Afterlife Crisis

by Randal Graham

  “You signed on without knowing who she was?”

  “It seemed advisable, sir. There is a tide in the affairs of men which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune. Omitted, all the voyage of their life is bound in shallows and in miseries.”

  It took me perhaps a quarter of a minute to work this out. “It seemed like a good idea at the time, you mean?”

  “Precisely, sir. I took the current when it served.”

  I might have pressed this point further, but I had bigger fish to fry. I mean to say, if a chap wants to buttle for a beazel without knowing who she is, or what she might be the regent of, this may be a mystery worthy of a bit of exploratory sleuthing, but only by someone who knows where in Abe’s name he’s holed up and what’s been going on in his life for the last week and a half. And if William could be trusted, that wasn’t me.

  “And you say I’ve been out of commission for ten days?”

  “Eleven, sir. Tonight will be the twelfth night.”

  “Golly,” I said.

  “Have your preferences in the matter of tea changed, sir?” said William, hauling a tray from his cart and setting it on a table beside the bed.

  I assured him they hadn’t, and might have suggested something a good deal stronger than tea had the present moment not been a time for clear-headed thinking. There appeared to be numerous points of interest concerning which I would soon be needing particulars, and I foresaw that all of my brain cells would need to be firing on all thrusters, as the expression is, if I was to have any hope of making sense of the sitch.

  William passed me a strengthening cuppa and I drank deeply, giving myself a moment or two to marshal my wits before carrying on.

  “What can you tell me of where we are?” I asked. “This house, I mean. Definitely not a bungalow. And judging by the trees outside the window, and the mountains on the horizon, we aren’t back at the Riviera.”

  “No, sir. We are, to use a popular expression, deep in The Wild. Far away from the city centre. The regent prefers to conduct her affairs in places far removed from mayoral scrutiny.”

  “The mayor’s scrutiny reaches everyone,” I riposted, and I meant it. I was one of the many in attendance when Abe the First, Mayor of Detroit, had let loose with a touch of hitherto undisclosed omnipotence, on the occasion when he had butted into the battle between the City Solicitor, subsequently ID’d as some chap named Plato, and Penelope Somethingorother, aka Ian’s wife.

  “That may be the case, sir,” said William. “Nevertheless, the regent prefers to reside in secluded locales, far from prying eyes. She prefers her actions to remain cloaked in anonymity.”

  “So how did I get here, then. IPT?”

  “IPT, sir?” said William, corrugating his brow. “I’m unfamiliar with the expression.”

  “Oh right,” I said. “I’d forgotten. Never mind. But leaving that aside for the moment — how did Vera and I end up in the regent’s home?”

  “Her summer home, sir,” said William, proving a good deal more pedantic than I remembered. “You arrived here, as I said, some eleven days ago. The two of you came by helicopter, and were brought in by a pair of the regent’s agents, dressed as policemen.”

  “Why on earth were we dressed as policemen?”

  “Forgive me, sir. It was the regent’s agents who were so garbed.”

  “Two chaps dressed as coppers brought me here?” I said. And then the significance of this fact penetrated. “You mean — you mean to tell me that the two jonnies who rammed self and Vera, the two blighters who wrecked our car and squashed the pair of us with their cruiser, thought it best to add to the mounting list of charges by kidnapping their victims and—”

  “I fear you misjudge them, sir,” said William. “While it is true that the same two agents who, as you say, rammed your car, are the ones who brought you hither, they did so without any malice or mala fides. They acted for the public good. They thought you were Napoleons.”

  “Why should they think I was a Napoleon?”

  “You were in a Napoleon’s car, sir. The gentlemen had been tracking it.”

  “Even allowing for the fact that they might, as you suggest, have thought I was a Napoleon, that doesn’t explain why the blighters brought me here. Not by a jugful. I need an answer from you, William, and a categorical one at that. Answer me now with a simple yes or no. Why were these pretend coppers hoping to nab a Napoleon or two and bung them into the regent’s home?”

