The Unhappy Medium 3: Wretched Things: A Supernatural Comedy, page 30
‘I’d love to,’ replied Bennet, returning fire. ‘However, right at this moment, I’m somewhat focused on saving us. I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but these people outnumber us. And they have a lot of guns,’ – a bullet slammed far too close into the seating beside him – ‘with sights.’
‘You see!’ said Eric, appearing beside them. ‘This is what you get when you go against my instructions.’
‘Eric,’ begged Bennet, ‘for the pity’s sake. Fetch help, we’re pinned down.’
‘Oh, now you want my help,’ huffed Eric.
‘Christós!’ snarled Vasilakis. ‘Whose side you on?’
‘Dammit, Eric!’ exclaimed Viv, wading in. ‘Newton is about to be gored … by a mythical animal. Do something.’
‘I’m not the field agent,’ replied Eric, oblivious to the gunfire passing straight through him. ‘You are. You work it out.’
‘Why you … you … you utter cock!’ snapped Bennet, somewhat out of character. ‘Newton’s one of us!’
‘Well, he’s not in my department,’ corrected Eric. ‘And I have more than enough work just –’
‘Ignore him,’ yelled Gabby. ‘We have to do this ourselves. What’s happening down there now?’
‘Oh no …!’ said Bennet, darting his head up and down. ‘The Minotaur, it’s about to charge.’
If it looked bad from the stands, it looked far, far worse from where Newton was standing. The Minotaur was suddenly tearing across the arena, head lowered, the thundering hooves clearly audible above the gunfire, its wicked horns pointing directly at Newton’s centre point. Newton weighed up his narrowing options.
Instinctively, like a goalkeeper in a penalty shoot-out, Newton began to hint at left and right movements, hoping to keep the inbound monster guessing.
‘Datsa da trick,’ enthused Enrico, from somewhere nearby. ‘Confusa da bastard.’
‘Do one,’ hissed Newton. ‘I’m busy.’
The Minotaur no more than ten yards away, Newton began a solid feint for the left. The beast took the bait. Sure that his attacker was headed in that direction, Newton made a stronger, more authentic leap to the right. Fooled by the manoeuvre, the Minotaur tore past him like a freight train, roaring with frustration. Furious, it skidded to a halt, throwing up a dense cloud of billowing dust, then bellowed its outrage, fists beating on its ample pecs. Newton sensibly ran away, tearing off down the arena, hoping to put as much distance as possible between himself and the monster.
‘Well done, Newton!’ shouted Bennet excitedly. ‘Bloody good show.’
‘Lucky,’ huffed Eric dismissively.
‘Shut the hell up!’ snapped Gabby. ‘That’s my dad!’
Newton reached the other end of the stadium and then turned. Steam issuing from its widened nostrils, the irate Minotaur glared back at its intended victim, then charged again, horns first.
‘Mein Gott!’ said Dr Kraakenhausen, watching the duel. ‘This is remarkable. Most remarkable!’
The Minotaur, at least double Newton’s size and probably four or five times his weight, was bearing down on him at a horrifying speed. Once again, Newton hopped from left to right, giving his attacker as many mixed signals as he could manage before dodging away again as the Minotaur thundered past. The confused monster, fooled twice, roared in fury as its horns once again failed to connect, skidding to a halt as Newton bolted away in the opposite direction.
‘Bravo!’ clapped Bennet in admiration. ‘Bravo!’
But the Minotaur, despite being as thick as a house brick, was learning. On its third assault, the monster dropped his trademark charge in favour of a slower, more considered approach, creeping forward at a walking pace, denying Newton the option of using the beast’s momentum against itself once again.
‘You reap what you sow,’ said Eric, unsupportively. ‘That’s what I think.’
‘For God’s sake!’ snapped Gabby. ‘Stick a flippin’ sock in it.’
‘I don’t wear socks,’ replied Eric, insulted. ‘I’m a classical Greek.’
‘Bennet!’ shouted Viv, catching sight of the oligarch’s men edging around the stadium. ‘What do we do? If they go all the way around, they’ll have us cold.’
‘I’m thinking,’ Bennet shouted back, firing blind over a low wall. ‘I’m thinking!’
Newton was also thinking. Stalking him slowly down the arena, the Minotaur left him no alternative but to edge backwards towards a dead end, just where the monster wanted him to be. His mind whirring, Newton ran up and down his memory, opening doors, brainstorming so hard his ears were vibrating.
