The Unhappy Medium 3: Wretched Things: A Supernatural Comedy, page 40
‘Can you get it into Athens International?’ asked Newton.
‘I would not advise this,’ cautioned Vasilakis, shaking his head. ‘No, no. Is BIG airport, ask a lot of the awkward questions. May I suggest the small airstrip to the west … at Megara. No questions asked there. Is good. Ok?’
‘Look, I really don’t care,’ answered Newton, fully exasperated. ‘Just make the call, dammit. Jeeeeeeeze!’
‘So, what? …. We all take the plane, then?’ enquired Bennet, fearful of Newton’s building temper. ‘Is that what you’re saying?’
‘It’s not one or the other,’ barked Newton, making Bennet jump out of his brogues. ‘We do both, dammit. Belt and braces. I mean, we can’t all get on the plane anyway, can we?’
‘Er ….,’ replied Bennet sheepishly. ‘No. I suppose not.’
‘Well then,’ continued Newton. ‘Get this lot on Boaty McBoatface. You and me take the plane. We can maybe locate them from the air. Eyes of the fleet, and all that.’
‘Can we bring the Bonetaker?’ requested Bennet. ‘He could help us sniff out the yacht.’
‘He can smell a boat, from … an aeroplane?’
‘It’s worth a go,’ replied Bennet. ‘He’s incredibly sensitive.’
‘Well, yes then,’ nodded Newton.
‘Only thing is,’ added Bennet, ‘he’s back on the boat. We’ll have to go and pick him up.’
‘Of course, he is,’ sighed Newton. ‘More time lost.’
‘We need to go quickly,’ urged Vasilakis, mindful of the incoming law enforcement. ‘I drive you to get giant, then you can drive yourselves over to Megara. Rush hour is ended, will be easy on roads.’
‘Whatever you say,’ grumped Newton. ‘Let’s go.’
‘Right,’ said Bennet, taking out his phone once they piled into the vans. ‘I’ll get Thunderbird 2 in the air.’
*****
Despite winning the standoff at the dockside, Andronicus and Homer were in a quandary.
‘Dammit,’ raged Homer, blindly thumping the executive salon table in frustration. ‘The plan was to first take Athens, then … the world! Already we have come unstuck.’
‘Bunch of interfering Purgatorian bumholes,’ agreed Andronicus. ‘Why must the Fates be so against me?’
‘Against you, is it?’ snapped Homer. ‘They have ruined all of our plans, not just yours.’
‘Well, we need a new plan,’ declared Andronicus.
‘What do you want us to do?’ asked Achilles, flexing his muscles at the mirrored bar. ‘Send us on a mission. My men are itching to exact a cruel and pitiless revenge.’
‘I’m thinking, I’m thinking!’ replied Homer.
‘These Purgatorians are going to follow us everywhere,’ said Andronicus. ‘You do realise that?’
‘Those meddling dogs,’ snarled Homer. ‘How dare they stand in the way of our new Heroic Age.’
‘Why don’t we just turn round and kill them?’ urged Achilles. ‘Killing is good.’
‘Too many,’ announced Andronicus. ‘I know your men are violent and skilled, but the Purgatorians will overwhelm us, given our low numbers. It is better we just outwit them for now, lose them in the wide ocean.’
‘How exactly are we supposed to take over the world if we are hiding?’ hissed Homer, venting his frustration. ‘Eh?’
‘We won’t be hiding for long,’ explained Andronicus. ‘Just long enough to get ourselves organised. I was always escaping and coming back. I know it isn’t heroic and all that, but it works.’
‘Hide where?’ asked Homer. ‘It has to be somewhere where they won’t go looking.’
‘Mycenae?’ suggested Achilles. ‘It’s got flippin’ massive walls.’
‘Too close to Athens,’ objected Homer. ‘And walls are useless these days. Drones, parachutes, helicopters … you can just fly over the top.’
‘Troy?’ offered Achilles.
‘Troy’s a ruin,’ replied Andronicus. ‘You burned it down, remember?’
‘Oh, yeah,’ answered Achilles, proudly sniggering. ‘So I did.’
‘Here’s an idea!’ exclaimed Andronicus, raising his index finger.
‘Go on,’ said Homer.
‘Constantinople!’ continued Andronicus. ‘My home town. It’s big, it’s rich, and … it’s rightfully mine.’
‘Yeah?’ asked Homer. ‘How do you work that out?’
