Angel City

by Mike Ripley

  The thought struck me that if Tigger was in monster gear (and the people I’d seen so far were the paying punters, so God knew what the monsters looked like), he might recognise me before I spotted him. My problem was I was badly underdressed.

  I looked in the glove compartment, where I stash things as and when I can be bothered. I found an ageing packet of Piccadilly No. 1 cigarettes and a Zippo lighter (repro, but good repro) and something I had just thought of, the single black nylon stocking. I smiled as I suddenly remembered the circumstances that had led to it getting there in the first place, then frowned as I remembered the reasons why it was impossible to return it to its owner. Still, one woman’s loss was my gain.

  I lit a cigarette with the Zippo and took a deep draw, revelling in the political incorrectness of it. Then I pulled the stocking taut over my left fist and took a guess at where two eye-holes should go. I blew on the tip of the cigarette and dabbed two holes, enlarging them with my finger. I measured it up against my face and it seemed to fit, so I dropped the Zippo into the toe of the stocking and tied a knot to keep it there, then pulled the stocking over my head. In Armstrong’s wing mirror, I looked like a pigtailed bank robber.

  I thought it wasn’t bad for on-the-spot improvisation, or at least I did until I tried to smoke the rest of the cigarette. If nothing else I had discovered another good way of giving up: try inhaling through an old black 15-denier. Filter tips? Who needs ‘em?

  ‘I’m ready,’ came a voice from the other side of the cab.

  I don’t know which of us was the more surprised.

  Facing each other over the bonnet, there was I, my features distorted modelling ski masks for serial killers.

  But on the other side was Mr Goodson in a full length crimson cloak covered in runic letters. His face was streaked with green and black face-paint zigzags, and around his neck was an amulet that on closer inspection was a life-size metal frog, the sort you can buy in garden shops to enhance your garden pond. On his head, adding two feet to his height, was a coned wizard’s hat, obviously hand-stitched from patches of black leather with loving care. So that’s what he did at weekends.

  ‘Er ... fine,’ I mumbled through the stocking.

  ‘I see you’re getting into the spirit of things.’ He smiled, genuinely pleased.

  ‘Yeah. Let’s go to work, shall we?’

  On the way into the caves there was a sign saying: ‘Real World Currency does NOT exist Beyond the Armoury’. Underneath that was an exchange rate should you wish to buy anything in the Nether World, where everything was given as equivalent ducats or doubloons. If I had had a stockbroker I would have rung him and told him that in Nether World the Deutschmark was having a bitch of a time against the doubloon.

  The actual entrance to the caves was a long slope down into the dark, starting off as grass then moving through gravel to the smooth, dry rock. They had spaced the lights out at increasing intervals so that your eyes got used to the gloom. Either that or they were really cutting back on the electricity bills.

  The first barrier was a trestle table behind which sat a huge, bearded guy with forearms the like of which I hadn’t seen outside a butcher’s. He was wearing a Mettallica T-shirt and looked like a hundred other roadies I knew who had lived too long on fried food. Mr Goodson told me, with some reverence, that he was the Gatekeeper.

  Whatever other qualities he had, the Gatekeeper needed a calculator to work out two tickets at £12 each. Then, when Mr Goodson showed him a card, he made a great play of stamping it with a wizened bit of inky rubber and said, ‘Welcome, Grand Vizier.’

  ‘My friend is a novice,’ said Mr Goodson, and I gave him a killer look from behind my stocking mask.

  ‘Then you’ll need a game card,’ said the Gatekeeper.

  He produced a Filofax from below the table and found a blank one between the pages. It took him a while to find a pen, and then he wrote ‘Initiate’ on the cover, folded the card to the size of a European driving licence and began to hand it over.

  ‘Follow the signs for Level One. Someone will explain the weapons and damage system. Keep your card with you during the game. Oh, wait, you need a game name and a Character Alignment.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Alignment,’ he said wearily. ‘Are you Lawful or Chaotic?’

  ‘Lawful, every time. Yes, put me down for some of that.’

  ‘And Character?’

  I hesitated as I always do over trick questions. Mr Goodson helped me out.