  I half expected my stern tone to cow the chap where he stood, causing him to lose an inch or two of his height or seek shelter behind the sofa. He didn’t so much as shuffle a foot. He just stared back at me flatly, like a penguin who’d been entirely unmoved by something another penguin had said. Then he answered, matter-of-factly.

  “They did so at the regent’s behest, and at the urging of her colleague, Norm Stradamus.”

  “Did you say ‘Norm Stradamus’?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You don’t mean Norm Stradamus.”

  “I do, sir.”

  “You’re sure you’ve got the name right? Stradamus?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Norm?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “A prophesying chap who wears robes, forgets to shave, and babbles in quatrains at the merest provocation?”

  “Precisely, sir.”

  “The regent works with Norm Stradamus?”

  “She does, sir. Indeed, Norm Stradamus is here among us. He has come with much of his order, the Church of O. They’ve retreated to the temporary seclusion of this locale.”

  “Well I’m blowed!”

  And I’ll tell you why I was blowed. Ever since I’d set off hot on Zeus’s trail, and then on Nappy’s, and then finally on the trail of Norm Stradamus, I’d become so dashed used to failing to find any trace of my prey that I’d become something of a cynic and had come within a hair of throwing in the towel. Had I known that all fate required was for me to tangle with a police car and suffer a bit of a coma before I’d be parachuted into my quarry’s lap, I’d have chucked myself under the wheels of the nearest cruiser a few days sooner.

  “You surprise me, William,” I said. “I had Norm and his flock taped out as hermits, rejecting the comfort of great houses in favour of crevasses, crags, and holes. And here you stand telling me that he’s checked into this five-star palace. What in Abe’s name brought him here?”

  “He is here for scientific research, sir.”

  This surprised me, too. From what I knew of Norm and his troop they were all atwitter for prayer, penance, and piety, but not so hot when it came to what you might call “facts” — things to be sussed out through the use of Erlenmeyer flasks; telescopes; and small, medium, or large hadron colliders. Those devices might have made Isaac’s heart skip a beat or two, but not Norm’s.

  “What kind of scientific research?” I asked.

  “Research into the beforelife.”

  “Ah,” I said, inclining the bean. “The scales fall from my eyes. I mean to say, I catch your drift.” And I’ll tell you why I caught his d. Norm and his hangers-on had always been mad-keen on the beforelife, believing that the goddess or prophetess they served, a bird called the Great Omega, lived there and doled out gifts to deserving members of her gang. I ought to have known that, if Norm and his weird, robe-wearing cronies had hung up the prayer beads and shawls in favour of lab coats and mass spectrometers, it would have something to do with the beforelife.

  “But what have Napoleons got to do with research into the beforelife?”

  “That, sir, is the question; the very mystery that Norm Stradamus and the regent seek to solve. They wish to understand the link between Napoleons and the beforelife. Both the regent and Norm Stradamus believe that all Napoleons reincarnate multiple times, leaving Detroit and returning to the mortal coil repeatedly. The regent seek
s to replicate this process. That is why her ladyship and Norm Stradamus have gathered all Napoleons here. They’ve been sequestered in a hospital that the regent had installed on her private grounds.”

  “Abe’s drawers!” I exclaimed. “You can’t mean to tell me the regent and Norm Stradamus are the ones behind the mounting Napoleon shortage.”

  “They are indeed, sir.”

  “Taking people against their will?”

  “I’m afraid so, sir. The regent’s project has necessitated some actions that, while highly regrettable, are for the public good. This has included taking Napoleons by force.”

  “But you can’t go about the place kidnapping Napoleons!”

  “Conscience doth make cowards of us all, sir. The act is unavoidable, but a cruelty born of kindness. As I said, both the regent and Norm Stradamus share the view that all Napoleons have the capacity to return to the beforelife multiple times. They further believe that, if they can learn why this is so, they may find a route to re-enter the beforelife themselves, allowing passage for all who wish to make the journey. That is their ultimate goal, sir. This is why they capture Napoleons, why they study them, and why they prefer to conceal their plans from public view. Though this be madness, sir, yet there is method in’t.”

