The Unhappy Medium 3: Wretched Things: A Supernatural Comedy, page 8
‘Look, yeah. … ok,’ admitted Newton. ‘I admit I have an issue or two in that department.’
‘Such as?’ asked Jameson.
‘Well, no one is willing to tell me anything about the science of the Afterlife,’ protested Newton. ‘I find it a huge distraction.’
‘Here we go,’ muttered Bennet, rolling his eyes.
‘Dr Barlow, you’ve been told repeatedly that you are not authorised up to that level of security,’ said Jameson. ‘So, why do you keep asking?’
‘Because … it gets on my nerves,’ blurted Newton. ‘How am I supposed to join the dots on these missions if I don’t have even a tenth of the dots to play with? The bad guys have way more dots than I have. How is that right?’
‘The more you know, being of a scientific bent, the more you will want to know.’ replied Jameson, not for the first time. ‘That is why we have such boundaries.’
‘It’s plain stupid,’ railed Newton. ‘Illogical. Why haven’t the scientists in Purgatory studied it, come up with some proper hard data, and then disseminated it for the good of all? That’s what fries my brain.’
‘Why don’t you ask them?’ asked Jameson, knowing the answer.
‘I have,’ exclaimed Newton. ‘And they won’t tell me.’
‘Well, there you go. Unlike you, they understand the need for discretion, protocol … and security.’
‘Yes, … but ….’
‘There’s no point in this debate, Dr Barlow,’ said Jameson firmly. ‘No point at all. It’s not going to change no matter how much you hector us. You’re not going to be privy to the bigger picture. The itsy-bitsy picture you have right now is all you will get. Live with it. Until you realise that, you will not discover more.’
‘Oh, well, that makes sense,’ sneered Newton. ‘… NOT. If I stop asking, then you’ll tell me. Is that it?’
‘Maybe …,’ replied Jameson. ‘Depends.’
‘Depends on whaaat?’
‘On whether you mean it.’
‘What if I pretend I mean it?’ laughed Newton.
‘We’ll know,’ insisted Jameson. ‘Trust me, we’ll know.’
‘See,’ whispered Bennet to Jameson. ‘This is what he’s like all the time.’
‘Not all the time,’ said Newton defensively, ‘I solve lots of mysteries too, don’t I?’
‘No one is doubting your usefulness, Dr Barlow,’ declared Jameson. ‘But your inability to accept your new reality is giving your colleagues a lot of problems. It’s becoming quite a distraction. A distraction that, frankly, we do not need. Given that we now have a police investigation heading in your direction, my superiors and I have decided to pull you off operations for a month or so and send you abroad. We have a safe house on Crete. We’ll dump you there until things settle down.’
‘Crete?’ exclaimed Newton. He jutted his thumb towards his colleague. ‘What about Father Brown here? What’s his punishment?’
‘He gets to go with you.’
‘Oooooh, no!’ protested Newton, shaking his muddy head vigorously from side to side. ‘No. No. NO. I’m not going anywhere with this dickhead.’
‘Newton!’ protested the vicar.
‘Oh, be quiet, the pair of you.’ snapped Jameson, ‘You’re like two children. I must say that given your current disunity, it would be better if you were kept apart. Reverend, you can bugger off to Rome for a few weeks. We’ve got plenty of operatives over there you can annoy. Go waste some time at the Vatican. Dr Barlow, you go to Crete; the sooner, … the better.’
‘Can I bring Viv and Gabby?’ asked Newton, finally accepting realities.
‘Well, someone needs to keep an eye on you,’ sighed Jameson. ‘It would be a shame to lose your girlfriend right now, though. Unlike you, she’s proving very useful to us, especially on the research front.’
‘Is she now?’ muttered Newton resentfully.
‘Yes, … she IS,’ replied Jameson. ‘Because, unlike you and your dog-collared chum here, she doesn’t cause us all this bloody drama. Sadly, we’ll have to drag her off the frontline to ensure you don't cause us more.’
Newton and Jameson stared uncomfortably at each other in silence for a moment. It wasn’t affectionate.
‘I’m not sure you like me very much,’ remarked Newton.
‘Don’t flatter yourself.’ said Jameson, ‘I don’t like anyone.
