The Unhappy Medium 3: Wretched Things: A Supernatural Comedy, page 41
‘Russians, right?’ said Viv.
‘They ver Russians,’ replied Helena. ‘They ver Germans too. Now they are something … else.’
‘And that is?’ asked Gabby.
‘Ancient Greeks,’ answered Helena. ‘And bad vuns at that.’
‘Anyone we know?’ asked Viv.
‘Ja!’ replied Helena, still not believing it herself. ‘Everyvun knows these bastards. How about Achilles? How about Ajax? Famous enough for you?’
‘What?’ laughed Viv doubtfully. ‘From the Iliad? The Greek heroes? Aren’t they … heroic?’
‘Oh, don’t be fooled by the “hero” tag. These are no heroic heroes,’ explained Helena. ‘Oh no. These men are thugs, Bronze Age psychopaths bent on vorld domination. Mein Gott, I vitnessed them possess half the Greek government.’ She hesitated, holding back a wave of uncharacteristic emotion. ‘Along vith mein sole remaining family. But they von’t stop there, Himmel, nein… they vant to take us all over, to vipe out the civilised vorld.’
‘Gosh,’ said Viv.
‘Blimey,’ added Gabby.
‘Yeah, vell, I … am going to stop these murdering bastards,’ snarled Helena, fire in her eyes.
‘Well, if you’re really on our side,’ offered Gabby, nodding her head at a box of utensils, ‘you can show it then by cutting us free.’
‘Nein,’ replied Helena, shaking her head. ‘You stay vhere you are. If I cut you free, vhere do you go, eh? Ve are vay out in the sea. You have novhere to go.’
‘There’s a boat on the deck,’ suggested Viv. ‘We could take that.’
‘There are many, many guards,’ warned Helena. ‘They’d hear you before you’d svitched the vinch on. Nein, better you stay here vhile I find out vot they have planned. I’ll make my move vhen the time is right. Then I cut you free.’
‘Fine,’ said Gabby, aggressively passive. ‘We love it here.’
‘Can’t you at least call someone?’ asked Viv. ‘I can give you Newton’s number.’
‘Mein phone ist kaput,’ explained Helena. ‘It got vet vhen I swam to this accursed boat. I need a new phone, and … I need a gun. Right now, I have neither. For now, ve have to vait. You two stay here. I’ll be back.’
‘Missing you already,’ said Viv, as the door swung closed.
*****
‘You weren’t lying about the vintage vibe,’ shouted Newton, as the clattering DC-3 taxied to a halt on the small airfield at Megara.
‘Thunderbird 2,’ yelled Bennet, waiting for the engines to splutter to a stop. ‘You know … like the old TV show.’
‘I was a huge fan,’ replied Newton. ‘Still am.’ He looked at the weathered and paint-chipped antique and shook his head, amazed as always at the lack of sophistication with which good confronted evil. ‘So, this is as close as we get to a logistics capability, is it? Why am I not surprised?’
One of the side doors rattled, then exploded open. Kitted out in fleece-lined leather flight jacket and worn-in captain’s hat, a grey-haired figure emerged into the night air.
‘Loootenant Valenti,’ drawled the very American pilot, jumping down onto the asphalt and offering Newton his hand. ‘I’m gonna be your pilot for today. Where the hell we goin’’?’
‘Dr Barlow,’ said Newton, shaking his hand. ‘Bennet, I think you’ve met before.’
‘Padre,’ replied Valenti, nodding his greeting. ‘How’s it hangin’?’
‘It’s …,’ began Bennet.
‘We’re urgently trying to find a boat, a superyacht,’ continued Newton. ‘They’ve got some seriously dodgy stuff on board, they’re all insane, and … they have hostages. Specifically, my girlfriend and daughter. They were last seen headed west, from Piraeus. A bit general, I know; sadly that’s all we have for the moment.’
‘Well, goddamn,’ remarked Valenti, lighting up a cigar. ‘Makes a change from hauling freight, I guess. Ok, sure, I can help wid dat. Me … and my sweet little bird right here.’ He slapped the aluminium affectionately. ‘She gonna need full tanks, though. Got through a shitload of gas hauling my ass over here. There a fuel-truck around here anywheres?’
‘There’s one over there,’ answered Bennet, pointing. ‘By the hanger. We spoke to the chappie on duty, he told us we can have whatever we want … if we pay in bitcoin. No questions asked, and all that malarkey.’
