The Unhappy Medium 3: Wretched Things: A Supernatural Comedy, page 43
‘Really, Andronicus?’ laughed Achilles. ‘This is not seemly.’
‘Oh, like you can talk,’ sneered Andronicus. ‘Isn’t this what you Bronze Age warriors used to do all the time? Murdering your enemies and ravaging their women?’
‘Not all of us,’ contradicted Achilles. ‘After a battle, I usually just hung out with Patroclus in my tent.’
‘Yeah? Well, I’m done with holding back my passions,’ replied Andronicus. ‘I am a man’s man, and I need to indulge my urges the old-fashioned way.’
‘Yeah?’ said Gabby, as Andronicus loomed back over her. ‘Well, indulge this.’
Gabby’s size four Doc Martens boot shot upwards like a Roman siege catapult, slamming so hard into Andronicus’ groin that he broke contact with the cabin carpet. Then the pain, of which there was rather a lot, exploded in his loins like a small bomb, spiralising his innards.
‘Arggghhhhhhh …,’ screamed the former emperor. ‘My Plums!’
Falling to the floor, the sex pest rolled up into a ball, his hands rammed down his white linen trousers, rocking backwards and forwards on the floor like an Italian centre-forward in a penalty box.
‘Oooooooh … fnnnngggngngngn,’ whimpered Andronicus the Terrible.
‘Ha!’ cackled Achilles. ‘Such a hit with the girls.’
‘Well done, Gabby!’ said Viv, raising a thumb of recognition.
‘DIMA!’ yelled Andronicus, a few octaves higher than usual. ‘DIMA!’
‘Oh my God, Comrade Boris,’ cried Dima, stepping back into the room. ‘You ok, boss?’
‘Get rid of them,’ shrieked the broken lothario. ‘Get them out of my sight!’
‘Yes sir,’ replied Dima, roughly kicking the two girls to their feet before hustling them away to the gangway outside. ‘Move!’
‘Bye then,’ laughed Gabby.
‘Get in!’ barked Dima, thrusting them back into the storeroom. ‘If I had my way, I’d kill you now. No one touches Boris Nahrapov.’
‘Bit late for that,’ said Viv, as they were once again zip-tied to the shelving.
‘What you mean?’ demanded the gunman. ‘What you talking about?’
‘Can you not see it?’
‘What?’ asked Dima. ‘See what?’
‘Doesn’t anything strike you as odd about your Comrade Boris?’
‘No,’ growled Dima. ‘What you say?’
‘I bet your Boris wasn’t always this emotional, was he?’ continued Viv. ‘Relative term, I know, but does he seem … normal to you?’
‘He’s under a lot of stress,’ replied Dima defensively.
‘Oh, come on. Join the dots, willya?’ added Gabby. ‘He’s been possessed. He’s not Comrade Boris … anymore.’
‘Shut up talking the shit!’ snapped the gunman, slapping Gabby across the face. ‘Comrade Boris would never allow himself to be possessed.’
‘Oi!’ shouted Viv. ‘Cut that out, you ape. We’re trying to help you here.’
‘You want to help me?’ said Dima, whipping out his pistol and jamming the barrel into her temple as he yanked her hair back. ‘Then. Shut. The. Fuck. Up!’
For the first time, both women were deserted by their natural bravado, real fear creeping into the mix, as the violent Dima showed his psychopathic colours. Adrenalin, cortisol, and a host of other stress hormones that have yet to be formally named shot through them, sending out waves of emotion like an electromagnetic surge. Unseen, it shot away like a radar pulse, spreading out in an invisible shockwave that passed through the walls, straight through the hull, then racing away in ripples across the water towards the south.
‘Understand?’ demanded Dima, yanking her hair a second time.
Viv nodded, sweat forming on her forehead as the pain increased.
‘Good,’ said Dima, letting her go and standing back up. ‘I hear a peep out of either of you, and I’ll be back … with a meathook.’
*****
Fear has its uses. It may now only have been a homoeopathic ripple fading by the second, but it was enough, just enough, to snag on the Bonetaker’s extraordinary senses.
‘CONTACT!’ yelled the Neanderthal above the monotonous roar of the engines.
‘Goodness!’ yelled Bennet, waking up from a bored slumber on the metal bench opposite. ‘Where? What?’
The Bonetaker earnestly sniffed the air again, unsure of the signal, trying to pin down the sensations enough to turn them into a compass heading.
‘NEWTON!’ yelled Bennet. ‘He’s got something!’
‘What?’ exclaimed Newton, dashing out of the tiny flight deck. ‘Whaaat?’
