The Unhappy Medium 3: Wretched Things: A Supernatural Comedy, page 39
‘Perfect,’ sighed Newton.
‘You want them wrapped?’
‘For God’s sake … NO!’ snapped Newton. ‘Just give us the damn things. Please. We’re in a hurry.’
‘Ok,’ said the shopkeeper, as Bennet peered anxiously outside at the glacial bus chase. ‘€130. Ok?’
‘Perfect,’ replied Newton.
‘How you pay? Cash?’
‘CARD!’ shouted Newton, holding up his plastic.
‘Ok,’ sighed the shopkeeper, slowly pulling out a card reader.
Newton shoved his card into the reader before it had even landed on the counter, then hard punched in his number with a rigid index finger.
‘Bad signal,’ shrugged the shopkeeper, after looking blankly at his reader for an agonising string of seconds. ‘Piece of sheeeeet.’
‘Oh for f….,’ said Newton, blood pressure trampolining through his temples.
‘Ah, wait … there it goes,’ observed the shopkeeper nonchalantly. ‘You want a recei¬–’
‘NO!’ yelled Newton, grabbing the umbrellas and heading for the exit, Bennet on his tail, walking sticks under his arms as they dashed up the avenue after the double-decker.
Vasilakis opened the door.
‘Here we go, chaps,’ cried Bennet, as they hurtled up the stairs to the top deck. ‘Arm yourselves!’
‘Is walking stick!’ protested one of the monks. ‘What we supposed to do with that?’
‘Consider yourself lucky,’ sighed another, opening his rainbow umbrella.
‘It’s all we could get!’ protested Bennet. ‘We have God on our side, though. That counts for something, surely?’
‘If you say so,’ said Newton, waving his walking stick around like a broadsword.
Without warning, the bus lane abruptly widened. Instantly, the traffic surrounding the Myrmidons’ bus veered away, creating a space they instantly exploited, accelerating briskly and pulling ahead.
‘Damn,’ exclaimed Newton, dashing down the stairs to Vasilakis at the wheel. ‘Pour on the coals, mate, willya? They’re getting away.’
‘You got it,’ replied Vasilakis, slamming down his foot.
‘See if you can get alongside them,’ added Newton. As Vasilakis hit the accelerator, Newton lurched back on the handrail. Having regained his balance, he bolted upstairs.
‘Ok, everyone,’ he shouted. ‘He’s gonna try and get us alongside. If you’ve got a weapon, get ready.’
Both buses were now accelerating. 20, 30, … 35, their speeds climbed as the congested central streets gave way to a dual carriageway, pointing south-west to Piraeus and the harbour. Restricted by the steady commuter traffic in front of them, the Myrmidons’ bus was still held back, enabling the Purgatorians to edge closer in the outside lane.
‘Myrmidons!’ yelled Achilles, as the second bus began to drift alongside. ‘Prepare for combat!’
‘This is it, chaps!’ said Bennet, as the wild-eyed Ancient Greeks drifted closer. ‘Give ’em hell!’
Like two battling men-o-war … the buses aligned.
Instantly, the Purgatorians and the Myrmidons began to slash wildly at each other from the top decks.
‘Stab them!’ screamed Achilles. ‘We have the advantage. We have swords, and all they have … are sticks!’
It wasn’t an advantage for long. Rusted by three millennia, the museum pieces were simply not fit for purpose. Three broke immediately, their blades flying away to clang and bounce away along the road behind them.
‘For the love of Athena!’ bellowed Ajax. ‘My blade just fell off!’
‘Mine is still intact,’ shouted Eudoros. ‘Let me at them, that I might smite their heads from their –’
‘Smite that, Schweinhund!’ snarled Helena, poking him in the eye with her “Welcome to Greece” beach umbrella.
‘Nice,’ said Newton, dodging a slashing rust-encrusted dagger.
‘Can I use my gun?’ yelled Bennet. ‘Only we’re in a built-up area. There are strict protocols for these things. Plus, I’ve only got three bullets left.’
‘Nah, we got this,’ replied Newton, as yet another Myrmidon blade shattered on the handrail.
‘Forget the weapons,’ shouted the frustrated Achilles, tossing away his hopelessly bent weapon. ‘We go hand-to-hand. Menesthius, Eudoros, get over there.’
Fire in his belly, Menesthius, was up and over the rail, vaulting onto the second bus in one fluid movement. Landing amongst the monks, he punched and kicked like a maniac as his colleagues landed beside him.
