by Maz Evans
‘How kind of you,’ David twinkled. What was he playing at?
‘Now, as you are Wilfred and Audrey’s son, the farm legally belongs to you,’ said Patricia. ‘But I wish to acquire it for my property portfolio. So I was hoping we might come to some kind of arrangement.’
‘I see,’ said David. If any of this was troubling him, he was doing a good job of hiding it. Under other circumstances, Patricia would have admired his nerve.
‘Perhaps I should speak a little more plainly,’ she continued. ‘I have the son you want. You have the house I want. So either you sell me the house, or I’m taking Elliot.’
‘That’s quite an arrangement,’ grinned David, finally pulling himself away from the doorframe and starting to circle the kitchen.
Patricia frowned. She wasn’t used to feeling unsettled.
‘Patricia – I’m flattered,’ David said eventually. ‘All this trouble for me? Faking legal papers? Taking my son? All for this old farmhouse?’
‘I always get what I want,’ said Patricia. ‘And I want this farm.’
‘So I understand,’ said David.
Why was he so calm?
‘So, let me get this straight,’ he mused, still circling Patricia. ‘You have expertly forged papers claiming that Josie appointed you Elliot’s legal guardian?’
‘It doesn’t matter how I acquired them,’ Patricia said calmly. ‘They’re legally binding.’
‘And unless I agree to sell you Home Farm, you’re threatening to take custody of my son?’
‘Quite. I like to keep things simple. Sell me the farm, or lose your son.’
Dave stood as still as a gravestone. Patricia had to give it to him – he was certainly a worthy adversary. She didn’t meet many of those.
Eventually, he walked slowly towards her.
‘But you’ve made a terrible mistake,’ he whispered, up close.
Patricia felt a sudden chill run through her. What had she missed?
‘You assume,’ David continued, ‘that I want either.’
Patricia was dumbstruck.
‘Come again?’ she said.
‘I don’t want either of them,’ repeated Dave. ‘The house or the boy. This place is a dump. And I’ve just got out of prison so why would I want another sentence looking after a kid? You can have both of them. I couldn’t care less.’
‘I-I’m sorry,’ Patricia stammered. ‘Are you saying . . . ?’
‘I am,’ said Dave coldly. ‘Make me an offer. Right here, right now. Frankly, you’d be doing me a favour taking both off my hands.’
‘If you think this is some kind of joke, I can assure you it isn’t funny,’ said Patricia.
‘I never joke,’ Dave glowered. ‘So . . .’
Patricia turned her nose up and sniffed in disdain as she looked around the Hooper family home.
‘Well, of course I’d have to take into consideration the appalling decor, poor condition, dreadful location . . .’
‘I agree,’ said Dave, looking around as if he were stuck inside a dustbin.
Patricia pulled a chequebook from her bag and wrote an insultingly low figure in it. She had to start somewhere – he’d be a fool to take anything less than double.
‘Now I’m not here to negotiate,’ she said, showing him the cheque. ‘This is my best and final offer . . .’
‘Done,’ said Dave, taking the cheque. ‘Where do I sign?’
‘What about the boy?’ said Patricia, handing over a sheaf of papers. ‘What am I supposed to do with him?’
‘Do what you like,’ said Dave, signing the paperwork without a care in the world. ‘Put him in a home. Use him as your manservant. Leave him out with the rubbish. I don’t care. I’m sure you can have some fun.’
Patricia stepped back to survey this new and improved David Hooper.
‘You used to be such an honourable, decent sort,’ she said. ‘I much prefer you now.’
‘Me too,’ smiled Dave, handing the paperwork – and with it his family home and his son – over to Patricia Porshley-Plum. ‘When do you want us out?’
‘Er . . . Th-Thursday?’ stammered Patricia.
‘Let’s say Wednesday,’ said Dave. ‘No sense in dragging it out. Just do me a favour and clear this lot out. I haven’t got time.’
‘It’s a deal,’ said Patricia, straightening her tweed jacket over her perfectly womanly hips. ‘I must say, it’s been a pleasure doing business with you.’
There was a commotion at the front door as the sisters returned from the shops.
‘I’m telling you, it doesn’t matter how much low-fat cooking spray you use, you’ll still have a bum like a rhino,’ the blonde one snapped at her sister. She stopped in her tracks as she spied Patricia.
