Ron was almost doubled up, right hand on a boulder, head down, staring at the turf through watery eyes. In his excitement he had bolted up the hill forgetting that one side of the steering wheel was actually puncturing his lung and he was therefore effectively working on half a tank. When he looked up at Guntrick he was momentarily surprised to see the huge, bearded man suddenly surrounded by his compatriots, looked back to the earth, gulped in air, pulled himself up to his inconsiderable height.
Guntrick looked at the late 20th century man in front of him and then to both sides at the 5th century faces surrounding him, eager with anticipation. He turned back to Ron, whose puce face clashed horribly with the brown schematic of his clothing.
“This might need to be good, Ron.”
Ron adjusted his cap. “Best yet, Guntrick. Escape. Just think. We could be out of here!” The Visigoths looked at each other with disbelief. After all this time, escape! There was a roar, a couple of Germano-Celtic jigs were attempted, the company having some years previously run into a small troupe of Riverdancers wiped out in a freak stage collapse, and somehow assimilated the thrusting, toe-tapping dance technique. Guntrick raised his arms and the crowd obediently quietened down.
“How would we do that?” Guntrick asked. His fellow Visigoths looked at each other and then nodded the question back to Ron, who stood aside to usher in a tall saturnine man in a military uniform. The man quietly stepped forward and surveyed the assembly.
“This,” said Ron, pausing for dramatic effect, “is Wing Commander Staveley-Down of the Royal Air Force. He is our passport out of here.”
The grubby, stinking, rabble stared with reverence at the figure before them. His military uniform, a little shabby but perfectly maintained, pips brightening the chest pocket, spoke to them of authority and class. Were it not for the animal skin he wore over his tunic, he could have stepped out of a recruitment poster. Indeed, were it not for the massive oozing hole in the back of his head, you would have believed him alive. Guntrick’s face curled into a vicious snarl, and he slowly raised his huge hand and pointed at the new arrival as the others stared.
“That’s my coat.” he said.
The Visigoths began to reach for long unused weaponry.
“Indeed,” said Staveley-Down. ‘it may have been, but no more. You, I understand, lost it to Ron. I won it from him in a game of scissors, rock, and paper. That’s the way of the world.”
Adwahl, feeling that as second in command he should support Guntrick, stepped forward, ready to express the seething anger of his countrymen.
“Ron!” he yelled, looking at their companion with eyes deadened by feelings of betrayal, “You never taught us scissors, rock, and paper!”
Ron looked a little sheepish. “I thought about it early on, but since you didn’t understand two of the three elements, I thought it might be too complicated. Paper, for example. It’s a difficult concept.”
“Is it like muslin,” asked Adwahl, whose love for cookery was beginning to really worry his mates, “which can be used to strain either fats or juices to create a clear residue?”
“Or an ‘o’ ring?” said one of the others, “Which failed and caused the space shuttle Challenger to crash?”
“What’s a space shuttle?” asked Staveley-Down
The Visigoths fell apart, rolling around and slapping their thighs with cries of ‘He’s never heard of a space shuttle!’; ‘Where’s he from, Mars?’, and the like. Staveley-Down, more used to a degree of instant respect, which admittedly had been somewhat undermined over the previous 60 years or so, was crestfallen. Then with the certainty of breeding, he pulled himself to his full height, adjusted Guntrick’s catskin coat, and barked, “ENOUGH”. The response from the Germans was instantaneous; the centuries had not for them dimmed the recognition of authority. The giggling and banter stopped, they sat back and stared at him. Guntrick, who had found that recently, and unsurprisingly, his people were not quite so fast to obey as they had been in life, looked up with renewed interest.
Ron decided to try to move things along. “The Wing Commander is an expert in escape. He was in Colditz.” He folded his arms across his nylon jacket and smirked at the crowd as if they would have the vaguest conception of what he was talking about. The Wing Commander took in the blank looks and decided to further enhance the information.
“I had 2 years in the foul castle under the filthy heel of the Hun.”
A general hubbub arose. Guntrick raised a hand.
“We’re Hun.” he said, coldly.
