The Unhappy Medium 3: Wretched Things: A Supernatural Comedy, page 6
Time to do a few experiments.
First, Andronicus elected to test his apparent invisibility by shouting his choicest Byzantine obscenities at the frenzied mob below.
‘Koukkouroboukinatores phouktolotrypatoi!’ screamed the late Emperor. ‘You hear me?’
Though the spirit of their former oppressor was a mere three feet above them, swearing like a sailor, they paid him not the slightest attention and carried on stabbing and hacking away at his corpse with uninterrupted glee.
‘Damn!’ said Andronicus.
Now, to test his mobility.
Andronicus could turn in mid-air right from the moment he’d manifested. Pushing this, he began spinning first one way, then the other, the merest thought about the manoeuvre causing him to rotate like a weather vane. But, he soon realised that to do anything useful with this newly discovered afterlife, he would have to do a bit more than that. So, concentrating as hard as he could, Andronicus began to drift in a straight line to his left. It was painfully slow at first, but as Andronicus pushed his abilities, he began to master the basic moves, to control pitch, roll, and yaw with the merest of mental commands. The more Andronicus tested, the better he became. Soon, he could describe a wide circle around the bloody mess of his execution until, finally tiring of the spectacle of his humiliation, he lost his temper. Screaming, Andronicus dived like a Peregrine directly at his executioners.
Singling out the ring leader, Andronicus lashed out.
Not only was he invisible, the dead Emperor soon realised he was also hopelessly ethereal. Far from dealing a killer blow, Andronicus the Terrible passed directly through the man without so much as ruffling his beard. To make matters worse, he had also badly overshot, his angle of descent sending him into the ground as if the ground wasn’t there. By the time he’d slammed the breaks on, Andronicus was some seven feet away, only his pompous head still showing above the gravel.
Infuriated, Andronicus shot upwards, his annoyance carrying him high above the rooftops of the capital, like a ground-to-air missile, through the flocks of crows that had been gathering expectantly above his cadaver. Yelling his dead head off, the former despot charged away through the clouds, arms flailing around as he punched furiously at the warm air in wild impotence.
Then he petered out.
Andronicus, characteristically unmoved by the majestic cumulonimbus towering around him, drew to a halt, head in his hands. He calmed himself, taking deep breaths he no longer required, looking for inspiration. Down below, the city sprawled away to the Bosphorus, the people too small to make out, only ships visible as they plied back and forth to Asia in the east.
‘No, no, no,’ thought Andronicus. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’
Determined to meddle with the land of the living, Andronicus dived back down on the city like a falling cannonball. Descending fast, Andronicus flew into bustling streets filled with citizens still jubilant at his gory demise. Enraged and insulted in equal measure, Andronicus swept unseen through the crowds, faster than the fastest horseman, tearing through market stalls and away through lines of laundry without so much as rippling a curtain.
‘Damn you!’ wailed the late Emperor. ‘Damn you all to hell!’
Squealing with frustration, Andronicus shot back out of the bustling streets, wheeling above the rooftops as he tried to focus his dark resolve.
Back down went Andronicus.
Again … nothing.
Nothing, at least until, shooting past a balcony he heard the tell-tale cadence of a wind chime.
Andronicus slammed to a halt mid-air, then looked back, searching for the source of the sound. There, on a sunny, flower-draped balcony, dangling below a colourful awning, hung a simple collection of wooden pipes. Tearing back to the balcony, Andronicus swung his ethereal hand at the chime.
Nothing.
He tried again.
Again … nothing.
Andronicus then tried blowing at it, but as his lungs were now little more than an idea, that didn’t work either. Changing tack, he closed his eyes, concentrating for a second, then, … once he felt he’d got his grubby mind focussed enough, Andronicus extended a finger.
One of the wooden pipes moved.
It wasn’t much, a fraction of an inch, but it definitely moved.
