Shut up and put up, you mean. Bugger that. If I had my way, they’d be thrown out and sent home for a second, more successful lobotomy.’
‘Can’t do that. We have to keep a low profile, remember?’ Viv reminded him.
‘Whatever,’ huffed Newton.
‘Never know,’ added Gabby. ‘They might be gone by the time you get back.’
‘They said two weeks in the taverna,’ snarled Newton, closing his eyes to emphasise his suffering. ‘TWO WEEKS!’
‘They’ll run out of beer money before that,’ said Viv, optimistically. ‘They’ve already drunk the nearest taverna out of lager, and they won’t do so well on the local spirits. No one does well on raki.’
‘Good,’ replied Newton, as a second can splashed into the pool. This one was accompanied by a forced laugh so loud that the seagulls in the small cove took off in panic.
‘Bazzza!!!! MATE! You do my effin’ nut in!’
‘Anyway,’ continued Newton, getting to the point. ‘This job … I’m gonna order a hire car and head off in the morning. I’ll be on the mobile if you need me.’
‘It’s not a dangerous mission, is it?’ asked Viv. ‘You know how these things can go. Look what happened in Wales.’
‘Unlikely,’ replied Newton. ‘It’s an online thing. I don’t know the full details yet. Meeting the local operative around four. I suspect we’ll just make the deal, grab the stuff, and once it’s disposed of, I’ll be back. Boring, if anything.’
‘Let’s hope so,’ said Viv. ‘Let me know if you need help. Always happy to –’
‘No,’ insisted Newton, cutting her off. ‘You’re ok. Look, I could use a few days on my own. Trust me, I’m well aware of what a buzzkill I am right now.’
‘Understatement,’ corrected Gabby, not looking up from her phone.
‘If you’re sure,’ shrugged Viv. ‘Do what you gotta do. Don’t worry about us; we will be fine in the meantime. Knock yourself out.’
There was an explosion of primitive cackling from the neighbours, a tsunami of obscenities spanning every four-letter word in the English language.
Newton swore back, merely inducing yet more swearing, most of which seemed to imply his sexuality was biased towards animals, his mother, and men with moustaches.
Newton stomped inside to pack.
*****
That night, once Newton had consumed enough wine to reduce the circus next door to white noise, he lay with Viv on the bed, the air con wheezing the room to an English September.
‘At least,’ observed Newton, ‘the mosquitoes will be eating them alive out there.’
‘Why do you think they’d go anywhere near ’em?’ laughed Viv. ‘One bite would be enough. They’d be pissed out of their tiny insect minds.’
‘People like that aren’t like the rest of us,’ remarked Newton. ‘If I spent one day living like them, I’d have four heart attacks, my liver would turn to chalk, and I’d be eaten by every insect in the Mediterranean.’
‘And you’d burn,’
‘I would,’ agreed Newton. ‘In ten minutes, I’d be the colour of an emboldening lipstick. Seriously, they want to burn. Have you seen them together? They look like a steak restaurant.’
‘Oh well, can’t let them win, can we? Not gonna let ’em ruin the holiday. Onwards and upwards.’
‘Are you being “stoical” again?’ asked Newton, his eyes rolling like lottery balls.
‘I guess I am,’ replied Viv. ‘That ok with you?’
‘Sure. It’s just that I don’t understand how you do it. How do you just put up … and shut up?’
‘That implies I’m affected by things the same way as you are,’ answered Viv. ‘But just react differently. Truly … I’m not.’
‘Not what?’
‘Not affected the same way,’ explained Viv. ‘I’m not wired like you.’
‘Things annoy you, though, don’t they?’ asked Newton. ‘These a-holes next door, they get to you, surely?’
‘Sure, initially, I was a bit put out. I’m not simple. They’re awful. But, all the same, it would be a shame to let them ruin our break. Now, I find them almost entertaining. You can accommodate most things if you get your mind in the right place. Hell, I’m in Crete … and I didn’t pay. How cool is that?’
‘And where, may I ask, did you learn that?’ enquired Newton. ‘Have you been buying self-help books?’