It paid off.
Images from the Heraklion Museum began to flood Newton’s mind. Vases, figurines, sarcophagi and a host of tiny details flashed through his synapses.
Then … it clicked.
The frescos.
It was preposterous, romantic even, an idea at the absurd end of ridiculous. Newton tried to discount it almost as soon as it occurred to him, but … despite a bathtub full of wishful thinking, there was simply nothing else on the table.
Newton was going to have to take the bull by the horns.
In the stands above him, Nahrapov was becoming impatient. ‘Why haven’t you nailed them yet?’ he shouted at his gunmen. ‘What the hell is wrong with you?’
‘Sorry, Comrade Boris,’ answered Dima. ‘They have a lot of cover.’
‘Dammit,’ snapped the impatient oligarch, ‘give me your weapon.’ Dima handed him his assault rifle. ‘Have I got to do everything round here?’
Nahrapov pointed the rifle up, slipped open the launcher, and fired a grenade.
Fizzing noisily, the canister arced over the drama in the arena below, then dropped. Bouncing and clattering on the stone terraces, it rolled alarmingly up to Bennet by the refreshment stand and exploded.
BLAM!
A substantial cloud of dust instantly obscured the four Purgatorians. Against the odds, Bennet was unscathed. All around him, ball bearings were buried in the sandstone.
‘Everyone good?’ called Bennet, quickly assuming it had been divine intervention.
‘We’re fine!’ confirmed Viv. ‘What about you?’
‘Blessed!’ yelled Bennet. ‘My ears are ringing, but that’s all!’
‘Christós!’ screamed Vasilakis. ‘These dogs mean to kill us.’
‘No kidding!’ replied Gabby.
‘Quick!’ yelled Bennet, seizing the opportunity the still billowing dust afforded. ‘Relocate!’
Keeping low, Bennet scurried away down behind the low wall behind the seats, his long limbs propelling him along like an oversized house spider. Viv, Gabby and the Cretan were closely following him.
The Russians, now unable to see their target, began to fire wildly, wasting their ammunition.
‘Leave them!’ ordered the oligarch. ‘Everyone head for the exit.’
Meanwhile, the Minotaur was not even slightly distracted by Nahrapov’s grenade. Target fixated, it stalked Newton across the dusty arena, relentlessly driving him into a corner.
Newton’s mind, busy at the best of times, was spinning like a centrifuge, the blackboard in his pre-frontal cortex filling with diagrams of arcs and trajectories, as he tried to square away the physics.
As prepared as he would ever be, it was almost a relief when the Minotaur charged.
‘Rargggghhhhhhhh,’ yelled Newton, trying to supercharge his resolve. ‘Rarggghhhhhhhhhh!’
Dr Newton Barlow charged at the Minotaur.
Approaching head-on, going as fast as his legs would carry him, Newton was intent on interception. Closing the gap in a forever second, he waited until he was a mere five feet from the monster’s ludicrous head, then propelled himself upwards, his arms rigid before him. His mind alive with diagrams and equations, Newton seized the Minotaur’s wicked horns.
Using their combined momentum, he flipped himself up …
… and over.
Astonished, Newton Barlow sailed right over the Minotaur.
Incredulous that he had pulled it off, Newton landed, rolling to a painful standstill like a clumsy parachutist. The Minotaur, who hadn’t seen this trick for at least three thousand years, was caught utterly off guard. Frantically trying to gore the trapeze act as it sailed above his head, the monster lost its footing, legs and arms windmilling as it stumbled at full-pelt into the nearest wall.
‘RAAAARRRHHHHHHHHHH!’
‘Well,’ enthused Enrico, as Newton picked himself up, amazed to be in one piece. ‘Look atta you go.’
‘I bull-leapt!’ exclaimed Newton. ‘I flippin’ bull-leapt!’
‘Sì! You really did!’ agreed Enrico. ‘But canna you do it again?’
‘I have to do it … again?’ gasped Newton. ‘Have you any idea how …?’
‘It’s just that you’ve made him reeeeeelly angry dissa time,’ observed Enrico, as the Minotaur pulled its horns out of the brickwork. Slowly it turned its livid red eyes back at Newton. ‘And he wassa preeeetty angry before.’
‘Enrico,’ said Newton, getting himself mentally prepared for the physical gymnastics to come. ‘Do me a favour and get up there. Help the others. I got this, ok?’