Concentrating, Andronicus repeated the process. Sure enough, the wood tube moved further this time … and faster. Jubilant, Andronicus began projecting his mental energy towards the chime, rewarded now with a light plinking as the tubes finally collided, producing a satisfying plonk. Each time, it got better, Andronicus beginning to master this strange new ability. Now, the chimes were beginning to plink and plonk continuously, building into a clumsy jangling that finally drew the attention of the woman of the house in the room behind. Appearing upon the balcony, glass in hand, she looked puzzled at the chime, then at the washing beside it. One was moving, the other wasn't, the linen hanging lifeless in the still air.
Delighted to have an audience, Andronicus began to rattle the chime. Jangled violently by his ghostly hand, it sent the poor woman into hysterical screaming. Running inside for salvation, she was instead pursued by the spirit of her former Emperor, his triumphant cackling thankfully inaudible to her as he dashed around the room after her, flinging cushions and ornaments about like a poltergeist, until the horrified woman fainted. But Andronicus, with idle hands and a taste for mischief, wanted more. Convinced he could still fly through walls, he shot across the room towards the door, ready to inflict his new-found powers on his enemies.
With a whack, the ghost of Andronicus the Terrible smacked into the door.
Crack.
Unexpectedly feeling pain, Andronicus reeled back, muttering obscenities, confused by his physicality. Feeling around him, Andronicus realised that everything was now solid. Drifting to the fireplace, he began toying with the candlesticks, lifting them up, dropping them, and then slinging them about as he tested the limits of his fingers.
After much experimentation, Andronicus discovered he could switch his physicality on and off … almost at will.
On.
Off.
On.
Off.
‘’Zounds!’ muttered Andronicus the Terrible.
Thrilled by the possibilities, Andronicus left the upended room behind him, shot out through the window, and flew away. Reaching the city walls, he glided over the parched countryside beyond, head swivelling for targets.
A lone horseman was headed for the city on a dirt track far below.
Andronicus swept down like a fighter bomber headed for the unwitting rider. On him in an instant, Andronicus grabbed the man’s ornate feathered headwear and was back up in the sky, laughing demonically, cap in hand.
‘YES!’
The startled rider, utterly confused by the attack upon his headgear, pulled his whinnying steed around in circles, trying to work out how his hat had blown off on a thoroughly windless day.
Dropping the hat, Andronicus banked hard around … then dived again.
This time, as he shot past, Andronicus slapped the man’s horse hard on its rump. Terrified, the beast reared up like a rodeo Mustang, then charged away down the dirt track at full-pelt, eyes-wide, the hapless rider clinging on for dear life.
Roaring with laughter, Andronicus went after him.
Confident with the physical, Andronicus now moved on to sound, flying alongside the horse and shrieking into the poor man’s ears until he was certain he could be heard. The terrified man looked around him, eyes like dinner plates.
‘Leave me alone!’ he begged crossing himself. ‘LEAVE ME ALONE!’
Satisfied, Andronicus banked away.
If he could be heard, wondered the late Emperor, could he also be seen?
Racing ahead of the petrified rider, Andronicus, concentrating for all he was worth, willed himself out of invisibility. Manifesting as a transparent wraith just feet away before him, the rider let out the most pitiful of cries, then fell off his equally wild-eyed horse. Crashing to the ground in an explosion of dust, the bewildered man tumbled to a stop.
Spinning back, Andronicus flew past his victim again, hands waving, the most sinister wail he could manage issuing from his ghostly vocal cords.
‘Andronicus is BACK! HAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHA.’
Screaming in mortal terror, the man was up, running for all he was worth towards the city wall as his late Emperor cackled and roared in delight.
Now, the real fun could start.
Flying back into town, hell-bent on revenge, Andronicus headed straight for the palace. Passing through the colossal walls, his ghost careened down the golden corridors, smashing vases, tearing at tapestries, and looking for Isaac Angelos.
He found Eric the Greek.
‘You stop right there,’ ordered the Purgatorian, blocking his passage down the corridor to the throne room.
Andronicus screeched to a halt.
‘Who the hell are you?’ demanded Andronicus.
‘Never mind my name,’ replied Eric. ‘I’m here to arrest you.’
‘You can’t arrest me. I’m a ghost,’ snorted Andronicus, trying to look terrifying. ‘Get out of my way.’
