Staveley-Down pumped his hand in the air as he took on the air of a preacher, the crowd silenced as he spat out his tirade, which after all wasn’t exactly complimentary towards them. When he stopped, the assembled group looked at him in silence. Finally, the same voice as before rang out.
“Like I said. Woss wrong with it?”
CHAPTER 12
The route taken by Marcel, Geoffrey, Mary and Justin was somewhat less arduous than that of Ron and his crew, largely because they were privy to inside information on travelling the multi-layered world of the Afternet. When they left the control room and walked down a grubby corridor, fluorescent lights either out or flickering madly, Justin gave Mary a look.
“What a dump.”
“O I don’t know,’ she said as they hurried behind their guides, “ a lick of paint, some soft furnishings…no, you’re right. It would still be a dump.”
“If you don’t mind me asking,” Justin wasn’t entirely sure he had ever used these words before, least of all to a woman, “ if you’re going back, why are you coming with us now?”
“Well, bit of an adventure, I suppose. Not every day you get to walk the corridors of the Afterlife with two long-dead characters.”
“Will be for me.”
“Ah. Yes. Sorry.”
“Here we are.” Geoffrey stopped and turned to them as Marcel entered a code into a keypad on one of the doors punctuating the length of the corridor, which stretched before them apparently to infinity.
Marcel opened the door and paused. A thin light cast upon the floor of the corridor and there were distant barely discernible sounds of life.
“Listen,” he said, staring at Mary and Justin. “ When we get in there, stay close, don’t look anyone in the eye, try not to say too much.”
“Why? What would happen?”
“This is one of the nastier places around here. Some of the characters are, well, they are in the continuum between bastards and utter bastards. If you’re not careful you can get killed.”
Justin snorted. “So what? I’m dead already.”
“I’m not.” They turned to look at Mary. “What happens to me?” She said.
“ Actually, we don’t really know.” Geoffrey looked at her with some concern. “We haven’t really had anyone get this far before. We get the odd few who float around the room and watch themselves having their chest electrified, but in general that’s as far as it goes. Best not to take any risks, just look at the floor and say sorry at regular intervals.”
“Sounds like Harrods’ sale”.
“Come on, “ Justin ushered them through the door, “we need to get moving.”
They walked into a smaller corridor which sloped away from them, at its far end a weak light; as they walked along the low hubbub from the other end of the corridor rose to meet them. When they emerged, the scene that greeted them caused Mary and Justin to turn to each other in amazement.
They were on a cobbled dockside, bereft of ships, but with grimy water lapping against the walls, a thin grey scum crowning the ebb and flow. The pathway was dimly lit by lamps of varying degrees of poor candlepower and people milled along its length, displaying in many cases the visible causes of their demise. The air was thick with threat, and as if to reinforce the atmosphere a fight broke out a few yards away, swinging pulping punches, flashes of blades, screams and yells.
Marcel shepherded them away from the rumble, but the walk did little to diminish the sense of menace in Justin and Mary. Loud music burst from a building behind them, along with the sound of shattering glass and wood, yelling from an alleyway, dull thuds of something dropping from a height. But the most shocking facet for the visitors was the people. Hundreds of them, many scarred and patched with gore, some apparently unharmed, but almost without exception it would have been no surprise to see the word ‘CUT-THROAT’ tattooed across their foreheads.
Mary shuddered, tucked in tight behind Marcel and Geoffrey, who were hastening along in the lee of the dockside buildings. Justin followed behind, his head swivelling furiously to take in the panorama of deceased humanity which even to him looked a touch on the venal side. The Afternet operators roughly pushed aside anyone who came too close, and the foursome were making rapid progress until they came to the back of a crowd which jammed the wide cobbled roadway between the buildings and the water.
“Get on wiv it!” a one-eyed hulk on the periphery of the crowd yelled.
They stopped and stood on tiptoe to see the subject of the cry. At the front, a thin man with an RAF uniform and a hole in his head looked out over the assembly, momentarily silent. He was standing on something to raise him above the crowd; flanking him were some huge bearded types who were almost certainly not standing on anything, and therefore very large, and doubly terrifying. All four of them instantly recognised the Visigoths they had seen on the screen earlier and which had jolted Marcel and Geoffrey into their most urgent activity for several decades.
“What the hell are they doing here?” Marcel turned to Geoffrey.