‘Oh no, you don't,’ screamed Bennet, racing to intercept.
The Ancient Greeks were good, but they weren’t martial arts good. Used to swords in their hands, they were out of their comfort zone when the sinuous ninja moves of the incoming vicar descended upon them, fists and feet flying.
‘You want some?’ demanded Bennet, as he drove his sensible shoe into Eudoros’ jaw, sending him sprawling away down the aisle.
‘Curse you, priest!’ screamed Menesthius, throwing himself on Bennet’s back. ‘I take thee down!’
‘Arggghh,’ gargled Bennet, as the arm locked around his throat, forcing him to rear around wildly, the Greek hero glued to his back.
‘Get off him, you bastard!’ screamed Newton, wading in with his walking stick. Slamming it hard across Menesthius’ skull, Newton released the embattled Bennet, the Greek warrior reeling away to the side of the bus, hands clasped to his kyboshed brains.
In a move that surprised no one more than himself, Newton was right on him, tilting Menesthius, up and over the side of the top deck to land like a full bin bag on the asphalt below.
‘Menesthius!’ screamed Achilles in disbelief. ‘NOOOOOOO!’
‘Die!’ roared Eudoros, charging back at them along the centre aisle.
The avenging Myrmidon windmilled into Newton, blows landing in his head, guts and groin in a swarm of agonising impacts.
‘Get off him, Schweinhund!’ snarled Helena, leaping over the seats.
‘Arggghhhh,’ screamed Eudoros, as she skilfully karate-chopped his neck. Windpiped, the warrior dropped like a delicate gift in a Christmas parcel office, hands clutching at his cracked throat.
‘Throw him off!’ yelled Helena, going for the only Myrmidon on the top deck still standing. As Eudoros went over the side, the German rounded on the third warrior, fists flying. This one was more prepared. Dancing from side to side, he dodged the incoming moves. Choosing his moment, he lashed out, catching Helena hard across the jaw.
WHACK.
Helena went down hard, two constellations worth of stars exploding behind her closing eyelids as the Myrmidon went in for the kill.
BLAM!
Bennet’s shot tore into the hero’s shoulder, violently flipping him off his fallen foe. Rearing backwards, he slammed his ancient helmet hard against the metal rail, where it shattered like a quail egg.
‘Over you go,’ said Bennet, leaping at him.
The last of the assaulting Myrmidons dropped to the roadway.
‘What madness is this!’ screamed Achilles, as the buses began once again to separate. ‘My warriors … my poor warriors’
‘Not being funny, right,’ remarked Andronicus, ‘but I thought you Greek heroes would be a bit better than that.’
‘You shut your damn mouth,’ snarled Achilles, pulling out a knife and jabbing it just short of a puncture in the former emperor’s throat. ‘We’re just a bit rusty, that’s all. Like these useless weapons.’
‘Right,’ said Andronicus, keen not to be murdered by one of his all-time heroes. ‘Sorry.’
‘Patroclus,’ yelled Achilles down the stairwell. ‘How far are we from the port?’
‘Well?’ demanded Patroclus, jabbing the poor driver’s neck.
‘Ten m-m-minutes,’ he stammered.
‘Ten minutes,’ repeated Patroclus.
‘Look,’ shouted Andronicus, ‘they’re falling behind.’
Sure enough, the Purgatorians were struggling to keep up with the Myrmidons, forced in and out of the offside lanes by aggressive local drivers.
‘Faster!’ barked Patroclus, waving his dagger at the terrified driver. FASTER.’
‘Hold on tight,’ said the driver. ‘I know short cut.’
‘Take it!’ ordered Patroclus.
The manoeuvre caught Vasilakis entirely off guard. As the Myrmidons’ bus veered suddenly to the left at the Y-junction, the Purgatorians carried on to the right on the main road. Vasilakis hit the brakes, sending everyone on the top deck flying forward in a mass of arms and legs. Newton, at the front, got the worst of it. Unsecured, he shot directly over the front of the top deck … and into a lemon tree.
‘Friggin’ lemons,’ he lamented. Collecting yet more scratches, Newton dropped to the road. Picking himself up, he threw a stray lemon, which had found its way into his pocket, in the general direction of the Myrmidons, then limped back to the bus. He banged madly at the passenger doors until Vasilakis opened them, then rejoined his colleagues on the top deck.
Vasilakis slammed the bus back into gear.