Staveley-Down glanced nervously at Ron, who mirrored his look.
“Very early Hun, though,” said Ron, “you can’t blame the great-great-great whatever grandparents for the sins of the great-great…-er well, you get the idea.”
“Even so,” Adwahl interjected, “it’s a monstrous racial slur. I don’t think we should go any further until we have an apology.”
“You’ll get no apology from me.” said the Wing Commander, jaw set firmly.
“Which means none of us will escape.” Said Ron.
The Visigoths quietened, looked at each other. Finally they went into a huddle, and after much grunting re-emerged.
“We’re okay with the slur,” said Adwahl, “but would prefer it not to be repeated.”
“Excellent.” Ron rubbed his hands together, “The Wing Commander here made several escape attempts from the castle at Colditz. He thinks he’s found us all a way out of here. Wing Commander?”
“Thank you Ron. One of the ways we got people out of Colditz, under the very gaze of the cabbage-eating-“ Ron coughed. The Wing Commander looked at him and then realised the purpose of the interjection. “Er, our captors, was to dig tunnels.”
“Tunnels?”
“Tunnels. Kept everyone fit, created camaraderie amongst the working class whilst the officers got on with forgery and scrounging coffee, and ultimately gave us a way out.”
“You want us to dig tunnels?” said Guntrick, visibly angry, “Do we look like farmers? We’re warriors. We will not dig!”
“No need.” said the Wing Commander, with a small smile, “They are already here.”
There was a stunned silence, during which Ron took the opportunity to smile knowingly at the assembled company, as though he had invented nuclear fusion using only the middle of a toilet roll and some paste made from flour and water.
“What do you mean already here?” said Guntrick
“They don’t look like tunnels; they aren’t great big open holes. But I know tunnels when I see them. We hid them under toilets, beds, floors. Whoever runs this place has done something similar. You won’t spot them, but they are tunnels. And they are our way out of here.”
The Visigoths leapt into the air, embraced each other, and began to dance their traditional dances, with just a hint of Galway. The Wing Commander, vigorously embraced, slapped on the back, and applauded, simply took his bows and retained his superior air.
Guntrick beckoned to Ron, who drew closer amidst the noise.
“Ron,” said Guntrick, looking troubled, “We’ve been here for many, many years. If we escaped, where would we go?”
CHAPTER 4
The party was in full swing, and Marcel was schmoozing his way around the room with the practised ease of an experienced libertine. He held in his hand a glass containing a foul-smelling liquid which, when sipped, made him feel as if a corkscrew was being slowly inserted into his brain. It had come from the same bowl as the wonderful fruit punch served to a radiant vestal virgin immediately prior to Marcel’s own request for refreshment. Whilst she sipped, smiled and smacked her lips, he tasted a mixture of horseradish, battery acid, and burnt dog. He knew that even if they exchanged glasses both would get the taste and effect they deserved, and the taste of his just dessert was vile. This knowledge made him forgo the banquet which was fallen upon with glee by those present who, after all, had mostly been good.
In his own opinion, which rarely deviated, he looked fantastic. His
dark eyes were closed behind wraparound shades, and the bespoke sharkskin suit accentuated the development of his upper body. He was particularly proud of the newly acquired gleaming Ermenegildo Zegna calfskin slip-ons he had removed from the feet of a drunken demi-god who had passed out in the toilets. He heard a burst of laughter from the corner of the room, and curiosity aroused, wandered across to a small group of men. They were leering with some lasciviousness at a woman who, affected by copious quantities of punch, was dancing to the music from the Mariachi band on the stage. She heard something he didn’t, because to him it sounded like several cats being impaled upon flaming skewers. As he joined the group, she looked up and proffered what she clearly thought was an alluring smile.
“My,” she said, in a husky voice, “aren’t you the handsome one?”
“I tend to think so, yes.” Said Marcel. The men who had been surrounding the woman looked at him with distaste.
“Aphrodite, he’s from down below.” said one.
“O well darling,” she slurred, supporting herself on a large palm tree, “there’s nothing wrong with a man with a bit of devilment in him.”
