The Unhappy Medium 3: Wretched Things: A Supernatural Comedy, page 14
‘Sure,’ said MangosTangolakis, shrugging. ‘If you pay. Talking of which ….’
‘Very well,’ sighed Newton. ‘Let’s get this done.’ He switched on his phone, scrolled to the transaction page, and hit the button. Seconds later, MangosTangolakis’ phone chirped.
‘Theo, naí? To écheis? Yes?’ he mumbled into the phone. ‘Fantastikós, ok.’ He put his phone back into his pocket, and nodded. ‘We have it. My son says it’s in the account. You can have your stuff.’ MangosTangolakis stood, ready to leave, but Vasilakis grabbed him by the arm, holding him back for one final warning.
‘I mean it, friend. Next time … you come straight to me. Ok?’
The man pulled his arm away and scowled defiantly … then nodded again, clearly realising the threatening tone in his countryman’s voice wasn’t a bluff.
‘Next time, yes. I come.’
MangosTangolakis left, his decrepit van staggering away along the beach road in a cloud of oily smoke.
‘I hope he spends it on a new van,’ said Newton.
‘Men like him disgust me,’ lamented Vasilakis. ‘A Cretan!’
‘Well,’ offered Newton, ‘if it’s any comfort, mercenary traitors are everywhere, not just Crete.’ He looked down at the box. ‘So, what do we do about this little lot then?’
‘You dispose of them,’ answered Vasilakis. ‘You are trained how, yes?’
‘Well, yes, a bit,’ replied Newton. ‘But I thought, maybe we …..’
‘No, no, no. I never do these things,’ insisted an animated Vasilakis. ‘I am a very religious man. I find the rituals needed to dispose of such things … distasteful, as do all of my people here.’
‘How do you get rid of them then?’ asked Newton.
‘We send them back to Athens on the ferry,’ explained Vasilakis. ‘They deal with it. Godless Athenians. Let them handle it.’
‘Well, I’ve been told I need to sort this quickly,’ said Newton. ‘If I’m going to do it alone, I’ll need to find a place, somewhere off the beaten track. It can be proper messy. Hardly the sort of thing you want to do in your hotel room. ‘
‘Is true,’ agreed Vasilakis. He thought for a second before suddenly leaning forward with a suggestion, ‘You’ve heard of Samaria, yes?’
‘Er …,’ answered Newton. ‘What’s that then?’
‘You’ve never heard of Samaria?’ exclaimed Vasilakis. ‘Why Dr Barlow, it is a natural wonder, famous around all of the world!’
‘It is?’ asked Newton.
‘Yes!’ insisted the Cretan. ‘You must see this place if you are here in Crete. It is a gorge, you know? It goes from the heights of the Lefka Ori to the Libyan Sea itself. It is stunning, believe me.’
‘I believe you,’ laughed Newton, raising his hands. ‘So, you walk down this gorge, do you?’
‘Yes, Dr Barlow,’ replied Vasilakis excitedly. ‘And what a walk! You’ll see!’
‘And you think this is a good place to dispose of these relics?’
‘For sure,’ confirmed the Cretan. ‘Well, it can be busy, is true. But all you would need to do is take a track off the main path for a few hundred metres, and you’ll be deep in the forest. You’ll have all the privacy you’ll need.’
‘Ok, I’m sold. How do I get there? Take a car?’
‘No car,’ explained Vasilakis, shaking his head. ‘The walk is fifteen kilometres, end to end. You go in up the mountain … you come out by the sea. Better, you take the bus. Is a special tour; they drop you off at the top, then they pick you up at the bottom. Is a whole day. The tours they go from the square up above the harbour. You can buy your ticket at the hotel the night before.’
‘Ok, Ok,’ shrugged Newton, unable to resist. ‘Why not?’
‘Excellent,’ said Vasilakis, standing. ‘Now, my work with you is done, I think. I will leave you to your day. Enjoy my town. I am around, of course. If you should need me, please ring. Anytime, yes? I’ll be there.’ The Cretan offered his hand. ‘Goodbye, Dr Barlow. Has been a pleasure.’