‘Goddamn tax dodgers,’ swore the pilot, spitting contemptuously. ‘Oh well, I can do that. Why don’t you guys climb on board, make yourselves uncomfortable while I get Crypto Boy busy on the hose? Don’t expect too much of the old girl, though. Sorry, Doc, she ain’t no jetliner.’
Newton, Bennet, and the huge bulk of the Bonetaker clambered aboard and sat down on the dented bucket seats. The pilot was right; the only nod to luxury air travel was a small but well-stocked minbar, complete with bags of fruit and nuts, biltong, and two tubes of BBQ Pringles, the only flavour that Newton couldn’t stomach. As Bennet tucked into these, the Bonetaker, so often at the wrong end of the centre of gravity, was obliged to sit on the oil-streaked floor, centre cabin.
‘NO LIKE FLY,’ grumped the Neanderthal. ‘NO LIKE.’
Twenty minutes later, the pilot was back, stuffing his mobile into his flight jacket.
‘Glad I’m not payin’ for that,’ said Valenti, closing the big doors. ‘Goddamn ripoff.’
‘It’s in a good cause,’ offered Bennet.
‘Sure hope so,’ replied the pilot, pulling himself up the sloping interior towards the cockpit to begin his pre-flight checks. ‘Ok,’ he said, looking back. ‘East, you say?’
‘Yep,’ confirmed Newton, taking the co-pilot’s seat and placing the spare set of headphones on his ears. ‘They sailed out of Piraeus, headed south-east towards the islands. We’ve got good reason to think they’ll be headed east from there, towards their home base on Cyprus.’
‘Gotcha,’ nodded Valenti, firing up the venerable engines, the Dakota rolling forward as he nudged the power. Creaking and vibrating like a 1960’s washing machine, the transport wobbled to the end of the runway and turned.
Handing a battered atlas to his new colleague, Valenti threw the throttles forward.
‘What say we go find us a boat?’
Chapter 31
A Homecoming
The sea, even a bit of it as well known and comprehensively mapped as the Mediterranean … is a big place. Within two hours of their departure, transponder off, the Black Sea Princess had vanished, impossible to track, faster than the pursuing Purgatorians by such a margin that they may as well have still been at anchor.
Things were only marginally better for Newton, Bennet, and the Bonetaker aboard Thunderbird 2. Rattling along on its 80-year-old engines, the Dakota flew east into a rising sun, high above an Aegean alive with yachts, ferries and wallowing containerships.
None of them was the Black Sea Princess.
With no superior option, they were flying through the Greek Islands to the south-east, assuming the superyacht to be bound for the oligarch’s power base on Cyprus, knowing full well that it was only a hunch.
‘Sorry, dude,’ said the pilot, lighting up his fourth cigar. ‘Until your big fella picks up the trail, we’re flying bind.’
‘Understood,’ acknowledged Newton, leaning around in his narrow seat to shout back into the cabin. ‘Bennet? Anything from the big guy?’
‘Sorry,’ yelled Bennet, sadly shaking his head. ‘Not a sausage. He’s trying, but it’s a huge ask. We’ve never tested him like this before. He’s a ground pounder.’
‘NO SIGNAL,’ sighed the Bonetaker, balling his fists in frustration. ‘TRYING!’
‘Unless something dramatic happens with the ladies,’ added Bennet, ‘I fear he won’t pick it up. He needs a bit of emotion to work with. Dare I say it, he needs a bit of fear.’
‘Fear?’ asked Newton. ‘Jeeeze.’
‘I know, I know,’ lamented Bennet. ‘One should be careful what one wishes for.’
‘No kidding,’ replied Newton, turning back round to look out across the expanse of blue ahead of them. ‘Let’s just hope it doesn’t come to that.
*****
The Black Sea Princess had passed through the Dardanelles just as the sun had risen, her powerful engines tearing a stark white scar across the deep blue waters. Leaving the battlefields of Gallipoli and the ruins of Troy behind her, she crossed the sea of Marmara.
By midday, she was dropping her anchor in a marina to the west of what Andronicus the Terrible still thought was Constantinople.
‘What do you mean, they changed the name?’ protested the former emperor.
‘They changed it a long time ago, Comrade Boris,’ explained Dima. ‘It’s now called Istanbul.’
‘What kind of name is that?’ asked Andronicus. ‘It doesn’t even sound Christian.’
‘They changed it ages ago,’ added Homer. ‘Been a long time gone.’