‘What do you want?’ she spat, stomping over threateningly. ‘Athene . . . !’
‘Get out of this house!’ shouted the dark-haired sister, storming into the room. ‘What is she doing here, Dave?’
‘Oh, nothing,’ said Dave. ‘Just a neighbourly chat. Nothing for you to worry your pretty heads about.’
‘I don’t trust her,’ said Athene, looking squarely at Patricia.
‘Oh, she’s a wrong’un all right,’ smiled Dave. ‘But then, so are some of the most interesting people I’ve known. Excuse me.’
And, with an admiring glance, Patricia watched him walk away without a care in the world.
‘What are you up to?’ said the blonde sister menacingly.
‘You’ll find out soon enough,’ said Patricia, tucking the paperwork back in her bag before turning on her heel. ‘But I hope you didn’t buy too many groceries. I do hate to see good food go to waste . . .’
20. Circe Navigating
‘Hold tight!’ Zeus yelled as Boreas’s angry wind finally ran out of puff, several hours after it had blown The Pearl from the jaws of Charybdis. The good news was that this meant they were no longer flying wildly through the air. The bad . . .
‘We’re going to crash!’ Virgo screamed, clutching her baby gorgon as the ship began to fall through the sky.
‘P-p-plop,’ trembled Gorgy.
Virgo looked at Elliot clinging to the mast.
‘Come over here!’ he shouted, watching the ground come up to meet them. ‘And brace yourself !’
She ran and linked arms with Elliot around the mast. She scanned the sky above them. Hypnos was nowhere to be seen.
‘We’re coming in to land!’ Zeus yelled from the wheel. ‘In three . . . two . . . one . . .’
CRASH!
The Pearl came down to Earth with an earsplitting crunch, pieces of timber and all its passengers flying everywhere. The mighty mast teetered above their heads. If it fell on them, Virgo thought, it would be highly sub-optimal. And painful. She held her breath as it wobbled from one side to the other, like a tall tree being felled. But after a few anxious moments, the mast came to rest, slightly off-centre, but still upright.
‘Is everyone OK?’ Zeus groaned, flat on his back.
‘Great,’ gasped Elliot, winded by the abrupt landing.
‘Plop,’ squeaked Gorgy softly, emerging from a coil of rope. ‘Mama?’
‘She’s here,’ moaned Virgo, pulling pieces of splintered timber from her hair. The baby gorgon bounded towards her and deposited himself in a ball in her lap.
‘Mama,’ he sighed happily as Virgo gently stroked his back.
‘Well, it turns out you aren’t such a snotty little runt after all,’ said Zeus, coming over to chuck Gorgy under the chin. ‘That was some smart thinking there, young gorgon. Thank you.’
‘Yeah,’ said Elliot, rubbing his head. ‘Nice one, Gorgy.’
With a happy grin, the little gorgon leapt from Virgo’s lap and bounced over to Elliot. He held his little green hand up proudly for a high-five.
‘Thanks, little dude,’ said Elliot, returning his high-five with a smile. This made Virgo feel curiously content. Not least because she was clearly correct to have acquired Gorgy as a pet.
‘Plop,’ said Gorgy
happily before returning to Virgo’s lap.
‘Where are we?’ said Elliot, still trying to catch his breath.
Virgo surveyed the horizon. They were in what appeared to be a vast car park – ship park, really. Several roads ran along the perimeter of what was an island, but there was nothing else to see but a complex road system leading to a few twinkling lights in the near distance. The whole place was missing something. Virgo couldn’t quite figure out what.
She looked back at what was left of The Pearl. They wouldn’t be going anywhere in that. By sea or by air.
‘Ah – nothing to worry about,’ said Zeus. ‘Bit of wood glue, a lick of paint, she’ll be as good as new.’
The King of the Gods patted the prow.
‘Elliot – look out!’ Virgo screamed as the mast started to teeter precariously again.
‘You what?’ said Elliot.
The mast began to fall and Elliot was right in its path. Virgo leapt towards him, yanking him out the way just as the mast came crashing down on the spot where he had been standing.
‘Whoa!’ said Elliot. The mast splintered around them, destroying itself and what was left of The Pearl in the process. ‘Er, thanks.’
‘You’re welcome,’ said Virgo. She had been rather brilliant.
‘Hmmmm. Might need quite a lot of glue,’ muttered Zeus.