Chapter 13
Samaria
Newton’s head vibrated against the window as the tourist bus wound its way up into the plain of Omalos. Each new bump in the road sent a shockwave into the ageing suspension, through the worn leather seat and into Newton’s skull, whipping his tired head against the glass in a series of painful, juddering impacts. Despite his best intentions, Newton had failed to get an early night. The evening before his epic, six-hour hike through the Gorge of Samaria, he had allowed his ‘quick’ supper to become an echo of his lost years, a time when things had been a little messy in the alcohol department. Consequently, things had got messy again, as the local wine flowed far too easily, each glass making the next one inevitable. Even when he’d finally seen sense and called a halt, the waiters had given him two complimentary shots of raki, ensuring that today, when he needed to be on the ball, he would feel rougher than hobnailed boots.
As they neared the plateau, the mountains punched upwards in ivory splendour, bathed in a light that, as far as Newton was concerned, was way too bright for this time of day and needed to go away.
Reaching the jumping-off point, Newton waited for the bus to stop and the other passengers to disembark before heaving his rucksack onto his shoulder and gingerly dismounting. Shielding his bloodshot eyes from the sun, he grabbed his complimentary roll and coffee, then joined the other equally ill-prepared holidaymakers readying for their descent.
Newton, as was his way, kept his distance, unable and unwilling to exchange pleasantries.
The hike started steep, well-worn steps dropping vertically through huge boulders and dusty pines. Rendered unsteady by his excesses, Newton welcomed the support of the wooden handrails, his dehydrated descent a mere crawl, while middle-aged Austrians and Dutch pensioners belted past him like racehorses.
Thankfully, the oxygen-rich mountain air began sorting out the hangover almost immediately, allowing Newton to start taking in the stunning scenery. And what scenery! Steep V-shaped valleys opened up before him, a fine morning mist burning away as the sharp shadows surrendered to another faultless Aegean day.
Above him, huge vultures appeared, each as big as a kitchen table, taking advantage of the rising thermals to search for clumsy goats upon the mountainsides.
In no time, the hikers around him had thinned. After 30 minutes, it was almost as if Newton had all these natural wonders to himself. It was two hours before he ran into a crowd again, their multi-national cacophony erupting as the trail reached its most famous point, the legendary Iron Gates.
Far back in geological time, Crete had tipped on its side like a cheap ironing board, the south heaving up to leave the few rivers no option but to cut like saws through the porous rockscape to get to the sea. As a result, there were several awe-inspiring gorges along the southern coast, of which Samaria was by far the finest. At Samaria, water had come charging down from the plain of Omalos above, cleaving the landscape in two, the river carving vertical walls some 980 feet high. Trapped in this confined space, each wall just thirteen feet from the other, the torrent had scoured the rock marble smooth, leaving a background tailor-made for Instagram. Like the chattering hikers around him, Newton paused to marvel at the scene, sending a picture or two to Viv and Gabby back at the villa. But he didn’t linger; put off by the sound of other people having fun, Newton hurried on, promising himself he would look at some professional photographs later … online.
Beyond the so-called Iron Gates, he paused to take stock, polishing off his picnic as he took in the geology. Once he had found a suitable path leading away from the main trail, Newton waited for a gap in the hikers, then slipped unseen into the trees.
Instantly, Newton regretted not having taken a detour earlier in the morning. Each turn led him into a sheer rockface or sent him looping straight back to the crowded path. Frustrated, Newton had no option but to retrace his steps, passing back through the Iron Gates to landscapes where the slopes were less feisty.
An hour later, close to throwing in the towel, Newton found his track.
Gaining height above the Gorge itself, the shouting from the hikers below faded away as he pushed upwards. But the trail itself was no place for the ritual; there was far too much combustible brush, so Newton pressed on, his feet beginning to sing in his casual shoes.
Then, without warning, Newton burst out of the trees to find himself balanced atop a high cliff. It was the closest of shaves, the Libyan Sea crashing bright blue against the cream rocks far below as Newton reared back.
‘Holy crap!’
Heart pounding, Newton backed away from the precipice. Grabbing the nearest pine for comfort, he attempted to regain his composure.
Having reclaimed his bearings, Newton finally started looking for somewhere to perform the rituals. Soon, he picked up something resembling a path. Twenty minutes later, this emerged in a clearing close to the cliffs, offering Newton a vegetation-free platform partially surrounded by small pines, enough to shield him from the sea breezes.