Marcel allowed himself a self-satisfied smile as the others took the hump and began to melt away in search of other entertainment. The smile was not, however, much to do with the source of the compliment. Marcel had never really got the ‘Aphrodite as Goddess of Love’ thing. Whilst it was true that images of beauty had undoubtedly changed over the ages, he hadn’t yet happened upon an era in which Aphrodite’s particular look represented the taste of the day. He worked on the basis that her position as representative of amorous pursuits had to be based upon availability rather than attractiveness. Now he looked at her, leering at him and revealing thereby teeth of many colours, took a deep breath (which suggested one of the colours was rot), and made his play.
Geoffrey was tapping away at the computer when Marcel bounced back into the Afternet Control Room, so clearly pleased with himself that Heaven’s representative made a silent vow not to ask what had caused such glee.
“How’s it going?” Marcel removed Geoffrey’s coat from the hanger on the hat-stand, threw it on the floor, and replaced it with his suit jacket.
Geoffrey surveyed the grubby green parka now screwed up in the corner, gave Marcel what he thought might be a vicious look, and pointed back to the screen in front of him.
“I’ve been cracking on with the babies. Made some progress, actually, using the assumption that Original Sin is a nineteenth century construct, and have managed to clear a lot of the sixteen hundreds.”
“Not sure how they will like that. They’ll be overrun. You’re turning Heaven into a crèche.”
“O come on. Everyone loves little children, don’t they? Even you?”
“Depends whether they are boiled or fried. Anyway, listen. I think I might have made a breakthrough”. Marcel sat in his chair and twirled it with renewed vigour. “I had a word with Aphrodite.”
“That old bag? I never got her, you know. Surely the Goddess of Love shouldn’t look like she’s just lost a title fight for the Heavyweight Championship. I reckon she’s been hitting the Nectar too hard for centuries. What possible help can she be?”
“She’s a Goddess! She can get her people to speak to other people’s people. I told her about our problem and that we need someone to help us to fix the system. She said she’d help.”
“Oh yeah,” said Geoffrey, “like she ever does anything for nothing.” Marcel cocked his head and looked at his companion, who at first met his gaze with an aggressive glare and then turned away and began purposelessly sifting through a sheaf of papers on his desk, which he had left there whilst watching on TV the Coronation of Elizabeth II. The chances of his finding anything with any relevance to their current situation, or more particularly their discussion, were less than zero.
“You’re still miffed I didn’t take you to the party, aren’t you?” Geoffrey looked back at Marcel with a jerk.
“No, I am not. I don’t expect you to have any decent behaviour in you and I don’t want to spend the time talking to some drunken ancient woman who thinks she’s God’s gift to men.”
“She is, strictly speaking.”
“Well then He should choose more appropriate gifts, is all I can say.”
“Ah! I get it! You’ve been watching ‘Bewitched’ again, haven’t you?” Geoffrey looked up sharply and Marcel knew he had found the real cause of his workmate’s grumpiness. The man, looking twice his thirty or so years (any years the new teeth had taken off him had been added right back by the appalling knitwear he had taken to sporting), took on a sheepish look, and glared at the video screens behind him. Finally he threw the papers back onto the desk.
“Ok. I have. But it’s not fair, Marcel, she’s wasting herself on him. He’s always in trouble, with his silly pointy nose. What can she possibly see in him?”
Marcel sighed. “I told you, it’s not real, Geoffrey. It’s a television programme. I know the idea of moving pictures didn’t figure when you were pulling turnips or whatever, but it does now. It’s a made up thing.”
“O yes, well you always say that. You said the same thing about Das Boot, but we had to process all of those people who sailed in ships under the sea.”
“They were from ‘Ein’ Boot, not ‘Das’ Boot. How many real twentieth century witches have we processed?”
“Well, that’s open to debate, actually. There could be hundreds of them out there. Anyway, you’ve just started this to get us away from the point. Which is that Aphrodite wouldn’t have promised to help unless there was something in it for her.” It was Marcel’s turn to look shifty. He even resorted to picking up the same sheaf of papers Geoffrey had been holding, but when he noted how filthy they were, quickly dropped them back to the desk.