  “Gosh,” I said. “You’ve seen a lot in your first week on the job, what?”

  “I have indeed, sir. I could a tale unfold whose lightest word would harrow up thy soul, make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres, thy knotted and combined locks—”

  I shushed the man with an impassioned gesture.

  “Kindly cheese the flowery lingo,” I said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I mean to say, there’s a time for blathering on about stars and souls and eyes and things, and a time for taking tides at the flood and jolly well getting the show on the road. This is decidedly the latter.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “And, talking of minding one’s tongue,” I added, for this had given rise to a new line of thought, “will you get in trouble for spilling the beans to me?”

  “I do not believe so, sir. The regent wished for you to be apprised of her activities.”

  “She did?”

  “She did, sir.”

  “Well, then may I see the Napoleons? And Vera?”

  “You are an honoured guest, sir. The Hand of the Intercessor. I’ve been instructed to extend every courtesy to you. I’m sure the regent will permit you to visit with anyone you wish, with the possible exception of the Napoleon whose car you’d taken. He has proven most difficult, sir.”

  “You don’t mean Jack is here!” I yipped.

  “I do, sir. The Napoleon who calls himself Bonaparte, or Jack, arrived shortly after you. Once it was realized that you’d taken his car, it was no great effort to retrace your steps and locate the missing man. The regent sent her agents to bring him in.”

  “Well then,” I said, “no sense lolling around here in silk pyjamas and jabbering with the help. Point me toward my clothes and take me to your leader.”

  “All in good time, sir,” he said. “I imagine that, before you meet with the regent, you’ll wish to reunite with your fiancée.”

  I stared at the man. Indeed, it’s not going too far to say I gaped. I sat there, blinking at William, groping for a response for the space of several louder-than-average heartbeats. I mean to say, when he’d suggested I might wish to see my fiancée, the only response that had occurred was “which one?,” a response that — I think you’ll agree — invites judgment, censure, and disagreeable backchat. It’s true, I knew that Vera was in the house, and the smart money would have bet it was she who wished to see me, but Oan had been known to travel with Norm, and I wouldn’t put it past the Author to land her on me here and now. Indeed, He might have gone even further and added a third or fourth betrothed into the mix while I was sleeping.

  “Oh, ah, she wishes to see me straight away, does she?” was the best response I could muster in the circs.

  “She does, sir. And she waits without. Shall I admit her?”

  “Bung her in,” I said, dully.

  And so saying, I straightened myself in bed, adjusted the silk pyjamas, and hoped for the best.

  Chapter 18

  I don’t know if you’ve had the same experience, but I’ve always found that, even if you muse rather freely on a looming crisis in your affairs, anticipating its advent and steeling yourself against whatever vicissitudes it might bring, you can still be fairly gobsmacked when it finally shows up on the horizon, burns through several layers of atmosphere, and comes crashing down upon you. Broadly speaking, that was the state in which I found myself at the time of going to press. A mere paragraph or two earlier I had mooted the possibility that Oan would be the fiancée to whom William referred and that she’d blow into my room and trouble an already troubled mind. And when the door to my bedchamber did open, and Oan did blow in as I had feared, I found that all of my mooting, predicting, and musing hadn’t prepared me in the least. Rather than taking her arrival with suavity, aplomb, or insouciance, possibly flicking a fleck of dust from my pyjama sleeve and letting this Oan’s advent pass over me like the idle wind which I respected not, I reacted as though fate had once again snuck up behind me and administered what I believe is known as a wedgie. Gobsmacked, as I said before. The blood pressure rose, the heartbeat quickened, the palms moistened, the throat dried, and the eyes, had they not been anchored in their sockets, might have ricocheted off the opposing wall.

  Oan didn’t seem to notice these physiological whatnots. She had, upon entry, uttered a passing nicety or two in William’s direction, rushed across the room, and then flung herself into the ornate chair beside my bed, taking my hand in hers.

  Fenny noticed the arrival and emerged from his little nest beneath the sheets, grrnmphing at Oan in a cordial fashion. William, for his part, shimmered off discreetly, leaving what he must have regarded as two long-parted lovebirds to exchange their soft words and get a jump on the tender reunion.

