The Unhappy Medium 3: Wretched Things: A Supernatural Comedy, page 53
Meanwhile, the stern was finally on its way, furniture crashing inside it as it rolled over. As they all looked on, the final section of the Black Sea Princess vanished into the Black Sea.
And, once the superyacht was finally no more, the cables connecting her to the barge tightened, pulling the platform down to join the failed Iskander in the depths below.
Nothing remained but a slick of greasy fuel oil and the last of Nahrapov’s trashy flotsam, bobbing pathetically upon what had been a very busy patch of water
.
Chapter 41
Snake
There was a lot to clear up. The deck of the Olympias simply wasn’t the place for anything as complex as the moment demanded. So, after a heated discussion, it was decided that a small and relatively insignificant island to the west would have to be where the debris of Homer’s new Heroic Age would be finally and irrevocably recycled.
Zmiinyi Island, Snake Island in English, lies just thirty-five miles off the coast of Ukraine, occasionally inhabited by the military, but thankfully deserted as the Olympias approached through a lifting fog. There were legends, coincidently, that it was on this very island that Achilles had been buried, something put to rest somewhat when it was clear that Achilles didn't recognise anything about the place whatsoever.
Stopping at the small landing stage, Enrico Pescatore led a small team to scout out the terrain before returning twenty minutes later to give the all-clear.
Dima and his mercenaries and the crew of the Black Sea Princess were left on the Olympias with Helena Kraakenhausen and Nahrapov’s catastrophically baffled girlfriend, destined for rehabilitation.
‘I wouldn’t worry about where you’re going, my dear lady,’ Bennet reassured Astrid, as their departure was organised. ‘It’s quite a charming spot you’re off to.’
‘Are there shops?’ she asked hopefully.
‘Er … no,’ admitted Bennet. ‘But there are plenty of wholesome activities to keep you busy, while we help you get things a little straighter in your mind.’
Eric, Bennet and the Greek monks buffed up on their incantations as the wind finally blew the last of the fog away to leave a clear blue sky.
The night was now falling as the silent procession wound up through the treeless rocks to the summit beside the lighthouse. The only sounds were the wail of seabirds, and the whimpering of Andronicus the Terrible, now not so much terrible, as pathetic.
Torches ablaze, the Purgatorians formed a circle, Eric leading the proceedings as the subjects were prepared.
And so, one by one, the warriors of the Trojan War were removed from their hosts, leaving a bunch of very confused and disorientated Greek politicians. These, it was decided, would be quietly and respectfully locked up in the interior of the automatic lighthouse for the Ukrainian coastguard to rescue later, once the Purgatorians had left.
Finally, only the defiant Achilles, the thwarted Homer and the utterly humiliated Andronicus remained.
‘You can never eradicate us,’ sneered Homer. ‘We are part of the fabric of your civilisation. Our story will live forever. Purgatory cannot hold us.’
‘Which,’ said Eric the Greek, ‘is why we have no intention of exorcising you. You are more dangerous as spirits. For you, it will be exile.'
‘Exile!’ protested Achilles. ‘Where?’
‘Inaccessible Island,’ explained Eric.
‘Never heard of it!’ wailed Andronicus.
‘Precisely. You will go there …,’ declared Eric, ‘and you will be forgotten, a million leagues from anywhere you can cause mischief. There, you will be fed, watered … and ignored … until dead.’
‘But I’m Achilles!’ protested Achilles. ‘The most famous warrior in history. You can’t do that to me. I’m immortal.’
‘We really can,’ insisted Newton. ‘And … we will. This world of ours, both this one and the next, has no place for your brand of “heroism”. You’re not really heroes, anyway. You have no right to that hashtag. Heroes are people who do amazing things they don’t want to do because they have to. You want blood, you want death, you want war. That’s not heroism. That’s a fetish; you’re all just thugs and murderers, and you … Homer … you’re just an enabling apologist. A sad old man who wants to send young men to their deaths for the sake of a narrative people have long grown tired of.’
‘Whatever,’ pouted Homer petulantly. ‘At least, I’m more famous than you’ll ever be.’
‘Yeah,’ added Achilles.
‘Fame?’ replied Eric. ‘It’s not all it’s cracked up to be, though, is it? Purgatory is full of big names and famous faces who want nothing more than to rest in peace, free from the tyranny of their own reputations. Only the evil want their name to live on, as you do. Only the vain, the narcissistic and the bitter want such a fate.’