‘Because …,’ replied Andronicus proudly, ‘I was Emperor. Emperor Andronicus I Comnenus.’
‘Never heard of you,’ sneered Achilles.
‘Oh, I’ve heard of him, alright,’ said Homer. ‘Andronicus the Terrible, that’s what they called him.’
‘I hate that nickname,’ protested Andronicus. ‘You’d think I did something wrong.’
‘You did,’ stated Homer. ‘You murdered thousands of your own people.’
‘Well …,’ began Andronicus, avoiding accountability.
‘I hear tell,’ continued Homer, ‘that Andronicus here once tied the mother of one of his enemies to a battering ram as he attacked his castle.’
‘Cool!’ exclaimed Achilles.
‘It saved lives!’ insisted Andronicus. ‘They gave in immediately.’
‘And he was a filthy womaniser,’ added Homer. ‘Slept with every woman who couldn’t outrun him.’
‘Niiiiiiiiiiice,’ remarked Achilles.
‘I’m not an animal,’ insisted Andronicus. ‘They were all consensual!’
‘Oh right,’ laughed Homer. ‘Even the underage ones?’
‘You dirty old bastard,’ laughed Achilles.
‘Yeah …. But … no …. But …,’ wibbled Andronicus. ‘That’s just how it was in those days. We all did it.’
‘Hey,’ said Achilles, ‘I’m not judging. Whatever rocks yer boat, loverboy.’
‘In the end,’ Homer went on, ‘he was so brutal and mad, his own people got rid of him. Didn’t they, Andronicus? I remember the story well. They rose up and deposed you.’
‘It wasn’t like that!’ protested Andronicus the Terrible, even though it was exactly like that. ‘My people loved me!’
‘Of course they did,’ snorted Homer. ‘Remind me, beloved Emperor. How long were you in power again? Two years? Hardly a glorious reign, was it?’
‘It started well,’ replied Andronicus, indignantly. ‘When I first took over, they had street parties.’
‘Then they murdered you,’ added Homer, dismissively. ‘After just two years.’
‘But it wasn’t my fault!’ answered Andronicus defensively. ‘People were acting up; I had to put my foot down and show some leadership. Sure, I hung, drew and frequently quartered, but come on, it’s been a thousand years already. They’ll have forgotten about all that by now.’
‘Tell me, Lord Terrible,’ enquired Achilles, ‘this city of yours, has it … treasures?’
‘Lots!’ exclaimed Andronicus. ‘Dripping with gold, so it is.’
‘Ok,’ agreed Achilles, digging his knife into the woodwork. ‘Then, I like the sound of your city very much.’
‘Great!’ said Andronicus.
‘I shall enjoy sacking it,’ added Achilles.
‘Now, you hold on right there!’ protested Andronicus. ‘You won’t be sacking anything! It’s my city, dammit. We won’t have to attack it at all, I’m telling you. We’ll just have to march in, and the people will welcome me … as their glorious leader!’
‘I prefer sacking cities,’ insisted Achilles, shrugging. ‘Not gonna lie. You should have seen the mess we made of Pylos.’
‘Look. We are not sacking Constantinople. Period,’ repeated Andronicus firmly. ‘Later, you can sack a city a week if you want, but Constantinople, we leave. In fact, instead of tearing it down, we will build it up, build its walls high, build it more bigly than ever! And what’s more, we’ll make the Latins pay for it. We need money, weapons, soldiers … and women, and Constantinople can give us that in spades. Dammit, we need a power base, not a smoking ruin. That’s the deal … I get my Empire back; you get an army.’
‘It does make sense, Achilles,’ conceded Homer, nodding sagely. ‘Presently, we heroes are few in number. Our enemies may be in the hundreds of thousands. So, we need to swell to a multitude ourselves if we are to enslave this loathsome modern world.’
‘Exactly,’ said Andronicus. ‘In Constantinople, you put me back on my throne; I supply you with an army.’
*****
Dimitri Matsigura wasn’t happy. Something, and he couldn’t put his finger on what, … had changed. His oligarch boss seemed somehow different, more impetuous, taking council from the new arrivals over himself and behaving in a noticeably less than Russian manner. The henchman, whose loyalty towards his employer had bordered on canine, now felt excluded and unappreciated. Frankly, he was a little hurt. Refused entry to his possessed employer’s emergency summit, he had decided to work through the unfamiliar emotions by intimidating the hostages. Heading below decks, he was in for another disappointment.