  ‘You can’t be a Wizard on your first game, so you must choose one of the other Character classes.’

  ‘Which are?’

  ‘Warrior – they do most of the fighting.’

  ‘Not me, I think.’

  ‘Priest – they’re usually in the thick of the fighting, casting spells.’

  ‘Perhaps something quieter?’

  ‘Archer? Scout? Pathfinder? Caveman? They’re usually regarded as expendable.’

  ‘Anything sort of further back towards the rear?’

  ‘Warrior Priest? They actually do most of the healing and can heal their own wounds too, with simple spells.’

  ‘Warrior Priest, eh? A sort of aggressive clergyman – but mildly aggressive? Yeah, I could go for that.’

  ‘Fine,’ said the Gatekeeper heavily. ‘Warrior Priest it is. And what’s your game name?’

  ‘BBW,’ I said. ‘Just the initials. Is that okay?’

  ‘Call yourself BMW for all I care,’ said the Gatekeeper, which I thought was no way to talk to a man of the cloth.

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘Roll call for Quest Four,’ said the Game Guide, producing a small notepad from the folds of his robes. ‘Grand Vizier, Pan, Heartbreaker, Skullsplitter – thought that was a beer – Ug, Bindweed, Bog Myrtle – looks like we’ve got the Greens in today – Simeon, BBW – is that right? – Canticle – oh, hello there, Kirstie, didn’t recognise you for the minute, when did you have the hair blued? – Athelstan and Doric. All here? Good. Any Novitiates?’

  Nobody moved. Mr Goodson nudged me in the ribs and mouthed ‘You’ at me.

  ‘No, I don’t do drugs,’ I whispered.

  ‘Anyone not played before?’ asked the Game Guide in a sarcastic drawl which his parents had paid dearly for through a private education.

  ‘Sorry, me,’ I said, stepping forward.

  He gave me the once over, stocking mask and all, and I could almost hear him thinking. He shook his head resignedly and yelled: ‘Armourer!’

  A straight-looking guy in Levis and a commando pullover appeared from round the corner of the tunnel in which we were lined up. He was carrying an armful of plastic weapons ranging from clubs and swords to battle-axes and the scimitar-style sword with the nick in the blade, which I know is called a seax because I play Trivial Pursuit for money.

  ‘Come with me.’ He jerked his head and I followed him around the tunnel.

  He dropped his bundle of weapons on the rock floor near the wall of the cave, which was now as smooth as marble and icy to the touch.

  ‘Character?’

  ‘Warrior Priest,’ I answered proudly.

  ‘Then you shouldn’t see the thick of the action, but you have a duty to defend yourself.’ He sized me up. ‘Going to wear armour?’

  ‘Hadn’t thought about it,’ I said honestly.

  ‘Best you don’t. The Ghouls might mistake you for a Warrior. The Vampires are best dealt with by spells and you’re lucky, you have a Grand Vizier on your quest. But you’ll need something for the Zombies and the Skeletons. Sword or club?’

  ‘I’m more of a sword person.’

  He looked me over for tell-tale signs of not taking this seriously, but fortunately I had the mask on.

  ‘Now I have to say this, I only hope you listen.’ He picked up a plastic sword and wielded it violently against the wa
ll of the cave. I flinched. ‘There. It might be plastic, but it can still hurt. So you have to pull your strokes, always. If you hit something and it howls, that’s acting. If it screams, you’re getting carried away.’

  ‘What if it doesn’t say anything?’

  ‘Then you’re probably hitting the wall. If you are struck on the extremities, arms or legs, you can continue to fight, but body and head wounds require assistance from a spellbinder. You’re a Warrior Priest, though, right?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Then you can heal yourself as well as others. Do you know the spell of healing?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘“I abjure thee vile spirit and bid you gone from these mortal places, binding and rebinding flesh to whole again.” It’s a bit of a mouthful, so try it.’

  I did.

  ‘Not bad,’ said the Armourer, ‘but it’s “vile” spirit, not “blithe”.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Now get back to your quest group. The Game Guide will be issuing the challenge.’