‘This will do,’ he muttered to the wheeling gulls.
Heaving the rucksack off his shoulder, Newton pulled out the carrier bag containing the relics, a small box containing a screwdriver, a bag of dried thyme and a small bottle of something he was convinced was baby oil. To this, Newton added a box of safety matches and a tin box he’d grabbed from Chania’s bustling market.
Taking out his iPhone, Newton logged on to the disastrously slow Purgatorian server. After it had refused to connect three or four times (less than usual), Newton scrolled through five pages of warnings, mission statements and ‘protocolistic’ warnings before, finally, he found the page that he wanted.
‘Mumbo bloody jumbo,’ huffed Newton, reading the instructions. ‘Stage one: place the inflammable items in a safe place, such as a fireplace, grate or a simple metal container.’ Newton looked down at the stone beneath him. It was flat and, for the most part, grass-free. ‘Check.’ Newton then placed the occultist literature on top of the Nazi’s journal before tossing the medals unceremoniously on the top. ‘Stage two:’ continued the instructions. ‘Metal objects. If a suspect metal relic can be disassemble … then disassemble it, as this should help break its spiritual integrity.’ He paused, scepticism making his eyebrows raise and lower like bouncing rabbits. ‘Really…?’
Newton read on.
‘For all other metal relics, subject them to the highest possible heat before burying them in an inaccessible location or by disposal in deep water.’ He looked around at the cliffs. The Libyan Sea would suffice.
Newton took out his screwdriver and began work on the Luger.
Patience, not a Barlow trait, was soon lost.
Seventy-five years away from the tender loving care of a high-ranking Nazi, the screws had locked in, their threads embalmed in a crystalline rust. Infuriated, he tried several times and got nowhere … several times. Remembering the oil, Newton then tried lubricating the screws but only succeeded in loosening the one, leaving him with oil all over his hands, the handle of the screwdriver … and his trousers.
‘Bugger.’
Despite cursing it vigorously, the Luger still looked like a Luger.
Frustrated, Newton picked up his mobile, turning to Google in the hope that someone far more practical than himself had already been down this route.
Of course, because it was the Internet, they had.
Dwayne, a Neo-Nazi from Bear Seed Rapids, Idaho, had indeed tried to restore the Luger his grandfather had brought home in 1945. Step by step, there it was, a full strip-down in glorious Technicolour.
Newton, tools at the ready, was all set to benefit from Dwayne’s right-wing commitment … when the iPhone erupted out of his grip.
Coming out of nowhere, Helena Kraakenhausen had drop-kicked Newton’s phone like a rugby ball. Separating into three irregular pieces, his phone shot away from her steel toe cap, then plummeted into the Libyan Sea, losing connection with 5G as it did so.
Newton’s fingers sang with an excruciating pain. Rolling away, he began yelping like a scolded family dog, his fist rammed into his armpit.
‘What the fuuuu…!’
Helena stood before him, gun in hand, waving its barrel upwards in little jerks.
‘Get up.’
‘Well, look,’ said Newton, recognising her attire. ‘If it isn’t Lara Croft. You were at Llanthony.’
‘I vos. Vhere’s your idiot comrade?’
‘Oh,’ answered Newton, gathering his wits. ‘You mean ….’
‘Ja. The priest vith the big ears, vhere is he?’
‘I’m here alone. Well, apart from you, of course. After this here junk, are you?’ enquired Newton, indicating the mess he’d been making of the Luger.
‘This “junk”,’ snapped Helena, ‘is mein great-grandfather’s legacy!’
‘Gramps sounds like a bit of a bastard, if you don’t mind me saying.’
Enraged, Helena pulled her trigger. The bullet hit the ground very close to Newton’s left testicle, then sang away into the blue sky, howling like a banshee. Newton, understandably, flinched.
‘STAND UP, DUMMKOPF!’ ordered Helena. ‘You are not verthy to kiss mein great-grandfather’s jackboots. Speak of him that vay again, and I vill put the next bullet between your stupid English eyes.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Newton, quickly obeying. ‘I’d be a bit defensive if someone said my Nan was fat. I mean … she was fat. She was like a delivery van. But that’s not for anyone else to say, is it?’