‘Well, the first thing I do when I reclaim my throne,’ snorted Andronicus, ‘is change it back. Or … maybe … I could change it to … Androninople!’
‘Really?’ laughed Achilles. ‘Isn’t that a bit tacky?’
‘No, it isn’t!’ protested Andronicus. ‘If Constantine could name it after himself, so can I.’
‘Your vanity is a distraction,’ rebuked Homer. ‘We need to focus on practicalities, not petty details. Achilles, ready your men, for soon, we will march upon the city. Are the Myrmidons in battle order?’
‘Not entirely,’ sighed Achilles. ‘We’re still lacking decent weapons.’
‘What about guns?’ suggested Andronicus. ‘Can you not take some off these Russians?’
‘The men just don’t like the idea of them,’ replied Achilles. ‘They are familiar with sword, dagger, axe and shield. The boys reckon they’d be a bit out of their comfort zone with these modern weapons. I get that. You need to feel confident when you’re out sacking … I mean, er … reclaiming a city.’
‘I’m sure there will be swords ashore,’ mused Homer. ‘I don’t care how sophisticated this modern world thinks it is; there will always be a need for close-quarter weapons.’
‘Damn right,’ exclaimed Achilles. ‘Stabbing never goes out of style.’
‘What about these Russians?’ asked Achilles. ‘And the captain and crew of this boat. They have no idea who we’ve become, do they?’
‘They don’t,’ answered Homer. ‘Which is exactly how we want it … at least for now. Until we have more souls to possess them with, they will serve our purposes exactly as they are … in the dark. When we enter the city, we leave them here, guarding our assets, none the wiser.’
‘Fair enough,’ nodded Andronicus. ‘As soon as I’ve taken back my palace, we can send some spirits back here to possess them.’
‘Precisely,’ agreed Homer.
‘The men are itching to go,’ said Achilles, looking out of the porthole. ‘They await my command.’
‘Then let’s away!’ cried Homer excitedly. ‘Let us take this Istanbul, this one-time Constantinople. Let us start our Empire right here, right now.’
Out on the stern, the excited Myrmidons had gathered, waiting impatiently as the crew rolled out the gangplank. Once deployed, they heroically filed down it to the jetty. Homer, carried on a white plastic sun lounger by two bare-chested former ministers, was brought down behind them.
Astrid waved them off, cooing to her lover,
‘Bring me back something!’
‘What do you want?’ Andronicus asked, accustomed to wooing his conquests with gifts.
‘I dunno, something nice. You choose,’ trilled Astrid, twisting a blonde curl.
‘Very well, my love,’ he replied automatically.
Formed up into a column, Andronicus and Achilles took their place at the head of their invading army.
‘Myrmidons … advance!’
Watched with bafflement from the surrounding vessels, the procession moved away, passing the luxury yachts at their moorings before heading out of the main gate and onto the palm-lined coast road.
‘Which way?’ asked Achilles.
‘I’m not sure,’ replied Andronicus, scratching his head. ‘I don’t recognise any of this.’
‘But it’s your home town, isn’t it? That’s what you said.’
‘It is my home town,’ insisted Andronicus, looking at the jumble of bland concrete apartments. ‘But these funny buildings, those weren’t here.’
‘Well, they’re new, obviously,’ said Achilles. ‘You’ve been dead for centuries; what did you expect? Why don’t you ask someone for directions.’
‘What’s happening?’ shouted Homer from his sun lounger at the rear. ‘Why aren’t we moving?’
‘Homeboy is lost,’ Achilles shouted back.
‘I’m not lost!’ protested Andronicus. ‘I’m just trying to work it out.’
‘Ask for directions,’ ordered Homer.
‘That guy there.’ Achilles pointed to a fat middle-aged man lumped on a nearby bench. ‘Ask him.’
‘Dammit,’ huffed Andronicus, as unwilling to ask for directions as most, if not all, men. ‘Ok then.’
The former emperor ambled up to the bench.
The middle-aged man, frappé in one hand, cigarette in the other, was regarding the Myrmidon column with a blank curiosity.
‘You …. I say … you, peasant,’ began the haughty Andronicus. ‘Which way to my palace?’
‘Eh?’ replied the man, lighting his cigarette.
‘I said, which way is my palace?’ repeated Andronicus.
‘Sen ne diyorsun,’ shrugged the man.
‘Speak Greek!’ snapped Andronicus. ‘Which way to my palace?’