Crashing through the central reservation, the bus charged back to the junction, took the turn, then raced after their quarry, the Cretan ramming the pedal to the floor.
‘They’re going for the yacht,’ said Bennet.
‘You think?’ replied Newton, pulling out his phone.
‘Hello?’ answered Viv, in a far too relaxed voice. ‘Going alright?’
‘Very much … not.’
‘Can you summarise?’ asked Viv.
‘Well …,’ said Newton, giving it his best shot. ‘At this very moment, we’re in hot pursuit of the heroes of the Trojan War.’
‘Riiiiight. Sorry, I asked.’
‘Anyway,’ continued Newton, ‘we’re inbound to you at the harbour. The bad guys are going to appear near you very, very soon.’
‘Are they in a bus?’ asked Viv, picking up the binoculars.
‘Yup.’
‘Like an open-topped tourist bus kind of a bus?’
‘Yup.’
‘Right,’ said Viv, ‘They’ve just appeared down the harbour, headed this way. How far off are you?’
‘Minutes away,’ answered Newton. ‘Keep an eye on them, willya? It’s going to be close. Call me when they reach the boat.’
‘Gotcha!’ Viv pointed and passed the binoculars to Gabby.
‘Showtime?’ asked Gabby, peering at the incoming bus through the lenses.
‘Yup. Let’s get closer.’
The Myrmidon bus was charging down the harbour road, flying past the docked ferries. As Viv and Gabby watched, it then headed for the marina, blaring horns bellowing at them as they tore past. More horns, further up the waterfront, marked the arrival of their Purgatorian pursuers, Vasilakis cutting ruthlessly across the early evening traffic as they raced to intercept.
‘That has to be our guys,’ remarked Gabby, handing the binoculars back to Viv.
‘Keep still,’ whispered a Russian voice, uncomfortably close to Viv’s ear. A gun jabbed into her side as a rough hand closed vice-like around her arm. ‘And you …’ said the gunman, looking Gabby sternly in the eye, ‘do as I say, or I kill your mother. Understand?’
Gabby silently nodded.
‘Now move. Bitches,’ ordered the gunman, bustling them both away towards the Black Sea Princess.
‘That’s not very nice language,’ said Viv.
‘Yeah, a bit misogynistic if you ask me,’ added Gabby.
‘Shut the hell up, Purgatorian whore,’ snarled the gunman, hustling them across the road towards the superyacht. ‘I should kill you now.’
‘Best not,’ suggested Viv. ‘There’s a good chap.’
The Myrmidon bus raced up to the Black Sea Princess. Violently bouncing the curb, the driver braked, screaming tyres pulling the double-decker up mere feet from the gangway. Even as the Ancient Greeks poured from the doors, the Purgatorian bus was screeching to a halt right behind it.
Belatedly, the Purgatorian fast response team were also now at the marina, their knackered old minibus clattering onto the wharf in front of the superyacht, doors opening before it had even finished rolling. With guns in hand, fifteen more monks spilt onto the harbourside.
In reply, Dima’s gunmen surged onto the deck of the Black Sea Princess.
‘You stop right there,’ demanded Bennet, pointing his gun at the former emperor.
‘No, you stop,’ replied Andronicus, as both sides cocked their weapons.
‘We won’t let you leave,’ yelled Vasilakis. ‘You dead in water.’
‘Oooh,’ whispered Newton, looking from the monks to the gunmen on the superyacht’s deck and back again. ‘A Mexican standoff.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Andronicus, sending Homer up the gangplank. ‘Look behind you.’
Newton knew before he turned. Things, he bitterly noted, always seemed to go this way. Dima, pistol to his girlfriend’s head, was marching Viv and Gabby slowly through the Purgatorians.
‘I wouldn’t if I was you, priest,’ said Dima, seeing Bennet tense himself to act. ‘Or I waste the pair of them. Understand?’
‘Oh crap,’ sighed Newton, rolling his eyes with despair. ‘Not again.’
‘Back away,’ ordered Andronicus. ‘If you value your women.’
‘Dammit,’ seethed Bennet.
‘Look … take me.’ shouted Newton. ‘I’m far more use to you than they are.’
‘No thanks,’ laughed Andronicus the Terrible. ‘You can never have enough ladies on a boat, that’s what I always say. On the longer voyages, a man has … needs. Know what I’m saying?’
‘You touch them … and I’ll touch you,’ replied Newton, fixing Andronicus with an evil eye. ‘I’ll touch you a LOT.’