  ‘Can I just ask one thing?’ He nodded as he bent to pick up the spare weaponry. ‘I was due to meet a mate of mine after the ... the ... afterwards. He’s monstering I think. Where would he be?’

  ‘In place, waiting to ambush you. You’ll probably run into him. We’ve only got four monsters on this afternoon, so they’re working double quests. It’s like double shifts.’

  I wondered if they had a union.

  ‘Thanks. My mate is called Tigger. Is he on today?’

  ‘Chopsy little git, can’t stand still?’

  ‘Got him in one.’

  ‘Yeah, he’s around somewhere. He’ll probably find you before you find him.’

  ‘I was afraid of that.’

  I picked up the plastic sword he had selected for me and, resting the blade on my shoulder, rejoined my group.

  The Game Guide was dressed like a monk except instead of sandals he wore Travel Fox trainers that had reflectors built into the heels. I supposed they came in useful down in Nether World. He pulled up the cowl of his robe and addressed us.

  ‘You are a gathering of mercenaries all returned from various wars and here’ – he waved his arms – ‘in this tavern at a crossroads by chance. You are wary of each other at first but you have one thing in common. You all seek further action. I am a traveller who comes to this tavern and I have gold enough for drink and meat.’

  He waved his arms again and the group arranged themselves as if around a large rectangular table, crouching or sitting on the cold rock floor. I clocked them for the first time. Mr Goodson (sorry, Grand Vizier) was way the oldest, and I had a nasty feeling I was close on being the next.

  Pan, Skullsplitter, Athelstan and Simeon were obviously Warriors and raring to go. They were miming drinking beer by the stone jug better than the average Glasgow pub crowd on a Friday night. Ug was a caveman – the club and fur leotard gave that away. God knows what the rest were. Canticle was the only obvious female, but then the light was bad.

  One of them offered to ‘fill my bowl’, which would have led to a fight in some of the places I go, but I played along. We must have looked like a dress rehearsal for The Student Prince (with a director on speed) from a distance.

  ‘You have refreshed yourself enough!’ announced the Game Guide, which I thought was a bit rich as I was still on my first pint.

  ‘Now you must decide. Is it to be a Quest? Or must I hire your services as bodyguards for my Adventure?’

  There was some dissension in the ranks here, but it was fairly half-hearted. Dammit, they’d paid for a Quest and they were going to get one.

  ‘What’s the difference?’ I hissed at the Grand Vizier.

  ‘A Quest means there will be treasure hidden along the way and we can share in the profits,’ said Mr Goodson out loud.

  ‘Then we get adventure and profit!’ shouted one of the Warriors; Simeon, I think. They all looked alike after a few stone jugs of ale.

  ‘We are agreed?’ asked one of the Warriors; Skullsplitter maybe. He brandished a home-made double-headed battleaxe and put on a ferocious expression that almost took my mind off his acne.

  ‘Agreed,’ we all muttered, nobody wanting to argue with a skin condition like that.

  ‘Then the journey will be long and hard with many dangers,’ said the Game Guide.

  ‘Many dangers,’ muttered Bindweed and Bog Myrtle in unison.

  ‘There is a Princess held in the depths of Nether World by the spells of the Undead, who have combined forces to denude her of her powers and her treasure.’

  ‘Her treasure,’ said two or three of them in chorus.

  ‘Denude her,’ I said, too late and too loud. They glared at me.

  ‘Along the way we fight for and reclaim her three magic torcs,’ the Game Guide went on. He was getting into his stride now.

  ‘Three torcs,’ came the echo. They were lapping it up.

  ‘With all three, the Vampires guarding her will be powerless to resist us. With less than three, we will have to fight for her.’

  ‘Fight for her.’ They were on their feet at this.

  ‘Then follow me! The Quest begins!’

  ‘The Quest!’ they cheered.

  ‘No chance of one for the road?’ I asked, looking down at my imaginary ale. But I was talking to myself and had to jog to catch them up.

  The first ambush caught us about 500 yards into the tunnel complex, not that I knew much about it. The Game Guide and one or two others had small pencil torches, which they shone at the roof so there was virtually total darkness ahead and underfoot. Suddenly there were two characters wearing what felt and smelled like old sacks in among us, waving their arms around like windmills.