‘A fridge and a freezer are not the same thing, Comrade,’ sighed Dima, as he looked at the frost-covered remains of Raynald de Châtillon and the other Crusaders.
‘Sorry, boss,’ apologised his colleague. ‘I’m from a small Siberian village; we have neither. Are they …?’
‘Very,’ said Dima, kicking Raynald on the leg to produce an almost metallic clunk. ‘Look, don’t worry about it. We were going to kill them anyway.’
‘Where do we put these two?’ asked one of his men, bringing Viv and Gabby down the passageway. ‘In with the others?’
‘Niet. Boss wants them alive, this time,’ replied Dima, kicking open a door. ‘Put them in this store room … with the canned goods.’
‘Your oligarch boss is a nice man, is he?’ asked Viv, as they were thrown into the cupboard and zip-tied to the shelving.
‘Nahrapov and I go back long way,’ answered Dima, pulling the plastic far too tight.
‘Yeah, but … is he literally… nice?’ repeated Gabby, aiming to be irritating.
‘I don’t need him to be nice,’ snapped Dima. ‘Boris Nahrapov is a proper tough guy, not some weedy western gayboy. The world needs more tough guys like Comrade Boris.’
‘Hmm, do we, though?’ asked Viv.
‘Damn right, we do,’ snorted Dima, ‘Why do you ask this?’
‘You know, I always wondered,’ replied Gabby, ‘… gunman, henchman, whatever your job title is, what are the working conditions like?’
‘What you mean?’ asked Dima, confused.
‘Well … you know,’ added Viv, ‘holiday entitlement, health cover … do you get staff benefits?’
‘He pays me good money,’ answered Dima. ‘I can’t complain.’
‘Yes, but …,’ began Gabby.
‘You shut up now,’ snapped Dima. ‘I very loyal to Comrade Boris. I follow him anywhere.’
‘Of course, you do,’ soothed Viv condescendingly. ‘And that’s really … sweet.’
‘Sweet?’ replied the bewildered gunman. ‘You think I’m being sweet? Shut the hell up. I’m not some lovesick schoolgirl. I … am a soldier.’
‘Of course, you are, sweetie,’ added Gabby, picking up Viv’s cue with condescension turned up to eleven.
‘This conversation is over,’ declared Dima. ‘I bring you food, I bring you water to stop you dying, but you? You shut the hell up. That is how this works. Understand?’
‘I think you need to be more in touch with your feminine side,’ suggested Viv.
‘I don’t have a feminine side,’ insisted Dima, manfully slamming the door.
‘Bet he does,’ laughed Gabby. She pulled at her unyielding restraint. ‘Well, isn’t this fun? Any ideas?’
‘Nope,’ lamented Viv, trying the same. ‘We can only hope Newton and the guys are following us in the boat.’
‘Well, I literally wouldn’t hold my breath,’ said Gabby, looking down at the vibrating floor. ‘Feel that engine? It’s powerful as hell and it’s going full on. The Purgs wouldn’t be able to follow us if we were towing them.’
‘Sadly,’ sighed Viv, ‘I think you’re right. We’re on our own.’
*****
Having left the empty tour bus at the harbourside, the Purgatorians had raced back along the coast road to Kalamaki, just minutes ahead of the incoming police. Deeply puzzled by the evening’s car chase, Athens’ law enforcement was left with little to go on besides surreal eyewitness reports and two battered double-deckers.
At Kalamaki, the Purgatorian minibuses pulled up at the beach and then ferried their clerical passengers out to the waiting Olympias on the brightly coloured pedalos. Leaving them to it, Newton, Bennet, and the Bonetaker departed, driving west for the small airfield at Megara, the vicar at the wheel.
‘How you bearing up?’ asked Bennet, fully expecting his head to be bitten clean off.
‘Brilliant,’ responded Newton, blankly looking out of the window at the concrete jumble. ‘Living my best life.’
‘We’ll get them back,’ said Bennet, attempting unsuccessfully to reassure him. ‘We did last time.’
‘That supposed to make me feel better, is it?’ muttered Newton. ‘Look, Bennet, the law of averages says otherwise. We just can’t keep dodging the odds at these moments. One of these days, we won’t muddle through, do you get that?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ offered Bennet, grinning awkwardly.
‘That’s right,’ muttered Newton, folding his arms. ‘You probably don’t. Dammit, Bennet. We were supposed to be on holiday.’