‘You sure?’
‘Yeah, I’m sure,’ replied Newton. ‘Do what you can, do anything, but take the heat off our guys, right?’
‘Leave itta to me. And good luck.’
Like a puff of smoke caught in a sudden squall, the hermit shot away, leaving Newton alone again, facing the Minotaur.
The whole arena was now bathed in uproar: gunfire above, drama below. With clouds of dust and smoke boiling up from grenade bursts and a deafening symphony of gunfire zipping across the terraces, it wasn’t really a surprise that no one had noticed the squad of Greek Orthodox monks observing events from a distance.
With the Russians nearing their positions, it was finally time for them to break cover. The abbot held his megaphone to his lips.
‘This is Father Alexios Papadraylou,’ he declared, ‘I am the official custodian of this complex. You are trespassing. I urge you to put down your weapons immediately … and surrender.’
‘Who the hell is that?’ demanded Nahrapov, caught by surprise.
Dima put his binoculars to his eyes to see fifteen Greek Orthodox monks, all armed to the teeth, emerging from the seating immediately in front of them, blocking their escape route.
‘Priests,’ observed Dima, more than a little confused. ‘With guns.’
‘Purgatorians,’ snorted the oligarch contemptuously. ‘Dirty Purgatorian scum. They always use priests.’
‘Can we … shoot them?’ asked Dima, not altogether an atheist.
‘Why not?’ replied Nahrapov flatly.
‘But … priests?’ said Dima. ‘Aren’t they … holy?’
‘Say a prayer,’ ordered Nahrapov. ‘Then kill them.’
‘Priests?’ asked Astrid, doubtfully.
‘Yes, but very bad priests, my sparrow,’ he reassured her.
Torn between loyalty and damnation, Dima crossed himself … then opened fire.
The monks, fully expecting a gunfight, threw themselves back into cover. The moment Dima’s muzzle began to flash, they were returning fire, opening up with their museum of firearms. Diverted, the weapons aimed at Bennet and his companions turned away towards more pressing targets.
‘Who are they?’ asked Bennet, raising his head above the wall to identify the newcomers.
‘Purgatorians, of course,’ answered Eric. ‘Did you think all this trespassing would go unnoticed? I’m glad someone is finally doing their job.’
‘We’re saved!’ said Gabby. ‘Aren’t we? Tell me we’re saved.’
‘I know these men!’ declared Vasilakis. ‘They from the monastery at Chrysoskalitissa. Brave, they will die before they let these dogs escape.’
‘Never mind the dogs!’ exclaimed Viv. ‘Look at Newton!’
Newton was worth a look. For the second time, the lone Purgatorian was running towards the charging Minotaur. Fleet of foot but slow to learn, the Minotaur once again offered Newton his horns. As his colleagues in the stands looked on in stunned amazement, Newton was up and over the beast for a second time, officially bull-leaping, just like the frescos they had seen together at the Heraklion museum.
‘Did I just see what I think I just saw?’ gasped the astonished Viv. ‘Because that … that was flippin’ incredible.’
‘Wow!’ added the equally incredulous Gabby.
The Minotaur was less impressed. Infuriated, outwitted, and more than a little insulted, the beast abandoned technique altogether, resorting to pursuing Newton in circles, snorting with sheer frustration.
But now, his body screaming fatigue, Newton was starting to run out of steam, his pace slackening with every new lap.
The Minotaur was closing in.
Then came the inevitable. The tip of the beast’s right horn snagged on the seat of Newton’s trousers, then jerked him backwards. Triumphantly, it threw back its bovine head.
Whipped off his knackered legs, Newton shot upwards.
‘No!’ screamed Viv from the stands. ‘NOOOOO!’
In terrifyingly slow motion, Newton rotated in the air like an unwanted ragdoll, reached the top of his parabolic curve … then plummeted. The incoming Minotaur, keen to finish the job, dashed beneath Newton as he dropped, horns raised in murderous anticipation.
The Bonetaker, timely as ever, exploded through the nearest door.
Like some oversized rugby player, the Neanderthal threw his shoulder into the Minotaur, slamming it violently away. Shocked by the impact, the tumbling monster screamed in agony.
‘WRAAAGGHHHHHHHHHOOOOOAAAH!’
The Bonetaker, displaying the dexterity for which he was famous, then caught his falling colleague. Pulling sharply to a stop, he placed him carefully upon the ground beside him … then went for the Minotaur.