‘Where are we?’ Elliot asked again. ‘And where’s Hypnos?’
‘Here I am!’ squealed Hypnos, fluttering down from the sky.
‘Where the bally heck did you get to?’ grumbled Zeus.
‘Listen, boss, some of us don’t have your natural sandbags,’ said Hypnos. ‘That wind blew me miles away. But at least I’ve done a recce. Welcome to Circe’s Island! Home of the greatest witch who ever lived.’
‘Witch?’ said Virgo. She had researched enough mortal fairy tales to know that things rarely ended well for children when they encountered witches. She would be on her guard against gingerbread houses.
‘Oh, top-hole!’ said Zeus. ‘Circe’s a game girl – I’m sure she can help us fix up the ship.’
‘Oi – you shouldn’t be parked there!’ shouted a substantial Nereid, pulling up in a small boat with four miniature sea nymphs in the back. ‘That’s a parent and child port. Under-thousand-year-olds only!’ She rounded on the squabbling sea nymphs. ‘Now listen, you lot! If I have to come back there again, so help me, I am going to turn this boat around . . .’
‘Parents,’ muttered Hypnos. ‘Newsflash – no one cares that you had children apart from you . . .’
They walked away from the remains of The Pearl and scanned the horizon.
‘Which way to Circe, I wonder?’ said Zeus.
Elliot pulled out his compass and consulted it.
‘Er . . . that way.’ He pointed towards a patch of twinkling lights in the distance.
‘Come on, then, best foot forward,’ said Zeus.
Virgo put Gorgy on her shoulder, but no sooner had they taken a step along the road than a shabby chariot, pulled by a portly centaur, came screeching up alongside them.
‘Someone call a blübber?’ the centaur asked.
‘Er . . . no, thank you,’ said Zeus. ‘It’s not far. We could all use the leg stretch.’
‘C’mon,’ said the centaur. ‘I’ll take you for five obals.’
‘No, really – it’s fine,’ said Zeus. ‘We’d like to walk.’
‘Three obals!’
‘We will walk, thank you,’ said Zeus tersely.
‘Seven obals!’
‘What?’ said Virgo. ‘That’s sub-optimal neg -otiating.’
‘That’s what I’ll pay you to get in my cab,’ said the centaur.
‘Oh . . . very well, then,’ grumbled Zeus. ‘Come along, kids, hop in.’
The chariot shambled its way along the road, passing the Elementals who lived on the island. Virgo observed that all of them were travelling in some form of vehicle – cars, mopeds, Segways . . .
‘Does no one walk on this island?’ Virgo asked the driver.
‘Why would you?’ said the centaur. ‘Circe made travel so cheap, no one needs to walk any more. Ooh – excuse me – bit peckish . . .’
The chariot drew up alongside a small restaurant with a large golden C revolving in the air above it. The centaur heaved his hairy body out of the harness.
‘Circe’s. Can’t get enough of it. Can I get anyone anything?’ he asked. ‘The Quadruple Bacon Mega-burger makes a great lunchtime snack . . .’
Virgo felt her stomach starting to rumble. It had been a long time since her last meal.
‘Let’s get you two some grub,’ said Zeus, heading towards the window. ‘And see if we can’t get some help.’
‘Welcome to Circe’s – how may I help you today?’ droned a voice down the intercom.
‘Hello, there!’ boomed Zeus amiably. ‘We’ll take two Mega Mount Olympus Meal Deals, please.’
‘Certainly, sir,’ intoned the voice. ‘Will there be anything else?’
‘Yes, actually,’ said Zeus. ‘We’re looking for Circe.’
‘Would you like fries with that?’
‘No, you misunderstand, my good man,’ said Zeus. ‘We just want Circe.’
‘Do you want that Magnum, Maior or Maximus?’
‘No!’ shouted Zeus. ‘Just Circe. On her own.’
‘I see,’ said the voice. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to go Maximus? You’ll get a free refillable cup of Oliveade?’
‘You’re an imbecile!’ shouted the King of the Gods.
‘Thank you and have a nice day,’ said the voice, as two gigantic cardboard Parthenons popped out of the wall.
‘Excellent,’ said Virgo, grabbing a box. ‘I’m starving. Look how much food there is!’
