The Unhappy Medium 3: Wretched Things: A Supernatural Comedy, page 26
Most of these posters were in English, but there were also examples in Greek, Arabic and Hindi, leaving Newton clueless about their message. However, all were distinctive enough to enable Newton to use them as waypoints, demonstrating when they were going in circles, which was rather often. Guided by these posters, Newton was finally able to steer them onto a wide avenue, heading off towards the grander buildings he had spotted earlier. ‘Looks promising,’ declared Newton.
‘Listen,’ sighed the hermit. ‘I was rather hoping we coulda skirta da big stuff.’
‘Well, I’m sad to say,’ said Newton, not sad in the least, ‘that we’ve got no choice. We can’t widdle around in this maze much longer, can we?’
‘Er, … no,’ conceded Enrico. ‘Reluctantly, I agree. Da Purgatorians can deal widda you once you are back onna da surface. My worka here, it willa be done.’
‘Fair enough,’ shrugged Newton. ‘Not the most consistent of archaeological sites, is it? Look, there’s a street sign up there … in French.’ Newton’s beam had caught a small blue plaque of a design that would not have been out of place on the Champs Elysées. ‘What’s that say?’ he wondered, reaching up to brush away the cobwebs. ‘“L’avenue des Fictions.” The Avenue of Fictions. What’s that all about?’
‘I hava no idea,’ replied Enrico, trying his best to appear uninterested. ‘Who knows watta dose pesky ancients were thinking?’
‘Ancients, is it?’ laughed Newton, picking up something from the floor. ‘That sign was put up in the late 1800s. I mean, look at it, it’s Art Nouveau!’
‘Yeah, well,’ said Enrico, hoping to stifle the conversation. ‘Probably an archaeologist got in here or something. Look … I dunno.’
‘Like hell you don’t,’ countered Newton, directing his torch away down the street. The ramshackle shop fronts had been replaced with a parade of more substantial two-story buildings, their mixture of metal grills and shutters robustly sealed with chains. ‘Look at these padlocks.’ Newton held one of the lumps of cold metal in his hand. ‘Chubb founded in the Bronze Age, were they?’
‘Um …,’ said Enrico, ‘Er ….’
‘And what do we have here?’ continued Newton gleefully, shining his light at a marble column. ‘Fresh graffiti. Done, if I’m not mistaken, with a Sharpie. “Killroy was literally ’ere”,’ read Newton. ‘What the hell does that mean?’
‘I’m sure it’sa nothing,’ suggested the embattled hermit. ‘Let’s go.’
‘Enrico!’ called Newton, pointing his torch through the metal bars. ‘Come here.’
‘What?’ asked the hermit, slumping resignedly down on the step. ‘Whaaaaat?’
‘These …,’ observed Newton, ‘are cells.’
‘I’m sure they issa not,’ replied the hermit. ‘Cos dat woulda be ridiculous.’
‘Empty now, maybe,’ Newton went on. ‘But recently … on the floor … look, there’s medical stuff. Drips. Bandages. IV tubes.’ He switched his torch back onto the panel outside. ‘“Scarlet Pimpernel”,’ read Newton. ‘You know, like the character from the novel.’
‘I really think we should be going,’ insisted Enrico, attempting to take Newton forcibly by the arm. Newton, his curiosity ablaze, was having none of it. Pulling himself away, he stomped purposefully to the next cell, torch at the ready.
‘And look … over there. Fresh bedding. That straw is days old. What the hell is this place?’
‘You’re not meant to be here!’ protested the stressed hermit, his stoicism deserting him. ‘We must leave!’
‘Gimme a minute,’ said Newton, buying himself more time as his torch lit up the new panel. ‘“Ben-Hur”. Another fictional character … I think.’
‘Please, Dr Barlow, please … PLEASE,’ urged Enrico, now openly begging. ‘We have to go. You’re not meant to know about any offa disa stuff. It’sa top-tier secret. Da highest. Dey’ll boil my soul inna da urine if you dig any deeper. You wouldn’t wanna dat to happen, woulda you?’
‘All the cells are named after mythical, legendary or literary characters, do you see?’ said Newton, dashing along the street from cell to cell, calling out the nameplates. ‘Mavis Beacon. Pierre Brassau. Paul Bunyan. Baron Von Munchausen. Colonel Sanders. Curiouser and curiouser. I wonder if there’s a pattern to ….’
Newton was unable to finish his line of enquiry.
