The Unhappy Medium 3: Wretched Things: A Supernatural Comedy, page 31
A pop, then a hiss, and the projectile sailed across the terraces towards the enemy, leaving a trail of angry sparks. Fizzing like a carbonated drink, it missed the diving Nahrapov by a mere three feet, bounced off a wall behind him, and then fell unexploded to the floor, spinning wildly as its momentum trailed way.
‘It’s ok,’ began Dima, looking across at the dormant rocket. ‘It’s a du–’
It wasn’t.
The resulting flash, impressive though it was, was nothing compared to the vast dust cloud it brought forth. Huge waves of yellow muck, locked by time into the surrounding terraces, billowed out from the blast like a vast beige lettuce, instantly obscuring the Russian team from the cheering Purgatorians.
Seizing the moment, Dima decided to add to the confusion.
‘Smoke!’
The canisters flew high, then landed in the middle of Papadraylou’s team. Popping like party balloons, they added waves of choking red miasma to the clouds of grey and yellow.
‘Move it!’ ordered Nahrapov. ‘They’re blind. Go round them!’
Sightless and hacking in the evil soup, the Purgatorian monks ceased fire, terrified of hitting their own. Unseen, the Russians and the tottering Astrid tore around them, dragging their captives with them across the dusty terraces.
Before the monks could react, Nahrapov’s team were away, charging for the exit, pursued only by the ethereal form of Enrico Pescatore.
‘Noooooo!’ coughed Papadraylou from the midst of the gas cloud. Coughing like an eighty-a-day man, the abbot staggered into the clear, in time to witness Andronicus and the blind man vanish into the distance. Behind him, his men, hacking and clacking like crows, were emerging from the gas clouds, eyes streaming, fit for nothing.
‘Oh, that’s just great!’ bleated Eric, observing the debacle from afar.
Meanwhile, Newton was blindly feeling his way up through the arena’s maze of service tunnels, finally appearing in the stands between the incapacitated monks and his rescue team, all now emerging dejectedly from cover.
‘Newton!’ yelled Viv and Gabby in unison, dashing forward and throwing their arms around him.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing coming down here!’ demanded Newton, positive and negative emotions swirling like oil and water.
‘Nice to see you too,’ replied Gabby.
Below them, in the arena, the Bonetaker and the Minotaur were still locked in combat, rolling back and forth in a bizarre wrestling match. Their strengths evenly balanced, neither appeared to be gaining the initiative.
‘It’s a good job he can’t die,’ remarked Newton. ‘Because he’s met his match there.’
‘STOP!’ wheezed Papadraylou through his megaphone. ‘MINOTAUR …. DESIST!’
The Minotaur looked up, digesting the order. After due deliberation, he simply shook his horned head, then punched the Bonetaker in the face for the hell of it, and carried on.
‘I …. SAID …. DESIST!’ repeated Papadraylou angrily between bursts of uncontrollable coughing.
Reluctantly, the Minotaur finally stopped. Slowly, defiantly, and with the bloodied but unbowed Bonetaker on the floor below him, the beast stood up.
‘You alright, Boney?’ yelled Gabby, giving her gigantic colleague a thumbs-up.
‘OK,’ boomed the Bonetaker, sitting up. He looked at his own bloodied hands and smiled. ‘GOOD FIGHT … GOOOOOD FIGHT.’
The two teams edged forward through the stands, finally making contact.
‘Father Papadraylou,’ announced the abbot. ‘Cretan branch. Greek Orthodox.
‘Father Bennet,’ replied the vicar, shaking his hand. ‘East and West Sussex. C of E.’
‘An orthodox priest and an unorthodox vicar in the same place,’ muttered Newton. ‘How sweet.’
‘We have failed,’ lamented Papadraylou, ignoring the joke. ‘All life, we train for such a moment. And now … we fail.’
‘Yes, actually you did,’ added Eric unnecessarily.
‘How that help?’ protested Vasilakis. ‘How that help?’
‘Right then. Anyone want to explain all this to me?’ asked Newton.
‘No time for that,’ urged Papadraylou. ‘We need to get after these sinful dogs.’
‘Never a good time for explanations,’ sighed Newton. ‘Funny that.’
‘I hate to add to da woes,’ said Enrico, appearing amongst them. ‘But itsa bitta worse thana you think.’
‘How exactly can it be worse?’ snorted Eric.