‘FEAR,’ announced the giant, closing his eyes and extending his finger like a compass needle, trying to nail the bearing.
‘Come on, laddie,’ urged Bennet. ‘You can do this! Where are they?’
‘HARD,’ explained the Bonetaker. ‘FAINT.’
But then there came a second, stronger pulse, generated when the gunman had yanked back Viv’s hair and rammed the barrel of his pistol against her temple. This time, the boosted signal also came from Gabby.
‘THERE!’ exclaimed the Bonetaker, swinging his finger round to point out of the cabin window towards the left wing. ‘THAT WAY.’
‘But that’s the wrong way,’ replied Bennet. ‘They were headed for Cyprus, surely?’
‘Not according to our bloodhound here,’ answered Newton. ‘We can’t act on assumptions; we need directions. This is exactly that.’
‘You sure?’ asked Bennet, putting his hand on the giant’s arm.
‘SURE!’ insisted the Bonetaker, excitedly getting to his feet and shifting the centre of gravity. The plane reared up, the engines screaming as the pilot fought to level the wings.
‘Goddammit! Watch it back there, willya?’ demanded Valenti, wrestling with the controls. ‘Keep the big guy still.’
‘Sorry!’ shouted Bennet.
‘Right,’ said Newton, returning hurriedly to the flight deck. ‘Bank her round. He’s picking up a reading somewhere off the left wing, back the way we came.’
‘Gotcha,’ acknowledged the pilot, swinging the old Dakota round in a one-eighty. ‘Tell the priest to give us a shout when we are pointing at the source.’
‘Righto,’ agreed Newton, running to the Bonetaker. ‘He wants you to yell when we are pointing our nose at the signal. Can you do that?’ he asked the giant.
‘CAN TRY,’ nodded the Bonetaker, his finger rotating with the plane. ‘SIGNAL … COME … AND GO.’
‘Concentrate big fella,’ encouraged Bennet. ‘You’ve got this.’
Engines straining, Thunderbird 2 drifted around, the Bonetaker’s huge hand floating slowly to the right. Finally, he was pointing directly down the cabin towards the cockpit.
‘NOW!’
‘That’s it!’ yelled Newton at the pilot. ‘You’re flying right towards it.’
*****
With Istanbul on full alert, it was clear to Andronicus and the Myrmidons on the Black Sea Princess that they needed to get out of the area, and quickly.
‘We can’t stay here,’ insisted Homer. ‘Soon, they will come with their triremes, and we shall be assailed.’
‘He’s right,’ agreed Achilles. ‘We’re a sitting duck out here. We need to sail.’
‘Sail where?’ huffed Andronicus. ‘This was my home. My Empire.’
‘Was your empire,’ snorted Achilles.
‘We have to choose somewhere,’ continued Homer. ‘Those Purgatorian dogs will be scouring the seas for us. We need to go somewhere they will not think of looking for us.’
‘Like where?’ asked Andronicus. ‘They’re everywhere, aren’t they?’
‘This Russian you possessed,’ said Homer, ‘has he bases anywhere else?’
‘Cyprus was the main one,’ replied Andronicus.
‘What about Russia?’ suggested Homer. ‘That was the land of his birth, was it not? Where is it?’
‘It’s through the Bosphorus,’ answered Andronicus, ‘that narrow strait of water right next to the city that takes you right into the Black Sea.’
‘Russia is there?’ asked Homer.
‘It is,’ confirmed Andronicus. ‘Eventually.’
‘What are they like, these “Russians?”’ demanded Achilles.
‘Well, judging by this man I possessed, they seem to be well-organised, rich and globally respected,’ replied Andronicus.
‘Excellent,’ exclaimed Homer. ‘Let us use this Russian’s connections for our cause! Go and speak with this Dima man. Find out what options may be available to us.’
‘I will,’ said Andronicus, leaving the salon.
Andronicus found his henchman loitering confused upon the helideck.
‘Dima, there you are. I wish to speak with thee.’
‘Eh?’ replied Dima, confused by the ancient vernacular.
‘Talk with you,’ corrected Andronicus. ‘I wanted to ask your opinion about things.’
‘You do?’ Dima perked up.
‘I do. We are thinking of going … to Russia.’
‘Ok,’ said Dima, shrugging. ‘Whatever you say. I go.’
‘Yes, but where in Russia do you think we should go, exactly?’ asked Andronicus.
‘I’m sorry, Comrade. I don’t understand. You are from Russia; you can go anywhere you want.’