‘Don’t I deserve a second chance?’ begged Andronicus. ‘Doesn’t everyone deserve a second chance?’
'I've read your pathetic, loathsome story,’ replied Eric. ‘Andronicus I Comnenus, … you’ve had more second chances than anyone else in the history of mankind, and, on each occasion, you've abused the goodwill of those who offered them to you. Wives, cousins, friends, and lovers, you’ve cheated and lied your way through life, causing havoc, unhappiness and death. So, no more chances. Not this time. This time, it’s over for good. You’ll be taken to the new facility on Inaccessible Island, and there, you will be left to rot in the body you chose to possess. There will be no clemency, no succour … no reprieve.’
‘Any women there?’ asked Andronicus, chancing his arm.
‘Certainly not!’ snapped Eric. ‘Well, not that you’ll be allowed anywhere near. I think womenkind have seen quite enough of your ghastly manhood. Andronicus, you will spend your eternity … alone. Now, take them away,’ said Eric. ‘They disgust me.’
And with that, the ceremony was over, and the procession wound its way back to the trireme. An hour later, with a canopy of stars above them, the Olympias sailed south.
*****
Passing Constantinople, the trireme made its way around the western coast of Anatolia, back past Gallipoli and the ruins of Troy, and then south through the Aegean before waiting in the darkness of the Cyclades just off Santorini. In the early hours, a non-descript freighter bound for the South Atlantic came alongside, and Achilles, Homer and a very dejected Andronicus the Terrible were transferred, joining the outlaws, the Minotaur and the rest, hopefully, never to be seen again.
The Olympias itself, now somewhat ragged around the bows, was discretely returned to the harbour in Chania, its recent unofficial crew slipping back into the shadows before anyone could name and shame. A considerable fund for repairs had been left in its galley to be discovered. Dima and his men, together with Astrid, the crew of the Black Sea Princess, and Helena Kraakenhausen, were flown out by a charter jet from Chania the next day, bound for a certain Scottish Island. There they would reprocessed either to be absorbed by the organisation or released back into the world with the sort of promise no one would dare to break.
Partly by order, partly by desire, Newton, Gabby and Viv returned to their safe house to finish their holiday. Bennet, meanwhile, took over the disgracefully abused premises next door, once two sets of cleaners had had their way with the mess left by the football fans some days earlier.
Something had changed.
Newton's brain, finally, was resting.
Sure, it wasn’t the answer he’d been hoping for, but at least now he had a purpose, enough purpose maybe to explain his past as well as his present. It undoubtedly offered something for his future. Thinking, finding, questioning … his life hadn’t been quite the waste he’d grown to think it was. Somehow, the futility had a purpose, even though it clearly wasn’t the one he’d been working towards. He’d contributed; he brought reason into this demon-haunted world, where now, it was clear, it really, really needed to be. It wasn’t closure, but it was something.
Sat by the pool, Newton wasn’t reading about quantum uncertainty; he was reading The Ascent of Rum Doodle on his replacement iPhone. Undeniably, it now felt right. He had permission to ease off, to rest and repair, even to enjoy this new life, permission, not from his heroes, his biggest influences and from science, but from himself, the only permission that really matters for any of us in the end.
Not that work now didn’t matter. If anything, it now mattered more. As much as Newton enjoyed the chance to rest and recuperate, he was also itching to get back, to let rip on the tricksters and the gaslighters, the evil and the narcissistic, and to work his reason into the Beta to such an extent that nothing and no one could ever take it out again.
He got up and went to the table where Gabby and Viv were mixing drinks. Breaking the habit of a lifetime, Newton reached for a slice of lemon and dropped it in his gin.
‘I thought you hated it!’ exclaimed Viv, as they looked at him in astonishment.
‘Time to try new things,’ replied Newton thoughtfully. ‘You know, Viv, I’ve been given so … many… lemons. I rather think it’s time I started making some lemonade.’
It was apparent to Viv and Gabby that something significant had finally shifted. It was a secret that Newton had kept and would be honour-bound to keep. He wouldn’t have told Bennet anyway, just to be difficult, though he could instantly see that he’d softened toward his colleague despite a North Atlantic-wide difference in their belief systems. If he could put up with Bennet, he reasoned, he could put up with almost anything.
Visitors came and went.
Valenti, nursing little more than a mild concussion, was convalescing in a clinic in the hills, mulling over the Purgatorians’ offer of a replacement for his beloved Dakota.