From the roof above him, there came an almost comical twang, followed by an equally cartoony swish as a not-very-well-made arrow hit his sleeve, then bounced harmlessly away.
‘What the …!’
‘Get down, Dr Barlow!’ yelled Enrico. ‘Taka da cover!’
‘Surrender, you dogs!’ came the order from the darkness. ‘Or you’ll get another!’
Taking the hermit’s advice, Newton belted through the nearest open door, just ahead of a second arrow. This one passed harmlessly through the abruptly transparent form of his companion before wedging in the door jamb, where it vibrated like a school ruler.
‘Curses upon you, you filsy ghost,’ called the invisible assailant. ‘I’ll get you yet!’
‘Cease fire, damn you!’ ordered Enrico, shouting angrily up at the rooftops. ‘You shouldn’t be here anymore. You know dat. You were meant to leave with da others.’
‘Sod zat!’ replied the first voice, laughing like a pantomime lead. ‘For I am an outlaw. My soul can nefer be tamed. Truly, I vos born … to be free!’
The voice dropped onto the road.
Crossbow and arrow primed and ready, their attacker revealed himself to be a 1950’s television imagining of a medieval rebel: tights and a sheepskin waistcoat.
‘Who the hell are you?’ exclaimed Newton, the outlaw’s arrow aimed right at his forehead. ‘Robin Bloody Hood?’
‘Nein,’ said the outlaw, priming his weapon. ‘I … am Villiam Tell. The man behind you’ – Newton turned to see a second medieval outlaw in green tights, a rakish cap pierced with a single feather and Errol Flynn facial hair, aiming a longbow – ‘is Robin Hood.’
Chapter 22
Total Legend
Almost to the second, Kraakenhausen’s group and the Purgatorian search party had simultaneously breached the walls and entered the city. Equally in unison, both parties had become lost in a jumble of streets and alleyways, rendering them as lost as lambs, as indeed they were intended to be.
When the ancient lighting had been on, it had made the experience easier, but this had now become highly unpredictable. One moment, it was dawn; the next, it was dusk, followed moments later by a short period of full, dazzling summertime and then an even longer episode of coal-mine blackness.
‘Keep close,’ cautioned Bennet. ‘Get separated down here, and that will be it. What a maze! How did anyone ever find their way home after a night in the taverna?’
‘Beer scooter?’ suggested Viv.
‘Ah yes,’ remembered Bennet. ‘So drunk that you find yourself back home with no memory of the journey. Nothing more reliable than a beer scooter. Though I doubt they had them in the Bronze Age.’
‘Not so sure,’ answered Viv. ‘Look over there.’
In the weak light from Viv’s phone, a line of dusty bikes were sitting in a primitive wooden rack, thick cobwebs joining their handlebars.
‘How very odd,’ remarked Bennet, scratching a hairline that had started receding in his teens. ‘That and the polystyrene, hardly the land that time forgot, is it?’
‘They’re mostly old,’ observed Gabby, inspecting the frames. ‘But this end one looks really weird. Never seen a bike like that.’
‘A Raleigh Chopper!’ laughed Viv. ‘Height of cool in the early seventies. What’s that doing down here?’
‘LISTEN,’ boomed the Bonetaker. ‘LISTEN!'
‘What is it?’ asked Bennet.
‘LISTEN,’ insisted the Bonetaker, his finger to his lips.
Echoing across the rooftops, muffled at first, then becoming stronger, came an animal bellowing. It was clearly some way off, but it was enough to send a chill up Viv’s back, down Gabby’s, then finally coming to rest on the nape of Bennet’s neck.
‘What the hell is that?’ exclaimed the vicar.
‘BEAST,’ replied the Bonetaker. ‘BIG BEAST.’
‘Beast?’ asked Gabby, ‘What kind of beast?’
‘NOT KNOW. DANGEROUS.’
‘Oh great,’ sighed Bennet, pulling the small but trusted Berretta from his jacket pocket. ‘That’s all we jolly well need. People I can deal with. Wild animals? No, thank you. In these streets … it could come at us from any direction.’
‘IF NEAR, I WILL SMELL.’
‘This is very bad,’ moaned the sullen Vasilakis. ‘We are going to pay for our disobedience. We die down here.’
‘Oh shhhhh,’ countered Gabby dismissively. ‘We’re here now. We’ve dealt with worse.’
‘But you know not what we deal with,’ insisted Vasilakis. ‘It could be anything. We must go back.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ replied Viv. ‘It’s way off. If it keeps up that racket, we’ll know when it’s near.’