‘I’m more a ghost than you’ll ever be,’ replied Eric, unimpressed. ‘As are … my assistants.’ The assistants, also dressed in togas, obligingly appeared around the spectral form of Andronicus, glowing ropes at the ready, expressions determined, ready to take their man. ‘Better come quietly.’
‘Whaaaaat?’ replied Andronicus. ‘Who in the name of all the saints are you?’
‘We work for the Hereafter,’ answered Eric. ‘I’d show you a card, but I don’t have one. You’re dead, are you not?’
‘What’s it to do with you?’ snapped Andronicus.
‘It has everything to do with me,’ answered Eric. ‘Dead people are what I do.’
‘No, wait!’ pleaded Andronicus, as the Purgatorians edged towards him. ‘Leave me alone. I don’t want to go to heaven.’
‘Well, that’s fine,’ said Eric. ‘Because the chances of you going to heaven are somewhere between pretty bloody slight and utterly non-existent.’
‘But I’m the Emperor!’ exclaimed Andronicus.
‘You’re an arsehole, is what you are,’ clarified Eric. ‘And I’ve met a few. Trust me. We’ve been watching you for a while, Andronicus I Comnenus, and I have to say, you are easily one of the most self-centred, untrustworthy, narcissistic, greedy, seedy bastards I have ever had the misfortune to set my eyes on. How someone like you could rise to high office is beyond me. What an absolute disgrace.’
‘I haven’t done anything wrong,’ wailed Andronicus. ‘You have to be tough in my job; it’s expected of a ruler. It’s nothing personal.’
‘Oh, spare me the “law of the jungle” routine,’ said Eric. ‘I didn’t die yesterday. An emperor or a king isn’t obliged to murder, cheat, betray, womanise and torture. Hogwash. That’s all on you, you greasy little scumbag. Nothing personal? Oh really? Well, there's nothing personal about where you’re going, either.
‘Going where?’ demanded Andronicus, finally realising the seriousness of his situation. ‘Hell? Are you taking me to … hell?’
Eric gestured to his assistants. ‘Gentlemen, if you please.’
‘Oh, no! No, you don’t,’ snarled Andronicus defiantly. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’
With that, the former Emperor of Byzantium shot at the wall, willing his physicality to fade.
‘Solid,’ said Eric casually, waving his thin hand.
His new abilities thus overruled, Andronicus became as substantial as a bag of logs, slamming into the frescoed wall with a sickening thwack. Equally bewildered and enraged, Andronicus dropped like a woodpigeon at a picture window. Falling to the floor, the stunned former Emperor was instantly pounced on, pinned down by Eric’s ethereal muscle. Moving fast, they wrapped the former Emperor up in a mass of shimmering purple cords, rendering him immobile.
Sauntering slowly over, the Purgatorian official leant down, a thin smile appearing on his lips as he tapped Andronicus the Terrible on his forehead.
‘For you,’ said Eric the Greek, ‘this world is over.’
*****
The execution of Andronicus the Terrible was pretty bloody terrible, a triumph of mob brutality, public revenge and applied barbarism.
But, even as his ghastly spirit faded in one realm and reappeared, somewhat briefly, in another, the pent-up rage the terrible Andronicus I Comnenus had generated began to ease, leaving the city with nothing but a messed up body that someone was going to have to dispose of.
Andronicus had always wanted to be interred in the mausoleum he had built specifically for his aggrandisement, and no way was that going to happen. No funeral of any kind felt appropriate at all, given the indifference he exhibited to the suffering of his people, but they could hardly leave him in the Hippodrome either. A few days in the sun would turn Andronicus into a terrible health risk.
Andronicus, or rather what was left of him, … had to go.
So … one last ignominy.
Removed from his stake, Andronicus’ body was dragged to the harbour, encased in a metal frame, strung up, and then left to decompose.
For the first week or so, the body of the dead Emperor still attracted the crowds. Brutalised, there was much outpouring of hate shown towards the cadaver by the people, with hundreds making a day of it, jeering his body as it slowly decomposed in the sea air. But, in time, the crowds thinned, then left altogether, leaving Andronicus to desiccate in the sunshine. Surprisingly quickly, Constantinople returned to a normality it hadn't seen in a while, its citizens keen to put the whole ghastly episode behind them.