Enrico Pescatore spent a few pleasant hours by the pool, resplendent in a smart navy blue suit and a cheap sailor hat, proudly informing anyone willing to listen that he had been tasked with expanding the Purgatorial naval presence in the Mediterranean.
Vasilakis and Father Papadraylou had also visited, keeping them abreast of the clean-up operations in the now-empty Labyrinth below the island. Though Newton had serious doubts about their plan for a subterranean theme park, he found himself keeping his opinions to himself. It was, after all, the stoical thing to do.
Finally, Eric had paid them all a visit, sorely testing not just Newton’s newly discovered stoicism but that of Viv, Gabby and Bennet. Four grinding hours later, he left, and the lot of them, including Bennet, then got riotously intoxicated on raki at the local taverna until he was out of everyone’s system.
Some people, they concluded boozily, were hard to put up with whether you were stoical or not.
There was time to rest, even if just for today, time before they’d all be back in the thick of things. It was the last weekend for Newton before he could go head-to-head with the darkest forces in the human realm, but this time with a spring in his step.
For the first time in many, many years, this reluctant medium, the last man you’d expect to be a bridge between the living and the dead … was happy.
The End
Author’s Note
Thank you for reading The Unhappy Medium 3: Wretched Things.
If you have enjoyed the book, kindly leave a review, these things really assist us indies!
For updates on future books, contact me at info@theunhappymedium.com and I’ll send you a newsletter or two. You can also follow The Unhappy Medium on Facebook or Instagram for regular updates.
Also by T. J. Brown
The Unhappy Medium
The Unhappy Medium 2: Tom Fool
9 Lovers for Emily Spankhammer
The Last Photograph of John Buckley
A little Knowledge
Acknowledgements
Huge thanks to the many wonderful people who have helped me reach the end of this daft book.
Firstly: Steve Margetts, Stuart Gall, Nick Sleep, Linda Brockway, Ryan Watson, Arwyn Hughes, Rhian Williams and Ynr Emlyn and everyone else at Intelligent Ultrasound who have been there both professionally and as solid mates over some very crazy days. The word ‘support’ is not big enough.
I’d also like to thank Christopher Rowan, Stephen Dale, Mercedes Luis Fuentes, Dan Jones, Helen Campbell, Nancy Burgess, Mark Darby, Esmee Rotmans, Dimitri Matsigura (the real one) Nicole MacDonald, Marston York, Duncan Mallard, Cathy Layzell, Joel Sassone, Wayne Ballinger, Tanya Bassett, Kaleesha Williams, Karen Nager Loethen, John Evans (RIP), Rosa Blandford, Nancy Roberts and John Jervis, Katie Bayliss, Dave Carroll, Nia Jenkins and Mark Edward … for key interventions along a rather cobbled road.
To my many readers worldwide, huge thanks and a small dash of incredulity for the interest, love and enthusiasm for Newton and his co-workers. I hope I can feed you more of this nonsense in the years to come. Watch this space.
They include: Angela Lax, Anne Dexter, Anne White, Boomer Morey, Dario Alejandro, the mighty Ferraris, Fran Hall, Gwen Downes, Helen Coleman, Ian Woodward, Jenny Kenyon, Kaleesha Williams, Kim Nealis, Mark Valenti, Marianne Searle Nicole MacDonald, Peter Staples, Robin Scott, Sheridan Powell, Steve Margetts, Susan Foster, Tammy Caudill Brammer, Caroline Ormrod, Julie Smith, Liz Prinn, Angela Forster, Wayne Ballinger, Victoria Doran and Dianna Yadanza.
Sorry if I’ve missed any of you off.
Planetary sized thanks go to Holly Bell, writer of the wonderful Amanda Cadabra series, for her fabulous editing, her unstinting support and her many, many insights along the way, both literary and otherwise. I urge you to hop over to Amazon now and grab a copy, you won’t regret it.
I’d also like to thank Dr Newton Barlow, for keeping at least one of us sane over the last decade.
Most of all, thanks to Diane
I really wouldn’t be here without you.
Love you so much.
About the Author
T.J. Brown always found life far more amusing than he should have. Like most authors, he has a surreal CV with jobs in frozen food, a crematorium, publishing, design, illustration, and medical technology. Alongside these he also paints, makes music, drinks red wine, catches spiders and grows vegetables.
Brown works, lives and writes in Wales, where the castles are.
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T.J. Brown, The Unhappy Medium 3: Wretched Things: A Supernatural Comedy