“Beats me.” The older man admitted. At that moment, the figure at the front began to speak.
“Is this what you worked for all your lives? To wander eternally, to be murdered again and again in this hell-hole? You had a contract with your Gods, that your life would be rewarded. We know that there are places here where you can live out your Afterlife, with sunshine, fields, and, er… stuff.”
“O Yeah? And how do you know that?” A threatening murmur of disbelief rose from the crowd.
“Because we’ve been there.”
“O Shit. We need to get moving.”
Marcel looked at Geoffrey and began to push his way around the edges of the crowd. Mary and Justin stayed right behind, taking the malevolent looks, until finally the group broke through at the front. The Visigoths looked at them with some surprise, not least because they appeared completely immune to the effect they usually had on smaller, less hairy, less murderous people.
When Marcel tried to pass through their ranks, however, they simply looked at each other and moved closer together.
Marcel sighed. “Get out of my way.”
He looked Franzel straight in the face. The Visigoth, who hadn’t made a decision even in his lifetime, peered around for Guntrick for guidance. Mary and Justin, pleased to escape the scrum, were surprised to see behind the Germanic giants a small man in a nylon jacket and flat cap, and a rather tremulous woman in a floral dress.
On a nod from Guntrick, who perceived no danger in the group, the Visigoths parted, and they slid through. Behind them they could hear Staveley-Down continue his address.
“Austin A40. Nice.” Justin pointed to the steering wheel protruding from the little man’s chest. Ron looked up, surprised, then smiled with satisfaction at the thought of his pride and joy.
“What on earth are you two doing here?” Mary asked, considering the incongruity of this middle class middle-aged couple amongst the various muggers and murderers who seemed to make up most of the population of the area.
“You want to be careful around here love.” Ethel looked around her as she spoke in a stage whisper. “There’s some very nasty people.”
“We’re organising a revolution.” Ron said with some vigour.
There was a short silence as everyone took in the unlikely Bolsheviks.
“Against what?”
“The failure to deliver us to our ultimate destination. We are going to overthrow the idiots who are running this mess and bring the Afterlife back into line with its advance billing.”
Mary looked at the idiots who were running this mess, one of whom was looking sheepish and the other worryingly aggressive, and back to Ron and Ethel.
“I am sure they are trying to sort it out, you know. And you would be much safer, I’m sure, out of here, and away from these people. Besides, aren’t they all going to go to Hell? Why should they want to speed up that process?”
“It’s a contract. Honour amongst thieves, and all that.”
“It’s a myth.” Said Marcel. “They put the ‘con’ in contract. If it wasn’t for your hairy minders they would have slaughtered you by now.”
Ron looked as if he were going to respond, but stopped, as if he actually knew this already. He glanced at Ethel, sadness in his eyes, and adjusted the angle of the steering wheel.
“We’ve got to go.” Geoffrey herded the others, and then turned to Ron and Ethel. “Be really careful here. Once the crowd gets big enough, it doesn’t matter how many bodyguards you’ve got.” Mary smiled at the crestfallen pair and hurried to catch the others.
Capone’s Last Chance Saloon was a rough and ready hostelry set back from the main waterfront promenade, boisterous with music and the sounds of carousing behind its darkened and barred windows. Marcel hammered on the door and a small hatch flew open behind which were a beetle brow and a pair of heavy bloodshot eyes. The eyes glowered first at the suave Frenchmen and then flickered to the motley crew behind him.
“We’ve come for a game.” Marcel stared expressionless into the dark eyes.
“You got money?” Marcel held up a bag containing the pathetic whip round. The eyes withdrew and the hatch slid shut. They listened to the sound of bolts scraping across and chains being rattled free. Eventually the heavy door swung open to reveal a huge hunchback with a serious hand hair problem, who regarded them suspiciously.
Marcel didn’t wait for any second thought, not least on the grounds that with the figure in front of him that may well take some time, and pushed past the doorman, followed with as much speed as possible by his companions.
They were halted by a shout from the doorman behind them.
“Hey!” They stopped and turned as a unit. The hirsute, stooped figure was pointing to their left. “Cloaks!”
At the side of the dark lobby was a kiosk with a neon sign indicating the same service. Behind the desk a toothless hag in a fringed bra gave them a gummy grin which may have been intended to be coquettish. Justin felt a little queasy.