  The very thought of this turned me green.

  “My darling!” said Oan, and I greened more thoroughly than I’d ever greened before.

  “Oh, ah,” I said.

  “I’m so relieved to see you awake,” said Oan, “so very, very relieved. It warms my heart. I did my utmost to hasten your recovery by appealing to the living Universe; focusing all of my energies and attention upon the Laws of Attraction, that they might manifest my desires. Oh, my darling! How I yearned for your revival. I recorded my desires within my book — For Love Alone — allowing the manuscript to serve as a totem of my wishes, like a Vision Board, calling you back to health — back to me — as soon as possible. Oh, how deeply and constantly I worried about you, my darling.”

  I found myself pining for my coma. But remembering that it’s important to be civil, whatever the circs, I babbled a word or two of thanks.

  Oan steamrolled on.

  “What else could I do, knowing that my betrothed, the very Hand of the Intercessor, was lying here, alone, in a coma, unaware of his surroundings, and laid out by his terrible wounds? The regent’s best physicians hadn’t any notion of when you might awaken. So I came to you every day, and every night. I tended to your wounds. I added to For Love Alone while at your side. I kept my silent watch as you slept, knowing all the while that—”

  “You . . . you watched me as I slept?”

  “Of course I did. Has anyone who ever loved done any less?”

  I had to rerun that one through the processor once or twice before it penetrated, and when it did I felt the answer had to be “yes, probably loads of times.” But I didn’t bother mentioning this to Oan. I had noticed — and perhaps you did as well — that the theme of “love” had been wontonly lobbed into the field of conversation numerous times, and I hoped a change of topic might serve as a bit of in-the-bud-ni
pping before the thing had a chance to metastasize and become dashed untreatable.

  “But how are you here at all?” I asked. “When last I checked you were locked up at the People’s Pleasure and doomed to be kept in store until Dr. Peericks certified you as compos mentis. Did Newton turn up and back your claim? Did you do something to convince the hospice staff that your loopiness had subsided and you were now fit for general circulation?”

  “Doctor Peericks agreed to release me to the Order,” said Oan.

  “The order?”

  “Yes, the Order. Capital O. The Church of O,” she said, specifying. “Dr. Peericks agreed to release me to their care at the regent’s request. Or rather, at the request of her court physicians — the regent herself prefers to work behind the scenes. But she has an impressive entourage, one that includes highly regarded mental health professionals. The doctor released me to them for treatment.”

  I corrugated the brow. This didn’t seem right to me at all. I mean to say, the doctor was, unless I’d misread the chump entirely, absolutely besotted with this Oan. He wouldn’t have let her out of his sight for any price, no matter how many highly regarded mental health professionals lined up to assist in jumpstarting the bird’s synapses. This called for further examination. I pressed Oan for details.

  “Dr. Peericks was content to let you leave?”

  “Not at first,” she said. “But the regent seems to have influence with people in positions of power. Several of these intervened with the doctor. They supported my application for release. They cited several conflicts of interest, and claimed I oughtn’t to be treated in a hospice where I held a staff position. This seemed to affect Dr. Peericks rather deeply.”

  “I’ll bet it did,” I said, stroking the chin in a clue-putting-together sort of way. And I’ll tell you why. I had deduced what had transpired in Peericks’s head. On the cue “conflict of interest,” Peericks must have worried that some bureaucratic bimbo would soon sniff out, as I had done, the fact that he had fallen in love with one of his patients. Small wonder, then, that he’d yielded to the request to have Oan’s treatment moved elsewhere. It’s no use risking your medical license to serve as psychiatrist for a person you’d like to wed: some committee of Boss Psychiatrists is apt to strike you from the roster if they find you’re harbouring burning whatdoyoucallits for a person in your care. Let someone else take charge of clearing the bats out of Oan’s belfry, and Peericks would be cleared to woo and win. Yes, that had to be it. It was an ingenious plan. But it did seem to have holes, so I pressed further.