‘Dey gotta something,’ explained Enrico. ‘When you cleara da treasury, you didda notta take everything. No! You leava somathing. Now … they’ve got it.’
‘Got what? WHAAAAT?’
‘Is bad,’ continued Enrico. ‘And I know it’s bad, because I wassa da one datta brought it here.’
‘Brought what?’ demanded Eric. ‘By the Gods, man, get to the point! For goodness’ sake. My nerves are in tatters!’
‘It’sa only da relic offa da True Cross, innit?’ replied Enrico. ‘Da one dat was atta da Battle offa Hattin. Da one dat wassa taken by da pirates. Da one I tooka back, inna Corsica.’
‘I know that story,’ exclaimed Bennet, crossing himself. ‘But I thought it ended up in Genoa.’
‘Notta da real one. I didda da swap, see? I hadda da box made in Crete onna da way home. It wassa identical. Dropped in da bit offa da old wood froma da seashore, and away I went. Purgatory gotta da real relic, and Genoa gotta da fake. Si?’
‘But this is the real one?’ asked Vasilakis. ‘You are sure?’
‘Si,’ continued the former pirate. ‘I brought itta here myself.’
‘The criminals!’ blurted the mortified Eric. ‘You think they took it?’
‘I donna think, I know. I try to get itta offa dem, but I wassa outnumbered.’
‘Let me get this straight,’ interrupted Newton. ‘The bad guys have just made off with a relic of ….’
‘Yes!’ wailed Enrico and Eric in unison.
‘Unreal,’ marvelled Newton, slowly shaking his head in disbelief. ‘Just … unreal.’
‘Surely, they can’t do anything with it. Can they?’ asked Bennet.
Eric’s eyes supplied him an answer he didn’t want.
‘Is unthinkable,’ lamented Papadraylou. ‘Is disaster.’
‘Yeah? Well, “disaster” is an understatement,’ snorted Eric. ‘I said I wasn’t happy with the standard of the clean-up squads.’ He added, ‘I have meeting notes proving that.’
‘Yes,’ sighed Bennet. ‘Of course, you do.’
‘But no one listens to a bloody thing I say,’ whined Eric. ‘So what do we get? I’ll tell you what we get. We get strays wandering around. Outlaws, cryptids, and who-knows-what mythological anomalies are still lurking down here, ready to escape. Shocking negligence. Why can’t people just do their jobs? My department would never be that lax.’
‘Are we all on drugs?’ asked Newton. ‘Or is it just me? I’m utterly lost here. What the hell are you talking about?’
‘There is no time for talking of any kind,’ said Vasilakis. ‘We need to get after these people.’
‘I agree,’ concurred Papadraylou, turning to his colleagues. ‘You two, stay with the Minotaur; get him secured.’ He looked over the stands to see three distant outlaws bolting away down a service tunnel followed by a small bat-like creature. ‘The same goes for Robin Hood, William Tell, Spring-Heeled Jack, and the Jersey Devil.’
‘The whaaaa?’ interrupted Newton.
‘Legend from New Jersey. Batwings and cloven hooves. I ask you. Went on for a while until everybody tired of it. Utter nonsense, of course, like everything else down here.’
‘And that other one? Spring-Heeled …’
‘Jack,’ supplied Papadraylou. ‘Yes, another flash in the pan we can’t get rid of. Mass hysteria made flesh. Jumped up all over London, so they say. But never mind that. He and the rest, they need to be dealt with. The whole place needs to be swept … again. And by the Saints … let’s do it properly this time. We need it spotless.’
‘Bolting the stable door…,’ began Eric.
‘No … wait …,’ interrupted Newton. ‘Please! Can someone just explain ….’
‘Explanations … recriminations,’ said Vasilakis, cutting him short, ‘all must wait. Every second we delay, those dogs will get further away with the relic. There is much at stake.’
‘We’d better get going then,’ sighed Newton, reluctantly parking a thousand questions. ‘We’re wasting time.’
Chapter 25
What We Believe
With the Purgatorians in disarray behind them, Nahrapov’s team dashed out of the subterranean city, across the causeway and away down the polished stone tunnels, their prisoners dragged along with them.
‘Oh, woe! Oh, woe!’ wailed Eric, as the Purgatorians hurried after them. ‘They know everything!’
‘Well, that’s more than I know,’ grumped Newton. ‘Like it or not, I need to be brought up to speed. Or do you want me just to work it out the old-fashioned way?’