‘Oh God, no,’ replied Viv. ‘I’ve always been like this. I’d look at the other kids at school, and I’d think … what the flippin’ ’eck is going on there? Road rage, moaning, red-faced outrage, disgusted of Tunbridge Wells … I’ve never understood all that. To me, complaining is the emotional equivalent of fly-tipping.’
‘Did you get that from your mum and dad?’ asked Newton, realising suddenly how rarely his girlfriend spoke about her upbringing. ‘Is this a family trait?’
‘Hell, no!’ answered Viv. ‘I’m nothing like them at all. Mum and Dad were both award-winning stress monsters. One of the strongest memories I have of my dad is the vein that used to ripple across his forehead when he was up-tight.’
‘Are you saying he was abusive?’
‘No. No. Not at all,’ replied Viv, shaking her head. ‘It was never directed at me or my brother. No, it was the outside world that did for Dad. My father was driven insane by everything on the other side of the blinds. And I mean, anything. Speed bumps, road signs, milk cartons, charger cables, the National Lottery, wood pigeons, graffiti, light entertainment, the council … all were specifically sent by some outside force to harass him. No wonder they died early. And Mum? Mum could be worse, always fighting some invisible battle against progress, and always losing. Phones, central heating, televisions, Tesco, she was is a woman who thought One Foot in the Grave was a documentary.
‘Ah, so you rebelled and went the opposite direction?’ asked Newton. ‘That it?’
‘I did,’ confirmed Viv. ‘Not deliberately, though. I’m not that self-controlled. I just did what I did. It came naturally to me. I wanted to be … I dunno … relaxed. Not my brother, though. He bought into their lifestyle completely. He became middle-aged in his late teens. When my dad was dying in hospital, my brother would sit by the side of his bed reading him horror stories about the local council: lane closures, potholes, speed signs, the pair of them tutting in some bleak double act. I think my dad’s last words were, “Road widening”.’
‘You’ve never mentioned him before,’ said Newton. ‘Didn’t even know you had a brother.’
‘Oh, I wasn't being secretive,’ insisted Viv. ‘I’ve just moved on. Doesn’t even cross my mind unless he wants to. I would be in touch if he wanted to, is the truth. He takes my laissez-faire attitude to life to be mental laziness. Funny that. Stressed people are always outraged by calm people. Why is that?’
‘You’re asking me?’ laughed Newton.
‘It’s a fair point …,’ said Viv. ‘You seem affronted by our acceptance sometimes.’
‘Because I can’t process any of it.’ explained Newton. ‘I’d spent my whole life being rational. Then suddenly, it’s just nonsense. How can you guys just … roll with it?’
‘Doesn’t faze me,’ replied Viv, sitting up and reaching for her half-finished drink. ‘Life never made any sense to me anyway. Everyone is driven along by their demons; it’s madness. Work, status, money, slave to money, slave to love, slave to the rhythm … blah, blah, blah. If it wasn’t for paying bills, I’d be over the hill and far away, sniffing the flowers. Nature did pretty well before we rocked up, being all smartarse with our iPads.’
‘Sounds a bit hippy,’ said Newton cautiously. ‘If I may say.’
‘Oh Lordy, no,’ laughed Viv. ‘I don’t buy all that New Age mumbo jumbo. You don’t have to wear wholemeal sandals to live a simpler life. All you need is ten minutes in a wood listening to birdsong to realise how irrelevant most human concerns are. Take politics,’ continued Viv. ‘People get so incensed by these nuanced little battles. Who gives a rat’s arse? But … let me ask you this. What was happening in British politics on 17th January 1967?’
‘Er, … is this a trick question?’
‘Nope,’ answered Viv. ‘What about 23rd August 1976?’
‘I dunno …,’ answered Newton. ‘It’s a long way back.’