‘Agreed,’ said Bennet. ‘We press on.’
*****
Newton, thankfully, hadn’t run into a beast of any kind. Instead, he had run into William Tell and someone who was adamant he was Robin of Loxley. The man certainly looked like a medieval outlaw. He was Hollywood Robin Hood to a tee, his looks so Errol Flynn it was laughable.
Less laughable was the arrow pointing at Newton’s heart.
‘What’s to stop me killing you now, knave?’ he demanded.
‘Manners?’ suggested Newton, hopefully. ‘We’ve just met.’
‘State your business here,’ ordered the outlaw. ‘These streets are ours now. None shall pass without our say-so.’
‘Dey are not yours!’ protested Enrico.
‘We were deserted!’ declared the outlaw. ‘Left to rot. We now claim this city as our own.’
‘You were not deserted,’ replied Enrico. ‘You hid. You hid, and dey left without you.’
‘Of course, ve hid,’ laughed William Tell. ‘Ve are outlaws; that’s vot outlaws do.’
‘Outlaws?’ scoffed Newton. ‘William Tell … Robin Hood. Seriously? I don’t think so.’
‘Not literally,’ said Enrico. ‘But yes, dat is who dey are.’
‘We are as real as you, hermit!’ exclaimed Robin. ‘More real.’
‘Hold on. What do you mean, “not literally”?’ asked Newton. ‘They’re not ghosts. They don’t look transparent in the least.’
‘Ghosts?’ snorted Robin. ‘How dare thee!’
‘Shame on you both,’ chided Enrico. ‘You shoulda have done as you were told.’
‘Oh, that’s easy for thee to say,’ protested Robin. ‘Five hundred years we’ve been down here. This has been our home.’
‘This place has been bad enough,’ added William. ‘But the new place sounds even verse.’
‘It notta safe here anymore,’ insisted Enrico. ‘You know dat.’
‘At least here ve can get out now and again,’ added William. ‘Some vind blasted speck in the great ocean … how is that better than here?’
‘I didn’t say itta was better,’ replied Enrico. ‘I said itta was safer.’
‘Just talk amongst yourselves,’ huffed Newton, feeling left out. ‘Act like I’m not here, why don’t you? Safer? Specks in the ocean? Two semi-fictional medieval outlaws in a cave; I’m a bit lost.’
‘Good,’ sighed Enrico. ‘Because you shouldn’t be seeing any of dis,’.
‘We’re not semi-fictional,’ declared Robin of Sherwood. ‘We’re completely fictional.’
‘You just said you were real!’ exclaimed Newton.
‘Real now … yes,’ replied Robin. ‘But not back then.’
‘Total fiction, the pair of us,’ agreed William Tell. ‘No more real than eine tooth fairy. Who also used to be here, by the vay.’
‘Enough!’ snapped Enrico. ‘Don’t you dare tell him anything else. He’s notta to know!’
‘Isn’t he a Purgatorian?’ enquired Robin. ‘I assumed he was with you.’
‘He is,’ confirmed Enrico. ‘But not all Purgatorians are told aboutta da Labyrinth, you know that. Unfortunately, he got in a spot of da trouble down south. I was obliged to bring him through here to get him to safety … inna da north.’
There was a sudden animal roar. It echoed loudly along the street and then lost itself in the gloom, stopping the baffling conversation dead in its tracks.
‘Is that what I think it is?’ asked Enrico. ‘I thought ….’
‘Yup,’ confirmed Robin. ‘He’s still here. And he’s not the only one. Lots of beasties escaped the last round-up. Goatsuckers, Blemmyes, the Jersey Devil ….’
‘And Spring-Heeled Jack!’ came a voice from above.
There was a swoosh. A wild-eyed man with long, shiny boots, a red cape and a Batman skull cap landed dramatically before them.
‘Haaaaaaaa haaaaaaaa haaaaaaaaaa,’ guffawed the figure, who then stood, lifted one leg, and slapped his thigh like a pantomime lead.
‘Oh dear,’ muttered Robin resentfully. ‘Here we go.’
‘Spring-Heeled Jack?’ scoffed Newton, fairly certain he was being pranked. ‘Seriously? Who next? The Three Musketeers?’
‘Everyone knows the Musketeers were fictional,’ said William Tell. ‘Don’t be silly.’
‘Sorry, I’m late, by the way,’ declared Spring-Heeled Jack. ‘I’ve been chasing the Jersey Devil all morning, and time ran away with me. What have I missed?’