“O, alright. I just promised to take her out on a date. I don’t think she’s getting much action since blokes started to prefer women with hair in only a couple of places.”
Geoffrey snorted. “A date? You’ve got a date? Oh, are you in trouble!”
Marcel threw his arms wide. “I’m dead, I’m cursed with eternal torment. I spend hundreds of years with you. How could things get worse? Besides, she was well on the way to oblivion. I made sure she sent a message about the Afternet, and then gave her some more drinks and left when she was being sick in some centurion’s helmet. Or on it, I don’t entirely recall.”
“Who did she send a message to?”
“No idea.” said Marcel.
The enormous crash at the back of the office caused both Geoffrey and Marcel to leap headlong underneath the desk. The door had exploded off its hinges and now apparently propelled itself at speed across the floor space, still upright, until it crashed into the wall in the corner. Books, desk ‘organisers’ (of which there were many), teetering columns of paper collapsed on top of it, and palls of dust filled the air.
“Jesus!” Geoffrey stared at Marcel, petrified.
“I doubt it,” Said Marcel, “I would guess he arrives in a slightly calmer manner.” The clattering had stopped, the plume of filth accrued over centuries began to drift back towards the lowest attainable point. Marcel dragged himself from his crash position and stood, looking with some horror at the state of his suit, which was covered with ancient flecks of skin, and more worryingly, rent asunder in the buttock area.
Geoffrey was also pulling himself from the crouch he had adopted, when the sound of groaning emerged from beneath the door in the corner. With a glance at each other they realised that this was not a spontaneous collapse, and that they were no longer alone. They stood and watched as the wreckage was slowly pushed aside, a task made more difficult by the complete Twenty-Four volumes of Encyclopaedia Mortis that had fallen on top of it. Dust rose again, slowly clearing to reveal a supine figure clad in a now filthy smock, set off with a golden belt, his hair, protruding from a winged golden cap, was yellow with added highlights of filth. On his feet he wore a pair of huge trainers with three gol
den stripes, and at the rear a pair of wings, which fluttered weakly. The figure began to haul itself to its feet.
“Bugger me,” said Marcel, looking on with some surprise, “it’s Herpes!”
“Hermes!” groaned the new arrival, pulling himself fully upright and leaning against the wall with arm outstretched, visibly winded.
“Whatever.” said Marcel.
Geoffrey, to Marcel’s clearly displayed disgust, took on an almost Uriah Heep-ian stoop and simpered towards the distressed heavenly body gasping and hacking in the corner of the office.
“Welcome! Welcome, O Hermes to our humble workspace.” Hermes coughed and looked around, kicked away some debris with his foot.
“What a dump. Are you seriously telling me that the entire process of admissions to Heaven and Hell is run from this khazi?”
“It may be a khazi,” Geoffrey was still bowing and had now taken on an obsessive rubbing together of his hands, much to Marcel’s unconcealed distaste, “but we are grateful for the small kindnesses of the Gods in granting us such a toilet to work in. Of our own I mean. I think.”
Both Marcel and Hermes looked at Geoffrey as if he were a gibbering peasant, which of course, to all intents and purposes, he was. After a moment, Hermes shook some of the detritus from his clothing, and adjusted his winged cap.
“Anyway. Sorry about the entrance. Getting used to these new shoes.” He lifted a foot and waggled it about to make sure that they saw the impressive air filled footwear. “What do you think? Godidas. Latest design. Can’t wait to get Neptune on the squash court; he can flood it as much as he likes now I’ve got these puppies. They float.”
“Very interesting.” Marcel’s tone indicated that passing the time of day with a minor deity was of no matter to him. “We really must be getting on with some important work. Did you have a message, or something? Being a messenger and all.”
“I did. Do. Just need to remember what it was.” Hermes closed his eyes and racked his brains as Marcel and Geoffrey watched. Eventually, his eyes sprung open.
The Complete Afternet: All 3 Volumes In One Place (The Afternet) Page 4