‘Senin dilini konuşamıyorum, neden bahsediyorsun?’ growled the man, waving Andronicus away like a beggar.
‘How dare you! I am Emperor Andronicus … returned.’
The man shrugged again, then spat, just short of Andronicus’ deck shoes.
‘You sure this is your home town?’ laughed Achilles.
‘Yes, I’m sure!’ snapped Andronicus, increasingly irritated by his Bronze Age idol.
‘Here,’ said Achilles, wandering over to the man. He pushed Andronicus rudely to the side. ‘Let me try.’
‘Palace,’ demanded Achilles, whipping out a dagger. ‘Centre. Castle. Town … NOW!’
‘Castle???? Bu şekilde!’ exclaimed the man, rendered terrified and pointing east along the waterfront road. ‘Bu şekilde!’
‘And that,’ declared Achilles, putting away his blade, ‘is how you motivate the lower orders.’ Cockily he walked back to his men, leaving Andronicus feeling much smaller than he wanted to be in front of one of his intended subjects. ‘We go this way. Myrmidons, advance!’
Heading up the coast road towards the city, the strange column advanced, increasing numbers of baffled onlookers gathering to watch them from their balconies.
‘Look,’ proclaimed Andronicus, trying to re-inflate. ‘They’re coming out to welcome me.’
‘They don’t exactly look enthusiastic,’ observed Achilles. ‘Confused, maybe?’
‘Understandable,’ said Andronicus. ‘In awe now that their beloved leader has returned.’
‘Beloved, is it?’ cackled Achilles. ‘Why, then, did they name you Andronicus the “Terrible”? That an affectionate term, is it?’
‘I’m sure that was a mistake,’ replied Andronicus. ‘A typo. Probably meant Andronicus the Terribly Handsome … or something.’
‘Right,’ doubted Achilles, raising an eyebrow.
In a bid to confirm their adoration, Andronicus waved regally at his supposed ‘subjects’.
It was not returned.
‘We need those weapons,’ remembered Achilles. ‘Where are we to find them?’
‘Well, what’s that down there?’ replied Andronicus, pointing to a small DIY shop lurking down one of the side streets. ‘Let’s try there.’
‘Ok,’ agreed Achilles. ‘Myrmidons, wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeel … left!’
As one, the relentlessly drilled Myrmidons turned sharply, cutting unhesitatingly across the thickening traffic.
‘Aptallar!’ screamed a taxi driver, slamming on his brakes. ‘Lanet yoldan çekil!’
‘Ye Gods!’ exclaimed Ajax. ‘Their chariots are upon us!’
‘It’s a car,’ shouted Homer. ‘Not a weapon of war. But you need to watch those things; they can trample thy limbs more savagely than a runaway horse. Be careful!’
‘This traffic will be sorted out when I’m back in control,’ declared Andronicus, as they scurried into the side street. ‘You just watch.’
The procession drew up to the hardware store.
‘Myrmidons … halt!’
It was no megastore. The household emporium had clearly been there forever, its flaking facade only slightly younger than the historic city beyond. Outside hung a multitude of daily necessities: baskets, buckets, mops, flypapers and birdcages, most of which had been unsuccessfully on sale since the early 1950s.
‘It doesn’t look like an armoury,’ observed Ajax doubtfully.
‘They probably do knives ’n’ stuff inside,’ said Andronicus optimistically. ‘Come on, let’s find out.’
Andronicus and Achilles opened the door and pushed inside, a dust-thick electrical buzzer heralding their arrival.
The interior was a midden. Piles of kitchen implements, garden tools and ironmongery lay scattered about with no logical pattern whatsoever amongst half-opened cardboard boxes and broken wooden crates.
‘Ne istiyorsun?’ came a voice from behind a fly curtain.
‘Hello,’ said Andronicus. ‘You there. We want weapons.’
‘You Greek?’ came the reply, as a heavily moustached face leant through the curtain.
‘Er … yes. Sort of.’
‘Why you here?’ asked the man, emerging into the shop. ‘We don’t get many Greeks. Bad blood, us and Athens.’
‘Well, they’ve always been jealous, haven’t they? Now then, you. We’re after some weapons. Give us what you have.’
‘Weapons?’ queried the man. ‘This is hardware shop. I no sell guns.’
‘We don’t want guns,’ insisted Achilles. ‘We want swords.’
‘No swords,’ declared the man. ‘I have knives though, for the bread.’