  Utter confusion reigned among our gallant band of mercenaries. The Grand Vizier shouted for his spell-pouch, which he had dropped. (‘Stolen by elves!’ somebody yelled. ‘No, I really have dropped it,’ said Mr Goodson.) Skullsplitter yelled for more room in which to swing his broadsword; at least we assumed he meant his broadsword. Canticle screamed and screamed, and Simeon staggered back into me clutching his arm and moaning something about being wounded to the quick by a venom-coated blade.

  It appeared from the way he was clinging to me that he wanted me to do something about it.

  ‘Go on, then, heal me.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘You’re a Warrior Priest aren’t you? Say the spell of healing.’

  I did my best, but he got up and walked off in disgust, muttering that he would just have to lose life-force and, anyway, it was ‘vile spirit’ I was supposed to say.

  The panic subsided and the Ghouls or Zombies or whatever they had been disappeared. The Game Guide put his torch on full, aimed at a section of the wall and yelled: ‘Time Out.’

  If I was expecting a cup of tea and biscuits I was way out of line. A Time Out involved standing in a line against the cave wall as the Game Guide produced his notebook. While he was doing this, I screwed up my eyes and tried to work out where the entrance to the caves lay, and I realised I hadn’t a clue. We had taken so many turns that I was totally disorientated. I seemed to be the only one who minded.

  ‘Well, my fine band of mercenaries, that was a shambles, wasn’t it? We’ll now do a life-force reckoning, and you must be honest. Remember, I witnessed the swath those Skeletons cut through you. I’m working on a 50 per cent damage ratio. First off, though, any fatalities?’

  Now there was a daft question, but I half expected it to get an answer.

  ‘Very well, I’ll let that one pass,’ he said. ‘Now, sound off. Skullsplitter?’

  ‘No hits, one Skeleton kill.’

  ‘Nice try,’ said the Game Guide. ‘I’ll give you the no hits. Athelstan?’

  ‘Non-venomous wound to left side body part, healed by Grand Vizier.’

 
‘Good. One tenth magic potency reduction to Grand Vizier. Bog Myrtle?’

  And so he went on down the line until even I got the general idea.

  ‘BBC? Sorry, BBW. Is that right?’

  ‘Yes. No hits, no spells.’

  ‘Not too impressive for a Warrior Priest, is it?’ he smirked before he went on to Bindweed. What did he want? Blood?

  When he had finished his list, he put the notebook away and shone his pencil torch up under his chin.

  ‘Now listen. This company of Warriors has reached only the edge of the Dark One’s sphere of power. From here on we will face greater dangers as our foes grow stronger. They will tempt us with false clues and send stronger opponents. We must be on our guard. Is the company ready to proceed?’

  The Mild Bunch muttered that it was and then Ug, the caveman character, stepped forward and pointed at his chest then towards the dark tunnel ahead.

  ‘Ug, Ug, Ug,’ he said.

  ‘Brave lowlife,’ said the Game Guide, ‘the honour is yours.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ I whispered to Canticle, whom I had decided to stay behind in case she fell.

  ‘Ug is volunteering to scout ahead of the company,’ she enthused, almost dewy-eyed with hero-worship.

  ‘Why doesn’t he say so?’ I had to ask.

  ‘Cavemen are only allowed one line of dialogue.’

  Of course. Silly me.

  Fifty yards further in, or it could have been a hundred, it was getting impossible to tell, we came across our next challenge. I was only surprised that no-one had said, ‘It’s quiet; too quiet.’

  Three planks of wood about six feet long were laid out on the floor. Beyond them was a semi-circular cave carved out of the main tunnel, and this was lit by two red-filtered lanterns. Chained to the far wall was a woman old enough to know better in a white shroud, her head bent on to her chest and one of the worst-fitting long black wigs I had ever seen cascading hair almost to the floor. In front of her, carrying plastic swords, were two more monsters, covered from head to toe in black sacking and moaning the way football fans do at referees.

  Ug, our kamikaze caveman, strode on to the planks of wood and, yelling his one line of dialogue, offered battle to the Zombies.