‘Of course, I can!’ laughed Andronicus. ‘But where would be most useful. I mean … we want some help … to fight the Purgatorians.’
‘I see. Well, if you need military help, then what about your brother?’
‘I have a brother?’ wondered Andronicus, searching his appropriated memory. ‘Oh yes … so I do!’
‘Of course you do,’ replied Dima, looking puzzled. ‘Viktor.’
‘Yes …,’ agreed Andronicus, nodding vigorously. ‘Dear Viktor.’
‘He is now Colonel General Viktor Nahrapov,’ said Dima. ‘Remember?’
‘And where’s he exactly?’ queried Andronicus.
‘His headquarters are in the Rostov Oblast,’ answered Dima, yet more perplexed.
‘Rostov,’ repeated Andronicus. ‘Of course. And that’s on the Black Sea, right?’
‘You good, Comrade Boris? We went there, don’t you remember? Are you having memory issues?’
‘I am! I’ve just had a little too much vodka recently. You know us Russians … glug glug glug.’
‘Oh, well, that makes sense,’ nodded Dima approvingly, drunkenness being the classic Russian excuse for most things. ‘I thought it might be that.’
‘He’s quite powerful then, my brother?’ continued Andronicus. ‘That right?’
‘Don’t you remember, Comrade Boris?’ asked Dima. ‘He controls the whole Southern Army … air, land … and sea.’
‘So, weapons then?’
‘Just a few!’ laughed Dima. ‘Missiles, tanks, drones, ships, fighters, bombers.’
‘And men?’ asked Andronicus.
‘Hundreds and thousands of them, Comrade Boris!’ confirmed Dima. ‘Special forces, regular troops, and conscripts.’
‘Excellent,’ said Andronicus. ‘Have the captain set sail for my brother … immediately!’
*****
The Olympias was dead in the water. Her engine, emitting a foul blue smoke, had been switched off, while the unfurled sail hung limp in the dead Aegean air.
‘Dammit,’ swore Enrico Pescatore. ‘Fat lot of good we doing sat outta here.’
‘Message from the plane,’ said Vasilakis, joining them by the tiller. ‘They’ve picked up something away to the north, near Istanbul. They’ve turned round.’
‘Hava they now?’ said Enrico. ‘Well, I’ma glad we didn’t wasta time dragging our asses down to Cyprus. Dat’sa somathing.’
‘Where are we now, then?’ asked Vasilakis.
‘Middle of da Dodecanese,’ replied Enrico. ‘Dat lump over dere issa Rhodes.’
‘So we turn round?’
‘We do,’ confirmed Enrico. ‘Hava da monks on da left use da oars and get us pointing to da north. Den all we gotta do is hope da winds smile upon us.’
*****
‘What are we doing?’ demanded Newton, as the Dakota suddenly veered away to the west. ‘The signal was that way.’
‘Gas,’ said the pilot, tapping the flatlining fuel gauge. ‘Burned through a whole tank on today’s goose chase. We need to fill up.’
‘Can’t we do that in Istanbul?’ asked Newton.
‘That would mean crossing Turkish airspace,’ replied the pilot. ‘Fancy a missile up the ass?’
‘Really?’
‘Damn right! We’ve not filed flight paths for this paperchase, have we? There’s a war on in Syria; Turks shot down a Russian MIG last year. Trigger fingers are pretty damn twitchy round here.’
‘So what do we do?’ asked Newton.
‘Put down in Lesbos,’ explained Valenti. ‘Top her up, then, from Lesbos we can come around the Dardanelles, and approach Istanbul from west. There’s supposed to be some kind of jamming on this bird somewhere; Purgs put it in the year before last. Trust me, we’ll need it. When we hit the ground in Lesbos, I’ll have a dig around in the avionics, try and get it online. Last thing we want is a goddamn SAM on our six.’
‘Righto,’ said Newton. ‘Sounds like you know what you’re doing. Lesbos it is.’
Chapter 33
East
The Black Sea Princess waited for dusk. Hidden in the darkness and with her lamps dimmed, she slipped anchor and shot through the Bosphorus Straight, darting between the container ships. Soon, she had put the bright lights of Istanbul behind her and powered away to the north-east.
For the Ancient Greeks, this Black Sea did not have the best of reputations. On the edge of their known world, it had been named Axeinos, a rough translation being Not Suitable For Strangers. It was certainly a contrast for those warm weather Athenians: freezing in winter, fetid and swampy in summer, it was about as far from the balmy blue Aegean as one could imagine. Bottled up by the narrow straights of the Bosphorus, there is evidence that it had not been a sea at all until a mere 7,500 years ago, when the salty Mediterranean broke through to a freshwater basin, setting in motion a deluge of flood myths.