‘Exactly,’ said Viv triumphantly. ‘You can’t remember. You can’t remember that so-and-so MP for Trumpton East upset the MP for Camberwick Green over comments he may or may not have made regarding the cancellation of the Narnia Bypass. You can’t remember … because it’s utterly irrelevant. Who cares? I doubt even they remember it. Ditto, what happened today. Sure, politicians make it all seem like it’s to do with us, but actually, it’s just about them. Politics is like dust. It just keeps appearing no matter how much people try to perfect a way of preventing it. But … go to a wood on a spring day, and the chaffinches keep on singing their chaffinchy songs in the ancient oaks that have seen a billion politicians come and go.’
‘People have to govern their lives, don’t they?’ asked Newton.
‘Well, it’s an odd way to do it,’ replied Viv. ‘Given that none of them ever seems to fix anything. Politics is like sewage; when it’s being done properly, you can’t smell it. Seriously, if your house was on fire, who would you call? A clown, a baker or a politician? Frankly, I’d call an arsonist before I’d call a politician.’
‘Well, you must care about something?’ argued Newton. ‘Something must matter?’
‘I told you what matters. Nature. The people I love. Music. Art. Space. Decent jeans. Non-iron blouses. Artisan bread. Argentine Malbec. Blue cheese. Brown paper packages tied up with string. These are a few of my favourite things.’ She leant back and took a long sip of her wine. ‘It’s a loooooooooong list.’
‘So, not caring about things that are really important. Is that the answer?’ asked Newton.
‘It’s not just the important stuff, though, that makes their eyes bulge, is it? People don’t just get uptight about “important”. They get baked into a cycle of annoyance that means they don’t get pleasure from anything. Nothing at all… zilch, nada. They could win the lottery, and they’d spend the first hour worrying about how to park near the bank. It’s a state of mind.’
‘But things matter, … don’t they?’ suggested Newton, still not getting it.
‘Does something “mattering” mean that you have to “matter” yourself to pieces, just so you can prove you are contributing? You still have to live and get the most out of life, even if you are in the midst of something simply appalling. Hells bells, some of the best art of all time was created when the world was at its absolute worst; people made art in the death camps.’
‘Mmmm, I dunno,’ replied Newton doubtfully. ‘It makes sense on one level, but it also feels an awful lot like resignation on all the others.’
‘Really?’ laughed Viv. ‘So answer me this. Who’s happier? Us, with all our knowledge about the Afterlife and the evil that lurks alongside all humankind … or the human sausages next door?’
‘The sausages,’ admitted Newton after a short pause.
‘Exactly. Knowledge isn’t always power. Sometimes it’s just a burden. People with nothing, people who laugh and smile, they enrage those who’ve forced themselves up the greasy pole at the point of their own bayonet. Look at my mum and dad; life for them was just one long symphony of self-abuse. No wonder people from Protestant-work-ethic families love getting out of their tiny minds on sherry. How else can they bear it?’
‘That’s not me, though,’ protested Newton, sitting up. ‘It’s really not.’
‘Because you’re a scientist?’
‘Exactly!’
‘And you feel you have a mission to uncover the truth?’ asked Viv. ‘A calling.’
‘Exactly, again,’ replied Newton. ‘Only more so.’
‘Well, there may be something in that, of course. But seriously, does it have to be twenty-five hours a day? There’s still a life to be lived, even for you. Dammit, Newton, Alex Sixsmith seems to get it, and he’s every bit the scientist you are.’
‘Was,’ said Newton sadly. ‘Was.’
‘It’s a brave new world, honeybuns,’ proclaimed Viv, placing her hand on his slumping shoulder. ‘It’s not just the Age of Reason that’s changed. Everything has changed, including you. Embrace it. Have fun with it!’
‘I’m trying. I am. It may not look like it, but I am. I’m trying all the combinations. Trying to make the pieces fit. It’s a HUGE job.’
‘One day, Newton,’ said Viv, turning her head to look him straight in the eye, ‘you’ll look back on this era of your life and wonder why you didn’t just have a ball.’
‘I hope so,’ sighed Newton. ‘Because this is just …. purgatory.’