‘I’m not buying any of this,’ laughed Newton. ‘You’re not fooling anyone. There’s no historical evidence for any of you, whatever some people may want to believe.’
‘Ah, but a lot of people do believe,’ sighed Enrico. ‘Dat’s the problem.’
‘I wish I was everything people say I was,’ exclaimed Robin. ‘I’m actually useless with a bow and arrow. I doubt I could hit Friar Tuck if he was nailed to a door.’
‘Same,’ agreed William Tell. ‘I couldn’t hit ein pumpkin, let alone ein apple. My public image is ridiculous.’
‘Eh?’ asked Newton, totally lost.
‘We, sir,’ explained Robin, theatrically bowing, ‘are myths.’
‘Myths … made flesh,’ added William Tell.
‘Eh?’ repeated Newton, more lost. ‘Eh?’
‘Enough!’ snapped Enrico. ‘You are all very, very irresponsible. One indiscretion on your part and da people on the surface will know everything. Dat’s why you had to be relocated. It was for da good of Purgatory, for da good of everyone.’
‘Not for the good of us, though,’ grumped William Tell. ‘Is it?’
‘Huff and stuff!’ snorted Spring-Heeled Jack. ‘No one relocates me.’
‘Nor us,’ agreed Robin, hands on his hips and jaw jutting. ‘We’ll take our chances with the outside world.’
‘I sincerely hope you haven’t been uppa da topside,’ said Enrico. ‘Because dat could be a disaster.’
‘Hold on …,’ interrupted Newton. ‘When you said “Gatekeeper” … you meant you were keeping things in … not out, didn’t you?’
‘Bit of both,’ answered Enrico. ‘My brief was to keepa da place buttoned up. Dere are only four or five ways in anda out, so dey employed a bunch of us hermits to plugga da holes.’
‘Only four or five,’ chuckled Robin. ‘Shows how much you know. There are at least eleven ways out that I know of.’
‘We’ve been coming and going for years!’ laughed Jack.
‘There have been loads of escapes,’ added Robin. ‘You should have seen the fuss when Medusa got out. Hilarious. The Mothman nearly made it onto the Athens ferry.’
Newton, who thought he’d bottomed out on weird a few months earlier, was now profoundly confused. He was just on the verge of demanding a coherent explanation when there was a second, more horrifying roar from the road ahead, this time a lot closer. Whatever it was, it was clearly outraged. Newton, peering anxiously into the dark could now make out two furious, blood-red eyes manifesting in the deep shadows.
The conversation, as bafflingly entertaining as it was, needed to end.
‘Time to go.’ advised Robin, melting into a side alley, William Tell right behind him.
‘Must dash,’ added Jack, catapulting onto the nearest rooftop with an implausible dexterity.
Horribly exposed, Newton and Enrico were suddenly alone in the gloomy street.
‘Suggestions?’ asked Newton, as a horned nightmare began to charge at him out of the darkness.
‘RUN,’ suggested Enrico at the top of his voice. ‘RUN!’
*****
The fire from Dima’s Kalashnikov lit up the alleyway, cartridges bouncing upon the dusty flagstones beneath him.
The apparition had appeared suddenly from above in a flutter of leathery wings, catching the torchlight like an oversized moth. It had descended on them without warning, screaming maniacally, before shooting off again, providing Dima next to no time to take aim before it was gone.
He fired anyway.
‘Did you get it?’ demanded the oligarch? ‘Did you kill it?’
‘I don’t think so,’ replied the gunman.
Confirming its survival, the oddity flapped quickly at them again. Screeching like a banshee, it shot through their ranks, then collided with Astrid’s make-up-plastered face.
‘Arggghhh. No!’ she shrieked loudly, as the nightmare smothered her features, its clawed wings entangling themselves in her strawberry blond curls. ‘Get it off me!’
‘Don’t fire!’ screamed Dima, as his gunmen raised their assault rifles. ‘You’ll hit the girl!’
In the glare of multiple torches, the beast could now be seen. And what a beast! If some crazed scientist had cross-bred a fruit bat with a tired donkey, it couldn’t have been any stranger. Complete with hooves and an undeniably forked tail, the little cryptid struggled frantically to free itself from Astrid’s €400-hairstyle. Flapping and tearing, it turned its horse-like head at the gunmen and let out a ghastly hiss, revealing two walls of needle-sharp teeth.