Fed by nearly every river east of the Alps, the Black Sea is an aberration in many regards. Its water is notably less salty than the super briny Aegean to the west, and its depths hide a deoxygenated layer in which shipwrecks survive with an astonishing level of preservation. Wooden vessels from as far back as the Bronze Age sit intact on the seabed, looking for all the world as if they’d sunk the day before.
War is no stranger to these fateful waters. Scythians, Greeks, Romans, Tartars, Turks, and Vikings have all crossed this sea, intent on inflicting their questionable cultures upon the rich agricultural lands to the north. It is no less contentious today, with Turkey, Romania, Ukraine, Georgia, Moldova, and Bulgaria surrounding this relatively small body of water with an understandable level of insecurity.
But, the cause of this insecurity came mostly from one particular direction.
Russia.
As far back as the tenth century, the Rus were pushing across the Black Sea to intimidate their neighbours, starting wars with the Byzantine Empire, Bulgaria, and the Ottomans, throughout the Middle Ages. Ivan the (also) Terrible, a horrendous man by any measure, spent much of his reign suppressing the Tartars in what is now modern-day Ukraine, setting the tone for later centuries. 15th, 16th, 17th and 18th centuries; on and on, the region continued to be brutalized through constant expansionist invasions, nationalist uprisings, and intolerant ethnic division. Millions died, millions more displaced; the Black Sea turned a ghastly shade of red.
In the 1850s, even the British found themselves doing battle in the area, joining the French in the Crimea, 600 upper-class twits riding dashingly to their doom against the much less dashing but far more effective cannons of the Tsar.
Then, the tsars were replaced by the equally repressive, if not exponentially more repressive, Bolsheviks. The cold-blooded grip of the communists fell as far as the border with Romania in the west and down through the Caucasus until the Reds stood face-to-face with the Turks in the south. Created by Soviet xenophobia and an award-winning lack of agricultural know-how, poor Ukraine was devastated by a man-made famine, part of a sustained campaign to suppress its national identity. In 1941 the Nazis rocked up with a brutality all of their own, SS panzer divisions giving Stalin’s bullyboys a taste of their own medicine. The Blitzkrieg made it as far east as the Kerch Strait and Stalingrad before, finally, for the Nazis things went utterly and comprehensively … south. War finally left the Black Sea.
With the collapse of the Soviet Union in the 1990s, the Russian grip on the region slackened and then fell away completely. Georgia, Armenia, Ukraine, Romania, Moldova and Bulgaria … all said goodbye to their Russian overlords, all sincerely hoping it was for good. Only the swampy coast between Rostov-on-Don and the Soviet beach resort of Sochi in the south remained, a pale reminder of a Russian-dominated Black Sea.
It was this stretch of coastline to which the Black Sea Princess was now headed. Cutting fast beneath the Crimean Peninsula, she turned south-east, pointing her bow towards the headquarters of Colonel General Viktor Nahrapov.
‘So, let me get this straight. The Turks defeated Constantinople … in battle?’ asked Andronicus the Terrible, sitting beside Astrid in the superyacht’s master bedroom, the girl flicking through her phone on his behalf.
‘That’s what it says on Tripadvisor,’ offered Astrid, quite unused to surfing for much beyond TikTok. ‘It was a siege … or something.’
‘Those idiots!’ sighed Andronicus. ‘It was supposed to be impregnable!’
‘It says the shopping, it is very good,’ said Astrid hopefully. ‘Especially so for carpets.’
‘I don’t want a cursed carpet!’ snapped Andronicus. ‘I want my throne.’
‘I was just saying …,’ whimpered Astrid, her eyes filling.
‘Yeah … well, don’t,’ grumped the former emperor. ‘Dammit, woman, I’ve got nowhere to go. Well, apart from Russia. Well, I’ve been to Russia, and let me tell you, it’s worse than an Armenian outhouse! Everything is made of wood. The whole place is one big log cabin. And the food! Oh … my … God …. Beetroot. What the hell is that? It’s bad enough whole, but they have to go and make it into soup …. A soup! And it’s a cold soup … COLD! As if it wasn’t cold enough there already. Christ, I tell thee, it’s freezing there. I was only there a few months, and that was enough. The whole time, I couldn’t feel my legs. It’s ugly, too. You should see it; most of it is a godless swamp plagued by mosquitoes the size of cats. And … the local peasants, what a bunch of losers. Everyone insists on doing these silly jumping dances all the time. Gawd, I hate Russia.’