‘Take him down!’ screamed Gabby, cheering him on. ‘Get the bastard!’
The Minotaur, mentally unprepared for such an intervention, looked at the charging Bonetaker in bewilderment. Always the biggest monster on the block, he was still trying to join the dots when the supersized Neanderthal kicked him, Bruce-Lee-style, in the ribcage, knocking out a chest full of fetid breath.
‘RUN,’ ordered the Bonetaker, pointing Newton towards the torn-open side door. ‘RUN!’
Newton wasn’t going to argue. He staggered across the arena and into the dark interior, frantically looking for a way up into the stands in the confusion of passageways.
Now, it was the Bonetaker’s turn to suffer. The Minotaur was up and at him, windmilling at the Neanderthal with its massive fists before slamming a horn directly through the palm of the Bonetaker’s substantial left hand.
‘ARGGGHHHH.’
Back on the terraces, the first of Nahrapov’s men had fallen, winged by a well-aimed pre-war hunting rifle.
‘Man down!’
Nahrapov dashed to the wounded gunman. Far from tending to the injured man’s gaping shoulder wound, the oligarch grabbed his assault rifle and then kicked the now useless casualty away down the steps like a sack of refuse.
As the wretched mercenary crashed into the stonework below, an amorphous form shot past him, headed for the Russians, bent on disruption. Virtually unseen, Enrico Pescatore darted around the gunmen, knocking them off their aim, desperate to take the heat off his fellow Purgatorians.
Then he caught sight of what the Kraakenhausens were carrying, its distinctive lapis lazuli gleaming against the ivory surface of the box, triggering an avalanche of memory.
‘Mama mia!’ gasped Enrico.
Priorities had changed. ‘What’s that?’ demanded the blind old man, sensing the spirit. ‘There’s someone here.’
‘There’s lots of people here,’ replied Andronicus the Terrible, keeping them both behind cover.
‘Something just tried to pull the box off me!’ yelled Dr Kraakenhausen, wrapping himself around the relic of the True Cross as if it were a newborn.
‘Let it go!’ ordered Enrico, half manifesting. ‘It’sa notta yours!’
‘Help me!’ shrieked Dr Kraakenhausen. ‘It’s a ghost!’
‘Get the hell off!’ yelled Helena, rushing to her father’s aid.
Obliged to become solid enough to grab the relic, Enrico’s spirit was likewise solid enough to be assaulted. Kung-fu kicked by Helena Kraakenhausen, he reeled back, stunned by the first pain he’d felt since the thirteenth century. Wincing, he shot backwards.
‘Don’t let him take my relic!’ shrieked the blind old man.
‘Your relic?’ snapped an indignant Dr Kraakenhausen. ‘I like that. I found it, it’s mine.’
‘Actually, it’s mine,’ said Nahrapov, kicking Enrico away as he tried again to wrestle the box from the archaeologist. ‘Everything… is mine.’
‘Giva me da box!’ demanded Enrico, as the blows rained down. ‘It’sa notta fora da likes offa you!’ Bending to the inevitable, he dropped solidity in favour of preservation.
‘Damn you, Purgatorian,’ replied the oligarch, levelling his assault rifle. ‘You wanna be solid, eh? I’ll blow you to bits, arsehole. Get the hell outta here.’
He was right. Enrico was in a bind. Solid, he was outnumbered; as a spirit, he was powerless. Reluctantly, he shot away, hovering at a distance, desperate for ideas.
‘Thank the Gods,’ muttered the blind man, as the spirit of Enrico departed.
A fresh burst of gunfire landed around them, forcing the upright Nahrapov to throw himself down.
‘Damn those bastards!’ swore the oligarch. ‘Well, let’s see how they deal with this.’ Charging the grenade launcher, the Russian let fly.
‘Incoming!’ screamed the holy Cretans.
The first of five grenades crashed amongst the monks, taking down two of the more senior clerics like derelict chimneys.
‘By the Saints!’ yelled Papadraylou. ‘These dogs are not going to go quietly. Well then, we meet fire with fire. Father Konstantin,’ he bellowed, ‘the bazooka!’
Dashing through the falling debris, the priest threw the ageing weapon to his leader. For the first time since 1944, the rocket launcher was loaded. Papadraylou lifted it to his shoulder, took aim … and fired.