‘Literally,’ laughed Viv. ‘Come on, Newton, we are in a villa in Crete, all expenses paid and with nothing but adventures ahead of us. It beats the Age of Reason, hands down, I reckon. In the Age of Reason, I had to get up at 6 a.m. to iron a blouse and straighten my hair. Give me Purgatory any day.’
‘But …,’ began Newton. ‘But ….’
‘Shut up, Dr Barlow,’ ordered Viv, sweetly. ‘Please?’
‘Ok,’ said Newton.
*****
‘This is your first time in Crete?’ asked the swarthy Theodoros Vasilakis across the blue and white tablecloth.
‘It is,’ replied Newton, looking out across the shimmering water of the harbour to the mass of sailing ships in the marina beyond.
‘You like Chania, Dr Barlow?’
‘Very much,’ answered Newton, more out of diplomacy than honesty.
‘Is a magical place,’ said Vasilakis. ‘Unique. I tried Athens for a while. I didn’t like it. The pollution, the business, too much like the hard work, I think. We do things differently here.’
‘It’s certainly pretty,’ agreed Newton. ‘I had a look around the old town earlier, beautiful old ruins.’
‘Ruins, you say?’ said Vasilakis, his face darkening. ‘You know why this old town is so … “ruined”, my friend?’ The Cretan leant forward, his moustache twitching with a historic anger. ‘Germans, Dr Barlow, … Germans. They bomb Chania, in 1941. Why? … What for? I hate the Germans.’
‘Not all Germans are Nazis,’ offered Newton. ‘Hitler killed most of the nice ones.’
‘Is true,’ agreed Vasilakis. ‘It is never good to generalise. I am sorry. Nazis. Nazis bomb the town. But we Cretans have a long memory. We remember everyone who wrongs us. Many invade us, but no one owns us. Crete can never be ruled. Is impossible.’
‘So, the Nazis attacked the town?’ asked Newton. ‘I should know this, I’m sorry.’
‘Flattened it!’ said Vasilakis, eyes afire. ‘Wrecked by their bombers. And why? Because we Cretans fight for our freedom? Dogs!’
‘That’s not good.’ Newton instantly regretted the understatement.
‘Far from good,’ corrected Vasilakis. ‘Was very a war crime. Nazis, scum. You know Nazis, Mr Barlow?’
‘Not personally, I’m pleased to say,’ answered Newton. ‘But I’m familiar with the genre.’
‘Is important you really know them,’ continued Vasilakis. ‘It helps you when you sniff the devils out.’
‘Oh, I see. Are we looking for Nazis, then?’
‘One Nazi,’ replied Vasilakis. ‘But one of the worst. He did terrible things here on Crete. Villages in the mountains were wiped out by this devil. Patriots tortured and killed. Terrible things.’
‘Hold on, this guy is alive … or dead?’
‘Stone dead,’ answered Vasilakis. ‘He escaped justice sadly. Died in Argentina … in his bed. Bastard. He should have died here in Crete, facing his victims.’
‘Right, so if he’s dead, are we searching for his relics?’
‘Is correct,’ confirmed Vasilakis, nodding between sips of his black coffee. ‘They are somewhere here in Chania, we think. Our “sensitives” know that they are here; they say they can feel them. They just can’t confirm the exact location. I don't understand the terminology, but there has been chatter on the dark web, I am told. Things offered for sale.’
‘Ok,’ asked Newton, pen poised over his notebook. ‘So, what’s this Nazi’s name?’
‘Kraakenhausen,’ replied Vasilakis, ‘General Maximilian Von Kraakenhausen. He came here in ’43, via Stalingrad. One eye, duelling scars, a missing arm, and a limp.’
‘Blimey,’ laughed Newton. ‘Why are the Nazis always so mangled? It’s amazing that they invaded anything, considering how physically messed up they appear to have been.’
‘He lost these things, … invading things,’ sneered Vasilakis. ‘Serves him right, the Prussian bastard. He thought nothing of us Cretans. Mere peasants to be subjugated, sub-humans, no better than goats! Well, we Cretans, we showed those Nazi dogs. Best guerrilla fighters in the world.’