‘I shall have to think about that,’ answered Eric, trying to buy time.
Papadraylou’s monks, many still weeping from the smoke canisters, were wiping their eyes, their faces grim, thirsty for payback.
‘It’s so nice to see foreign clergy taking up arms, don’t you think?’ remarked Bennet, admiringly.
‘Whatever floats your boat,’ replied Newton. ‘Is the Bonetaker ok? He got a bit of a pounding back there.’
‘GOOD,’ boomed the Neanderthal.
‘Ah … the legendary Bonetaker,’ said Papadraylou with reverence. ‘We’ve heard so much about him. Is he as good as they say?’
‘Forensically homoeopathic,’ replied Bennet proudly. ‘His senses are so tuned, he could find a washed sock in a sandstorm.’
Back into the chaotic street plan, the Purgatorians pushed north-east, Bonetaker on point. Twenty minutes along, they arrived at the vast city wall.
‘UP,’ said the Bonetaker, pointing skywards. ‘BRIDGE.’
Taking his cue, the Purgatorians filed up a narrow stone staircase that hugged the huge walls, the streets below stretching away into the darkness as they pushed upwards. After two of the most physical days of his life, Newton was wincing endlessly, bruises and cuts smarting angrily from his toes to his buzzing forehead.
‘Been in the wars, haven’t we?’ observed Bennet.
‘Yes, Bennet,’ answered Newton, ‘I have.’
‘Don’t worry, hun,’ soothed Viv, ‘we’ll get you checked out properly when we get to the surface. Bit of TLC with the first aid kit and a glass or two of raki. Be as right as rain.’
‘Sounds wonderful,’ replied Newton.
‘Well impressed by the bull-leaping, Dad!’ exclaimed his proud daughter. ‘Seriously, we thought you were doomed.’
‘So did I,’ agreed Newton. ‘Thanks for coming after me, by the way. I’d rather you were safe at the villa, obviously, but I can’t say I wasn’t relieved to see you here. So … thanks.’
‘A pleasure,’ said Eric, floating ahead of them.
‘Er … hello?’ responded the incredulous Gabby. ‘He wasn’t talking to you, Eric. Do you know what, Dad? This numpty was happy to let you die.’
‘Were you now?’ asked Newton, turning to look the ancient Greek bang in the eyes. ‘Thanks.’
‘Oh, it wasn’t personal,’ replied Eric nonchalantly. ‘It’s protocol.’
‘Of course,’ sighed Newton, far from surprised. ‘Well, that’s you struck off my Christmas card list, you officious little prick.’
‘There’s no call for that kind of language,’ insisted Eric, as they began to cross the causeway.
‘Make it up to me,’ suggested Newton. ‘Explain this madhouse.’
‘Must I?’ grumbled Eric, dragging his feet, ‘It’s not really proto–’
‘Look, dammit,’ snapped Newton, ‘I’m up to here with your bureaucratic nonsense. I’ve seen the place with my own bloody eyes. We all have. Even the bad guys have seen it, for Pete’s sake! What is the point in hiding behind your ridiculous red tape now?’
‘Well, er … I suppose ….’
‘Don’t suppose,’ continued Newton, impatiently. ‘Break the habit of a lifetime and show some flexibility.’
‘My lifetime ended a long time ago,’ said Eric, ‘as you well know.’
‘If you split one more hair,’ warned Newton, balling his fists, ‘so help me, I’ll get Bennet here to exorcise you.’
‘He’s not an exorcist,’ replied Eric, pedantically.
‘I’d have a bloody good go,’ threatened Bennet. ‘For the love of God, tell the man, why don’t you?’
‘Oh, what the hell,’ conceded the embattled bureaucrat. ‘I guess you’ll be far worse to deal with if you try to work it out on your own. Very well. … What do you want to know?’
‘Finally!’ exclaimed Newton. ‘Well. Let’s start with something simple. How about everything? What on earth is this place?’
‘It’s the labyrinth, of course,’ began Eric, reluctantly. ‘An ancient answer to an ancient problem. Modern Purgatory, with all its bloated departments and vast staff numbers, actually began rather small, you know. Proper shoestring stuff. If we’d known how big things would become, I strongly doubt we’d have ever gone down the route we did, but there you go. Hindsight and all that.’
‘Go on,’ said Newton.
‘Well, humanity needed watching,’ continued Eric. ‘Managing. Big brains, self-awareness, imagination, memory … these things were revolutionary.’