’
Chapter 8
Crete
The island of Crete sits in a sea so blue that visitors can be forgiven for thinking the locals have been throwing toilet blocks into the water. The azure Aegean is so azure that it looks like it’s been enhanced by a junior Photoshop artist, hoping to lure in tourists from countries where the sea is only fifty shades of grey. But the truth is that the photographs don’t do it justice. They don’t do it justice at all. Sea and sky are so saturated with colours that it can make you weep: vivid cobalt blues, deep aquamarine, vivid emerald greens … and that’s just the shadows. With natural beauty of this calibre, it’s no surprise that the 160-mile-long island of Crete has attracted visitors as long as visitors have been a thing.
The first of these visitors arrived in the Palaeolithic, evolving in time to become the enigmatic Minoans. Minos, their mythological ruler, has come down to us from antiquity as the king of Labyrinth fame, a mystical maze providing accommodation for the bull-headed Minotaur. Legends aside, his city is actually very real, discovered in 1900 by the British archaeologist Sir Arthur Evans on a dig that became an international sensation. Minoan society was revealed to be vibrant, creative and technologically savvy, with elaborate palaces, roads, plumbing and neat public spaces, all decorated with joyful depictions of everyday life. Interestingly, this first European civilisation broke with the Bronze Age norm, with little warlike representation in their frescoes. Instead, playful dolphins, dancing maidens and nimble acrobats replaced the marching armies and grisly bloodbaths so popular with Egyptian and Hittite interior designers.
Above all, though, it was the bull that seemed to obsess the Minoans. These magnificent pre-beef-burger cattle featured heavily in Minoan art, indicating a deep religious fixation. The most intriguing of these depictions portray the mind-boggling art of bull-leaping, an activity that makes contemporary dangerous sports look like yoga classes. In mysterious frescoes, youths are depicted dashing towards gigantic charging bulls, only to flip like trapeze artists over their snorting heads using the wicked horns as leverage.
For some two thousand years, the Minoans ruled in Crete until, through no fault of their own, things went catastrophically pear-shaped. In 1646 BC, the island of Thera, modern-day Santorini, blew itself apart in an unimaginable volcanic eruption. The resulting 150-foot-high tsunami charged across the Aegean before slamming into the populated north coast of Crete, pulverising everything. As if that wasn’t enough, the sky then darkened with ash clouds so dense that the crops withered and failed, bringing famine. On its knees, the Minoan world was in no condition to cope with the inevitable onslaught from its opportunistic neighbours. Mycenaean Greeks, envious of the Minoan lifestyle, raided with impunity and soon, there was little left of the Minoan world but archaeology. The marauding Mycenaeans then settled, and Crete became a Greek island for eternity.
Not that modern Crete sees it that way, of course. The Cretans remain a fiercely independent lot, famed as resistance fighters, kicking back against whoever interfered in their lives, including the government back in Athens.
For all the sun, sea and scenery, Crete is a tough place to eke out a living. With a spine of rugged mountains running the length of the island, it is a landscape of sharp rock and coarse, spiky vegetation, baked dry by the relentless summer sun. This makes for people who are resilient and resourceful; possessed of a refined bloody-mindedness that will eventually grind any would-be invader into the dust. Passing armies may have taken a port or two, but they never took the mountains.
The Romans, the Ottomans and the Venetians all had a go. Still, it was the Nazis who most famously felt the sting of Cretan resistance. In 1941, Hitler’s airborne army descended, to be met by a local population only too willing to defend their soil or die trying. Young and old, men and women, the Cretans threw themselves at the parachutists using farming knives, ancient flintlock rifles and great big chunks of Cretan geology. Together with their British and Commonwealth allies, the Cretans took a fearful toll on the invaders, so much so that the ever-gung-ho Hitler never undertook an airborne operation again. But the screaming Stukas proved too much, and after a savage battle, the island fell, forcing the Cretans to take to the hills to mount a textbook guerrilla campaign. Despite the brutality thrown against them, the defiant Cretans remained the masters of a landscape the Nazis could never hope to tame.
The Cretans were, and are … flipping tough.
Modern Crete has different issues, far less dramatic maybe, but far-reaching in their effects. Mass tourism, a curse and a blessing to all the Mediterranean islands, began post-war, particularly blighting the eastern coast around the sprawling resort of Agios Nikolaos. The wild west held out longer, its rugged beauty surviving into the 1990s.