‘Whatever,’ sneered Andronicus from the top of the gangplank. ‘It's time my Bronze Age chums and I got going. There’s a Heroic Age we need to organise.’
With Viv and Gabby visibly threatened, the Purgatorians were in paralysis, watching the crew of the Black Sea Princess cast off, her engines roaring as she began to move inexorably away from the harbourside.
‘Dammit,’ said Newton. ‘Dammit, dammit, dammit. NOT … A … FLIPPIN’ … GAIN!’
‘It is a bit troubling,’ agreed Bennet.
‘A bit… troubling?’ asked Newton, looking at Bennet in the most sideways glance in his career. ‘A bit troubling?’
‘Very troubling?’ revised Bennet.
‘It’s a classic five-star Purgatorian cock up is what it is,’ replied Newton, putting the vicar straight. ‘Once again, my nearest and dearest have been taken hostage. What is it now? … Three times in eight months?’
‘Well … yes,’ agreed Bennet. ‘But we sorted it out then, and I’m sure we’ll sort it out this time.’
‘We’re going to need more than your bumbling bloody optimism,’ snapped Newton. ‘Think of something, dammit!’
‘Look!’ exclaimed Vasilakis, pointing excitedly. ‘Look at the back of the boat!’
‘Goodness! Is that the German girl?’ asked an excited Bennet.
Helena Kraakenhausen, taking advantage of the standoff on the docks, had slipped unseen into the water. As the Purgs and the Myrmidons had faced off at the harbourside, she’d swum out to the Black Sea Princess, then pulled herself out of the water at the stern. As Bennet and Newton looked on, she could clearly be seen heaving herself up to the heli-deck. Out of view of the guards amidships, Helena crept into a lifeboat, slipping under the tarp to hide herself, as the Black Sea Princess edged out of the marina into the Aegean.
Chapter 30
Slow Boat
Wildly dispirited, the Purgatorians watched the Black Sea Princess sail decisively over the horizon, taking Newton’s daughter and his partner to who knew where. The only consolation was the presence of their one-time enemy, Helena Kraakenhausen, aboard the superyacht, although her loyalties were still in question.
‘We need to get out of here,’ suggested Bennet, picking up on the distant wailing of approaching police cars.
‘We need …,’ corrected Newton, ‘to get after those bastards. That’s what we need.’
‘We have to get back to the Olympias, then,’ said Bennet, ‘or we’ll never catch them.’
‘Yeah, well, that boat has sailed,’ sighed Newton, being realistic. ‘Literally and figuratively. Any idea we can chase them down in that thing now is laughable.’
‘Is true,’ agreed Vasilakis. ‘They’ll be far away by the time we get on boat.’
‘They’ll have a transponder on board, won’t they?’ said Newton, finding a sliver of optimism. ‘We can track them with that.’
‘Oh,’ replied Bennet, jauntily, ‘they’ll switch that off.’
‘Well, what do you suggest?’ snapped Newton.
‘Nothing immediately springs to mind. Sorry,’ lamented the vicar.
‘They’ve got Gabby and Viv, dammit,’ barked Newton. ‘Or didn’t you notice that?’
‘Of course, I did. I’m not blind!’ protested Bennet, feeling stung. ‘Maybe that German lady will help them,’ he offered, making it clear he was looking for a solution.
‘Helena Kraakenhausen? Really? She’s motivated by revenge, not teamwork. Hell, she’s not even on our team. Call me suspicious, but didn’t the darling Helena try to kill me not that long ago?’
‘Sorry Dr Barlow, but we have to get going,’ said Vasilakis, placing his hand on Newton’s shoulder. ‘We waste time. We need to get to our boat.’
‘I’m not getting on that friggin’ rowboat again There are bleedin’ glaciers quicker than that antique. Come on, there has to be a faster option.’
‘Well,’ offered Bennet, ‘there is the plane,’
‘We have … a plane?’ asked an incredulous Newton, turning. ‘Well, well. How unusually modern of us.’
‘I wouldn’t get your expectations too high. It’s even older than the trireme. It’s a World War Two vintage DC-3 Dakota. A transport. Eighty years old. We used it to fly the Bonetaker over to Crete.’
‘If it has wings and engines,’ said Newton, ‘then it’s going to be faster than that sodding rowing boat. Where is it now?’
‘The plane?’ replied Bennet. ‘Oh, she’s on the ground at Chania. I told the pilot to wait for us. That was days ago now. He’s probably wondering where the hell we got to.’