Andronicus the Terrible was left to the crows.
But not everyone wanted to forget.
She had visited him from the very beginning. A cloak wrapped around her, her unfashionable grief hidden from the curious; she came most days to watch her beloved decay. As the crowds had vanished, she had still attended his decomposition, her eyes following him as he swung in the breeze, watching him in a private vigil as the crows pecked him clean through the gibbet cage.
For two years, she came. Each time, a little less of her lover to mourn.
Then, one crisp November morning, with Andronicus but a few bones and a scattering of rags, Theodora was finally rewarded.
It was only a toe, the bones held together by a dog chew of sinews, but it was enough.
Crouching below the cage where it had fallen, Theodora picked up the fallen digit. As though the relic was that of a saint, which, let's face it, it really wasn’t, she tenderly placed the toe in a square of velvet.
Folding it into a triangle, Theodora placed the relic inside her robe, checked around to be sure she had not been observed, then scurried away towards a waiting boat, never to return
.
Chapter 7
On Offa’s Dyke
Concussed by their car crash, Newton and Bennet had slept through the later stages of the Llanthony Abbey incident. The Reverend, his face pebble-dashed with talc from the airbag, had been the first to wake, some twenty minutes after the last of the rival parties had fled the scene. Bennet let out a low groan, his balding head pounding from where it had slammed against the side door. Eyesight blurring and unblurring, he watched confetti dancing across the car park, driven by a gathering wind.
Dejectedly, the vicar realised they were twenty-pound notes.
The car was a total write-off. The venerable oak tree had buckled the front half of the hatchback into a tin foil hat, popping open the doors and blowing the glass out of most of the windows.
‘Newton,’ burbled the vicar, shaking his passenger into life. ‘Wake up! You need to wake up!’
‘Fnnnggggggg,’ burbled Newton back at him, a nasty bruise on his forehead. ‘Whaaaat?’
‘We have to go!’
‘What … what happened?’
‘We screwed up, is what happened,’ wailed Bennet. ‘Badly. We’ve got to go. We need to get out of here!’
‘Well, get driving then,’ suggested Newton.
‘Oh, sure!’ howled Bennet. ‘Look at my poor bloody car! We’re not going anywhere.’ Shaking his head clear, the vicar looked across the car park towards the other vehicles; one was merrily burning; the other three were a mess of bullet holes, their tyres flat and useless on the gravel.
Their occupants had long gone.
As had the Necromancer’s handbooks.
‘Flipping flip,’ exclaimed Bennet, enjoying a flashback. ‘They’ve got the books.’
A twenty-quid note flopped against the windscreen.
‘And the money?’ asked Newton, trying to focus on the Queen’s face.
‘And the money,’ confirmed Bennet. ‘It’s probably all over Wales by now.’
‘My head,’ whimpered Newton.
‘Never mind your head,’ said Bennet. ‘We’ve got to get out of here … and sharpish. Look at this place. If we don’t leave here soon, the world and his wife will turn up. You fancy explaining this little lot to the coppers?’
‘What are we supposed to do?’ moaned Newton through his hands. ‘Call an Uber?’
‘Walk,’ said Bennet. ‘That’s all we can do. Trouble is, we can’t take the valley road. There’s one way in and one way out; we’ll stick out like sore thumbs.’
‘So?’
‘So we have to go over the hill.’
‘What …?’ gasped Newton, pointing through the Abbey to the wall of bracken. ‘You have to be joking!’
‘No choice,’ replied Bennet. ‘If we go straight up and over that hill, we’ll cross the border into England. By the time we reach a village, we can have someone ready to pick us up.’
‘What a charming idea,’ sighed Newton, as the rain began to slap against what was left of the window. ‘A nature ramble. Why not?’
‘Please try and be positive,’ suggested Bennet. ‘I don’t like it any more than you do. But there we are. The whole valley will have heard the gunfire. The constabulary are likely already en route. I don’t need to tell you how awkward that could be.’
Grabbing his overnight bag, Newton reluctantly joined his colleague beside the wreck.