In the new millenium, that too began to succumb. New roads spread out from the regional capital, Chania, towards the pristine beaches of Elafonissi and Kissamos. Villas proliferated, offering northern European holidaymakers a place to burn themselves salmon pink next to the cobalt blue Mediterranean.
The Purgatorian safe house lay in such a complex, a bright, white, cement affair with a surrounding wall, pool and plastic loungers. With accommodation for up to five, there was plenty of space to get away from each other should the atmosphere demand it.
Given that Newton’s existential crisis was in full swing, it was going to.
Gabby, Viv and Newton’s charter flight out had been a nightmare; timid families mixed in with a group of six Cockney geezers who had bellowed football chants at a hideous volume for the entire journey. Drunk before they’d got on, they’d abused the mostly gay air stewards, held farting competitions, and then offered anyone who displayed displeasure the opportunity to ‘take it outside’, despite being at a cruising altitude of 35,000 feet.
Newton, being Newton, had intended to spend the flight learning about anything and everything from the AI revolution of ChatGPT to the quest to crack the mystery of Linear B script, Minoan Archaeology and a biography of Tesla. It was not to be. Even through sound-cancelling headphones, the cacophony could be clearly heard, and even if it wasn’t, the ceaseless kicking of seats was enough to ruin the day of even the most stoical of travellers. Out of ideas, the cabin crew gave them enough mini bar vodkas to knock themselves out somewhere over the Dolomites, giving the passengers just one hour of silence before touchdown.
Newton had bolted from the plane, seething, grabbing the hire car, and barrelled them all down the coast without pausing once to take in the scenery.
As soon as they were in the villa, Viv changed into a 1940’s floral summer dress she’d found in Greenwich market and Gabby donned, inevitably, black shorts and t-shirt, setting both their wardrobes to Aegean. They left Newton alone in the bedroom, busy with a troubled sleep that would last until night fell.
*****
That evening, as the sun descended like a large tangerine into the darkening Aegean, Newton awoke unrefreshed and confused. Being away from his contradictions seemed to have done nothing to ease his festering human condition. He looked at himself in the bathroom mirror to see a 100-year-old rickshaw driver staring back, the eyes full of nothing but bewilderment and gloop.
‘We’ve had a walk into the village, and there’s a wonderful little taverna,’ announced Viv, dropping a carrier bag of essentials on the small kitchen table. ‘Typical Greek fare, of course, so if you are hoping for a roast dinner, you’ll be disappointed.’
‘Fine,’ shrugged Newton, bereft of an opinion.
‘I’d bring your fleece, though,’ she continued. ‘It’s still early in the season. Now the sun has gone, it might get a bit nippy from the sea air. Less nippy than Bournemouth in the high season, though, eh?’
Newton looked over at his daughter. Somehow, she had managed to turn a feminine summer dress she’d just bought into a statement about gothic horror, somewhere between the exorcist and Anne of Green Gables.
‘You’d better watch the sun here, Gabby,’ he cautioned. ‘Your mother burns faster than the Hindenburg.’
‘Duuuuude,’ replied Gabby, rolling her eyes dismissively, as all teenage daughters do. ‘I’ve got sunblock. I’m not a total moron.’ Newton looked at her again, her pale skin the colour of Xerox printer paper.
‘What is that? Factor two-hundred?
‘She’ll be fine,’ reasssured Viv, pouring herself a warm glass of Prosecco, ‘We’ve got umbrellas … and hats.’
‘Oh God,’ lamented Newton, looking up at the sky. ‘What am I doing here? Do I look like a beach bunny? Dammit, I haven’t brought anywhere near enough books.’
‘You’ve got five!’ exclaimed Viv. ‘Each thicker than a telephone directory. Are you sure?’
‘Just because it’s a holiday doesn’t mean I have to drift into a coma,’ replied Newton. ‘I like to keep myself on form.’
‘Right,’ said Viv. ‘If you say so.’
‘I do,’ insisted Newton. ‘What’s the WI-FI like?’
‘Good,’ nodded Gabby. ‘I was streaming loads earlier, no problem.’
‘Hate to be controversial,’ added Viv, ‘but I was rather hoping we could just … relax. You know, make the most of it … recharge our batteries.’