‘Sadly,’ observed Bennet, ‘it’s turned into something of a working holiday.’
‘No kidding,’ said Newton, trying to read the map on Bennet’s ageing Samsung. ‘Keep on the E94; it should take us all the way to the airfield.’
‘Traffic willing,’ sighed Bennet, looking at the neverng congestion. ‘Does everyone in Athens have two cars or something?’
‘A lot of them do,’ answered Newton. ‘Anyway, how long till the plane gets here?’
Bennet looked at his watch.
‘Two hours,’ estimated the vicar. ‘It’s not Concorde. We don’t need to rush.’
‘Oh, don’t we?’ snapped Newton. ‘Tell Viv and Gabby that.’
‘Oh … right, yeah.’ replied Bennet sheepishly. ‘Sorry.’
‘NOT COMFORTABLE,’ boomed the Bonetaker from the back. ‘VAN … SMALL.’
‘Sorry, old boy,’ said Bennet, winding down the window to compensate for the stale breath wrapping around his head. ‘Won’t be long.’
*****
Helena Kraakenhausen checked her watch. With the small hours at their very smallest, now was the time to move.
With no more gunmen on the helideck and most of the crew out cold in their bunks, she’d cautiously slipped out from the safety of her lifeboat, edged through the shadows on the boat deck, then snuck up the stairs to the glowing blue of the pool. After waiting for the goons on watch to drift away down the promenade deck, Helena began sidling past the cabin doors, checking out the windows as she went. The crew, she discovered, were smoking and drinking with Dima’s gunmen over a game of poker, oblivious to the angry face staring at them through the porthole.
She worked her way to the bow.
Spotting an open door, Helena pushed silently inside the superstructure, then straight back out again as a crewman came up the ladder towards her, bound for a smoke on the deck. She threw herself flat against the wall, tensing as the white-suited crewman ambled past just feet away, then strolled off towards the stern. There was the click of a Zippo, then the glow of a burning cigarette. With the man distracted, Helena flitted unseen into the guts of the Black Sea Princess.
Deep inside the superyacht, there was an eerie red light, the steady throb of the powerful engines, and virtually no signs of life beyond distant laughter from a cabin down the corridor. When that faded, Helena began working past the closed doors, looking for ideas.
Five minutes later, she stumbled into the superyacht’s ample freezer.
‘Mein Gott!’
There before her, perched like a large ice lolly, was the frozen, lifeless remains of her great-grandfather.
‘Nein! NEIN!’
Helena staggered forward, tripping upon another body, falling down to land upon the deep-frozen remains of Raynald de Châtillon. Just beyond the crusader, there were more, former England football fans rendered solid by sub-zero temperatures, their horrified gammon pink faces coated by a layer of crisp white frost.
‘Bastards!’ raged the last of the Kraakenhausens. ‘Murdering Bronze Ages bastards!’ Shocked and stunned, she sank down, trying to take it in.
But, Helena Kraakenhausen wasn’t stunned for long.
She had been angry before, but now she was livid … incandescent. Charging back out of the freezer into the silent kitchens, she found herself a bottle of cooking brandy and slugged it back, the strong spirit doing little to squash the realisation that she was now the only one of her family still surviving. Then she set off in search of a hiding place, grabbing a wickedly sharp kitchen knife from the chef’s block as she went.
‘Evening,’ said Viv, as Helena Kraakenhausen slunk into their makeshift cell and flicked on the light.
‘Shhh!’ ordered Helena Kraakenhausen, somewhat surprised. ‘They’ll hear us!’
‘They’ll hear you,’ corrected Viv, loudly.
‘Keep your voice down, I’m on your side,’ whispered Helena.
‘The hell you are,’ replied Gabby. ‘You tried to kill my dad!’
‘I know,’ acknowledged Helena. ‘And I’m really sorry about that.’
‘Sorry?’ queried Viv. ‘Sorry?’
‘I vos protecting mein family,’ protested Helena. ‘That vos all. I am sorry. But now, they took mein papa and mein great-grandpapa. Possessed them. They are … gone.’
‘Ha, like that’s our problem,’ said Gabby. ‘In fact, I’m thinking it literally isn’t our problem.’
‘These people are everyvun’s problem,’ continued Helena. ‘These people on this boat; you must believe me vhen I tell you that they are an enemy to the entire civilised vorld. Do you not know who they are yet?’