‘Cease talking!’ barked Helena, pointing the gun at his head. ‘And move away from the relics.’ Newton sensibly obeyed, sidling towards the pines and away from the cliff edge. ‘Nein!’ barked Helena, letting off another round. ‘The other way! Schnell!’
‘Of course,’ grinned Newton. ‘Seeing how you asked so nicely.’
‘Don’t vaste your sarcasm on me,’ snarled Helena. ‘Only you English laugh at your English jokes. No von else does, you know that? They laugh at you, though, trust me. That is the true English disease, I am thinking. All that clowning about. A good German doesn’t vaste time sniggering like ein schoolboy … ve have better things to be doing. Ve build things, ve sell things, ve make things run on time.’
‘And you lose wars,’ added Newton. ‘There is that.’
Another bullet flew off the stone, a cloud of pale yellow dust urging Newton back towards the cliff edge.
‘Ve lose vars,’ snarled Helena, walking closer, her gun pointed directly at Newton’s chest. ‘But you English lose empires, no? Look at you now. Pathetic! Your obsession vith celebrity, your sex scandals, your royal so-called “family” … puerile!’
‘Harsh but fair,’ conceded Newton.
‘Ve are vasting time,’ continued Helena Kraakenhausen. ‘No more chit-chatting Ehnglander. I have vot I came for. You are no longer of use.’ She raised her gun. ‘It’s time for you to go.’
‘Phew,’ exclaimed Newton optimistically, dropping his hands. ‘For a second there, I thought you were going to ¬—’
Helena Kraakenhausen sent out her army-booted right foot. Martial arts fast, it gave him no time to prepare, impacting Newton on the chest like a medicine ball thrown by a mountain gorilla. Lifting clean off his feet, Newton was propelled backwards, in an arc … right over the cliff.
Then … gravity kicked in.
Chapter 14
Hermitage
Like his late mentor, Dr Newton Barlow had always promised himself that the moment of his death would be just one more experiment. Newton believed that, even at this ultimate moment of existential crisis, his quest for objective reason would find him with all the clear-headedness of a Martian rover, coldly collecting data on behalf of the Age of Reason.
The reality … was quite different.
For a start, he wasn’t given the chance to monitor his fatal plunge in an upright orientation. Almost as soon as he was kicked off the cliff edge by Helena Kraakenhausen, Newton began to rotate, oscillating wildly in a completely chaotic manner. Angrily, Newton observed his limbic system overtake his forebrain, flight or fight dismissing his rock-hard objectivity out of hand. Robbed of logic, Barlow’s long limbs flailed away at the air with all the grace of a thrown chicken.
Newton couldn’t even monitor just how out of control he actually was. He was just too busy being first one way up, then the other, sea and sky blurring into a carousel of sun, sea, sky and sandstone.
He was also furious that, despite everything he knew about life after death, he was still shit-scared. The adrenalin and cortisol shot through Newton's nervous system like rush hour trains, making his guts so alive they felt like they were on the outside.
Bladder control, always a source of pride in the Barlow family, was marginal.
It wasn’t going well.
Then, suddenly caught in a stiff gust of sea air, Newton stabilised. Head down, he plummeted like a gannet towards the sea below, a sea populated by gigantic, razor-sharp rocks.
Then the same gust caught him again, throwing him at the cliff wall like a fast-food wrapper at a bus stop. Newton tore at the scenery in what felt like glorious slow motion, eyes closed as he braced for impact.
And impact he did, tearing through a viciously thorned wild lemon tree that had been growing, against the odds, from a minimal ledge in the sheer cliff. It enveloped Newton like a baseball glove, punched innumerable barbs through his clothing to the skin beneath.
‘Bloody lehhhhhhhhhhhmons!’ he yelled, as it then repaid his kinetic energy by slinging him back into the air above the crashing waves.
It was to be his salvation.
Newton plopped into the sea between two imposing rocks with just feet to spare, leaving an impressive spout behind him. Blood and bubbles traced his path deep through the emerald waters as he powered downwards, like smoke behind an aerobatic jet.
Then, Newton hit rock, slamming his head and chest against the unyielding stone and blasting the air and consciousness out of him in one huge, ragged wallop.