‘You mean the arrival of sentience?’ asked Newton.
‘Exactly,’ replied Eric. ‘Sentience is a right pain. Right out of the gate, there were problems. Homo erectus, compared to his brutish cousins, may have seemed super smart, but they were pretty bloody stupid with it. Cavemen had brains far bigger than they knew what to do with. If they didn’t understand something, they’d just make stuff up.’
‘Such as?’ asked Newton.
‘Death, life, fate …,’ answered Eric. ‘The big stuff. Hell, there’s no good answer for those, even now. With no reason and no objectivity to hold them back, the shamans ran riot.’
‘Aha … religion,’ said Newton. ‘I hope you’re listening, Bennet.’
‘No … not that. Well … not exactly. Stories you see. Stories are the thing,’ explained Eric. ‘This was a time when the idea of factual verification was utterly off the table. I mean, there weren’t any tables. Early man never fact-checked anything. History, legends, experience, everything was subjective. In that kind of world, myths and reality became horribly mangled. You’re familiar with the phrase, “If enough people believe something, then it might as well be true?”’
‘I certainly am,’ confirmed Newton, with more than a little feeling.
‘Well, the thing is,’ continued Eric. ‘As humanity went from small bands of hunter-gatherers to larger, more organised communities, well … the number of people who could believe things skyrocketed. Get to the first towns and cities, and things could run away with themselves at a horrifying speed.’
‘Define … “run away”,’ asked Newton. ‘And “things”.’
‘I guess you’d know them,’ answered Eric, ‘as myths,
‘Mythology? That’s just storytelling, isn’t it?’ asked Newton. ‘Where’s the harm in that?’
‘The harm, Doctor Barlow, comes when enough people believe in a “something”, no matter how much utter nonsense it may be, and it becomes … a fact.’
‘A fact?’ queried Newton. ‘How the hell can it become a fact?’
‘You’ve just had a run-in with a half-man half-bull,’ said Eric. ‘Anything about that strike you as odd?’
‘Quite a bit. All of it, actually.’
‘Well then,’ continued Eric, ‘tell me, Doctor Barlow, as a man of science, is it possible for a human being and a bull to successfully interbreed?’
‘Absolutely not! The physical biology, the DNA … nothing would happen,’
‘Exactly. It’s against all the laws of nature, is it not?’
‘Totally,’ confirmed Newton. ‘Even if it wasn’t, there would be a lot of awkward questions at Christmas.’
‘Quite. So, how exactly do you explain that thing back there?’
‘Well. I can’t,’ admitted Newton.
‘Right,’ said Eric. ‘It exists simply because enough people believed in it. Thousands of people thought the Minotaur was real … so … it was. Is.’
‘That’s absurd,’ laughed Newton.
‘It might be absurd, Dr Barlow. But it’s just how it is. The Minotaur is not the only myth you’ve encountered, either, is it?’
‘You mean Robin Hood?’
‘Yup,’ replied Eric. ‘And William Tell and that annoying Spring-Heeled idiot. None of them actually existed in real life, did they?’
‘Well, no,’ agreed Newton. ‘Not according to the serious historians.’
‘The only historian that matters is a serious one,’ declared Eric. ‘Anything else is myth, pure and simple. But, sadly, until the last one hundred and fifty years or so, there were very few of what I would consider to be serious historians. Oh, I grant you there were scribes keeping records here and there, but the urge to embellish, distort, or outright lie was always there, unchecked. Fantasy was taken as seriously as the truth. It’s been a huge problem.’
‘Oooookkkkaaaaayyyyy,’ said Newton, struggling to run with any of it. ‘But how does that lead us here, to this place?’
‘Well, belief is a strong thing,’ explained Eric. ‘Imagination isn’t just a careless thought, a trivial flight of fantasy; it has consequences. First, the harmless fable is conjured up, either through misunderstanding or, more often, by wilful fabrication. But then, it takes hold, becomes more and more elaborate with details and subplots being added; the more dramatic and terror-inducing, the better. Ghosts, monsters, demons, they don’t just exist as ideas, Dr Barlow; because of the collective power of mass delusion, they end up literally existing.’
‘Oh, come on!’ exclaimed Newton. ‘That’s madness.’
‘Well, it also happens to be the truth!’ snapped Eric. ‘If you don’t believe me, ask these monks; they’ve been keeping this circus under control for thousands of years.’