‘My batteries,’ declared Newton, ‘are full. They’re always full; that’s the problem. My nervous system is the closest thing to perpetual motion the world has ever seen.’
‘Switch it off?’ suggested Viv.
‘Oh, now there’s an idea I’ve never thought of,’ huffed Newton.
‘Don’t be sarcastic, darling,’ chided Viv. ‘It doesn’t suit you.’
‘It does suit him,’ added Gabby, not looking up from her phone. ‘Look at him.’
‘Good point,’ agreed Viv resignedly. ‘Mr Grumpy Poo.’
‘Mr whaaat?’ exclaimed Newton, mildly insulted. ‘Look, I’m sorry. I realise I’m a pain in the arse, but Mr Grumpy Poo? Really?’
‘If the cap fits,’ replied Gabby.
‘Ok. Ok,’ conceded Newton. ‘I’m not an idiot. Hell, I don’t like me, I don’t see why you two should either.’
‘Ok,’ said Gabby, raising a thumb.
‘Guys,’ pleaded Newton. ‘Please. Cut me some slack. I’m just trying to reconcile things in my head. I can’t just accept all this overnight like you two. I’m a smart guy, you know?’
‘Well, obviously, we have found it easier … because we are outright morons,’ replied Viv.
‘Yeah, happy little morons,’ added Gabby. ‘Thanks.’
‘No, no!’ backtracked Newton, hastily attempting to correct himself. ‘I didn’t mean it like that. It’s not you … it’s me. It’s the science thing. I can’t let it go. I just can’t. It doesn’t make sense that one thousand years of human enquiry now amounts to nothing. Somehow, it has to match up with all this mumbo jumbo. It just has to. I just have to work it out.’
‘It’s not going to happen, love. Give it up,’ advised Viv. ‘If it were possible, then surely all those dead scientists you care so much about would have done something by now. And … they haven’t.’
‘Maybe they have,’ suggested Gabby. ‘They’re just not telling YOU!’
‘Noooooooo … nooooo!’ wailed Newton, trying not to take the idea seriously. ‘Isn’t my mind messed up enough already? Why did you have to say that?’
‘Why the hell not?’ laughed Gabby. ‘We morons have to get some entertainment out of you.’
‘Look, I’ll try,’ offered Newton unconvincingly. ‘Be more accepting of things. Ok?’
‘I think you should,’ suggested Viv, refilling the glass he was making her empty. ‘Because you’re a bit of a downer.’
‘Ok, yes. I will,’ agreed Newton, shaking himself both physically and mentally.
‘Promise?’ asked Viv.
‘Promise,’ replied Newton, holding his hand up, courtroom style. ‘I, Mr Grumpy Poo, … will try.’
‘Thank you,’ said Viv. ‘Now, why don’t you go and get yourself changed. Freshen up. Then, we can head out and get on with our holiday. You’ll feel way better … betcha.’
Newton nodded, and the sun vanished below the horizon.
*****
Their evening meal started well. The three of them had laughed together over the souvlaki and chips, Newton forgetting his worries long enough to reconnect with his girlfriend and daughter.
‘You’re right,’ he said over a tiny glass of the local raki, ‘There’s no point in letting this whole thing … ruin this whole thing.’ He gestured wildly with his hands, helping to wave away his earlier misanthropy.
‘Good,’ said Viv. ‘We still love you, even though you are a pompous, self-absorbed throwback.’
‘Oh, that’s sweet,’ laughed Newton. ‘But fair.’
‘I prefer the night,’ remarked Gabby, taking off her shades. ‘The sun is a bummer.’
‘And I thought I was negative,’ replied Newton.
‘Personal preferences,’ stated Gabby. ‘It says Goth on my passport … I have responsibilities.’
She was going to elaborate when there was a sudden blaring of horns. Moving far too fast and careening about wildly, a minibus was coming down the cliff road, its headlamps strobing the rocky outcrops. It barrelled into the small village square, did three dust-raising circuits, and then spilt its monstrous contents onto the street.
‘Ohhh God, … no,’ signed Newton.
‘Wahhaaaaaayyyyyy Cretins!’ came the drunken bellow. ‘Millwall boys, we are here, shag yer girls and drink yer BEEEEEEEEEEEER!’