Inside each box were three burgers, two fries, something that once resembled a pie – and a portable electronic device called a ‘Lotus’. Virgo had seen how appealing such screens were to mortal children, but never understood the attraction herself. Wasting hours in front of a device seemed absurd. She would look at it later, purely for research purposes.
They boarded the chariot and tucked into their burgers until they reached a high street up ahead.
‘That’ll be nine obals,’ said the centaur, pulling up outside another branch of Circe’s and handing over the cash.
‘I thought you said seven?’ said Elliot.
‘I wanted to give you a decent tip,’ said the centaur. ‘Have a good day.’
Despite polishing off her entire meal, Virgo found herself looking hungrily back at the burger restaurant. She could squeeze one more in, surely? She got out of the chariot and looked up and down the street. Every other shop was either a fast-food restaurant or a games arcade, whirring with brightly lit larger Lotus machines. Virgo watched a tubby merman blasting zombies with one hand while eating fried chicken with the other. On a neighbouring machine, a small zombie was being shouted at by his mother as he drove a pretend sports car while munching on pizza.
‘I’m telling you!’ the mother zombie screeched. ‘If you spend any more time on these silly computer games, you’re going to turn into a human . . .’
The roads were full of vehicles and parking spaces, with Elementals using any mode of transport to make even the smallest journey. Virgo watched a chubby fairy waddle out of the fried-chicken shack, get on her unicorn and trot to the doughnut shop next door.
‘I CAN’T TALK,’ she yelled down her phone. ‘I’LL GET SIX POINTS FOR USING MY PHONE ON A UNICORN.’
‘Where are the trees?’ said Zeus, feeding Gorgy a handful of fries.
‘That’s it!’ said Virgo, finally realizing what was strange about this place. There was no greenery. No grass, no trees, no parks, no fields. It was just a mass of modern buildings, connected by roads, every centimetre of which was designed to feed you, transport you, or encourage you to pump money into computer games. It was artificial, synthetic and soulless.
‘This is the most awesome place I’ve ever
seen,’ Elliot gasped in wonder.
‘This way to Circe,’ said Hypnos, consulting Odysseus’s compass over Elliot’s shoulder. ‘Let’s head off—’
No sooner had the words left his lips than another chariot sped up to them.
‘Someone call a blübber?’ said a new centaur.
‘Oh, why not,’ sighed Zeus.
‘Er, before we get on, could I use the loo?’ said Virgo, crossing her legs.
‘Plop,’ said Gorgy, crossing his.
‘Sure, toots,’ said Hypnos. ‘According to the compass, there’s a public convenience two minutes walk over—’
‘Someone call a blübber?’ said a third centaur as another chariot screeched up to the kerb.
Circe’s home was a large, modern family house at the top of a concrete hill. The door was opened by a small wooden penate, the knee-high administrative immortals that Elliot recognized from his travels.
‘You’re in luck,’ said the penate. ‘Ms Circe works from home on Mondays. I’ll let her know you’re here.’
‘Um . . . I’ll be with you in a minute,’ said Virgo, sitting down in an armchair with the Lotus device she’d not taken her eyes off since getting in the blübber there. At least it was keeping her quiet.
Elliot desperately hoped that this Circe was going to be able to help them get back on their journey. With no ship, no Chaos Stones and no way of reaching the Afterlife, he felt as if Panacea’s potion was slipping from his grasp.
The penate whizzed through the hallway to guide them to a bright, large modern kitchen. The first thing that struck Elliot was that everything was sparkling new – the cooker, the fridge, the gadgets all along the side. In fact, all the kitchen equipment looked so new it was almost as if none of it had ever been used.
The second thing that struck him was Circe. Everything that Elliot had read about witches had led him to expect an elderly hag, hunched, cackling over a cauldron, with a wart on the end of her nose and magic spells whizzing around the room.
Yet here was Circe, a dark-haired woman no older than his mum, hunched over a laptop, with her phone clamped to her ear. It wasn’t magic whizzing around the room – it was paperwork being darted about by a team of penates. And she wasn’t cackling. She was stressed.
‘Look, I know!’ she cried. She waved to Zeus and gestured that she’d be with him in a minute. ‘But what do you want me to do? The Immortal Health Organization can be as concerned as they like about the fat content in my food. But until a bag of organic carrots is cheaper than my Typhon Twizzlers, people will buy my food every time! Deal with it!’