Marcel indicated impatiently that none of them were wearing overcoats (not bothering to draw attention to the fact that actually one of them was wearing running kit).
“No! Cloaks!” The monosyllabic hunchback jabbed a finger again at the neon sign. “You want cloaks?”
They looked at him nonplussed, shook their heads, and after a moment, turned in unison and pushed through the grubby plush curtains which hid the main room of Lorenzo’s from the entrance lobby.
The hunchback watched the curtains slowly return to their fall.
“Frankly,” he said to the Cloakroom hag, “I find that a surprisingly bold decision.”
“Yesh.” she splattered through her gums, “You would have a hood if you could.” They laughed in a not entirely wholesome manner.
The gaming room, a pall of smoke hanging heavy beneath its yellowed ceiling, was one of the most bizarre scenes Mary and Justin had ever seen. Most of the players had opted for the cloaks offered in the lobby, giving the impression of a bunch of Benedictine Monks playing hookey. The game play was highly animated, and the racket in the room unholy.
At a roulette table, a group of thin and wizened Orientals slammed tiles onto the table and shrieked as a tired looking croupier spun the ball. Elsewhere, vicious looking individuals huddled around blackjack cards, with small fights breaking out at every turn. One of the black jack tables seemed to have only one customer, who was playing four hands at the same time. As they watched, a trunk emerged from under the hood of the dark cloak, groped around the baize, and located the bowl of crisps it was seeking.
“What the hell is that?” Justin’s voice was just a little too loud for the group’s comfort. “It looks like some kind of scientific experiment.”
“It’s a God” said Marcel.
“A God? It’s got 4 hands. And a trunk!”
Marcel was looking around the room for something as he enlightened the new arrival, “Ganesha. He came to see us the other day, actually. The Gods aren’t supposed to come here, really, but lots of them like a punt. Especially the Chinese ones.” He gestured to the roulette table, where there was a high-pitched celebration of some small victory.
“They’re Gods?” said Mary.
“Oh yes.” Geoffrey had imperceptibly sunk into his simpering mode. “They’re the eight immortals.”
Mary and Justin studied the group, uniformly decrepit, one with a crutch, another with his arm round a donkey, a couple of fat old men and a woman who, in her excitement, actually floated.
“They used to be people, but something happened to each of them to make them immortal. The older Gods think they’re upstarts and look down on them.”
Justin watched as one of them pitched backwards, clearly drunk, flattening the unsuspecting donkey. The one next to him laughed so hard he exploded.
“Can’t think why.” He said.
“Come on.” Justin grabbed them by the arm. “Over here.”
In the corner of the room, a short man of some girth leaned against the wall, smoking a fat cigar. He looked up as Marcel led the group towards him.
“Marcel!” he drew the word out as if to savour the syllables. “What brings you back to Capone’s?”
“You’ve been here before?” Geofrrey hissed in the Frenchman’s ear.
“Course.” Marcel whispered back. “I like a bit of a gamble”
“How come you didn’t bring me?”
“Not now, for God’s sake.” Marcel smiled at the man.
“Al! How are you? Sorry about the misunderstanding last time I was here.”
“It’s the last time, Marcel. You’re not playing again if you’re wearing anything with sleeves. Or legs.”
“Where’s the big game?” Marcel did a conspiratorial chin raise to add drama to the query, and the short man looked around the room as though looking for police, which given the bizarre assembly seemed unlikely.
“Through the back. You got money?” Marcel showed him the collection, which was observed with a sneering sniff.
“Get your clothes off, then.”
“I’m not playing. He is.” Marcel reached out an arm and pulled Justin forward. The man slowly looked up and down the skinny white form in running shorts, singlet, and headband.
“Well, he ain’t hidin’ anythin’ up his sleeve, is he?”
The Big Game room was a dark and quiet space at the back of the building, accessed through a hidden door in the wall of the main gambling area. Despite the thickness of the walls, the muffled shrieking of the Chinese Gods could still be heard with every spin of the wheel, but apart from that, the silence was deafening. In the middle of the room was a table covered in shabby green baize, a chair on each of its four sides, unoccupied. The players were at a bar in the far corner, and turned as one to take stock of the new arrivals. Just something about the look of them, and the way they looked, made Justin think that his proclamation of skill at poker may not have been the most sensible thing he had ever said.
Justin changed the collected wealth of his group into a very small pile of chips (Marcel hung onto the necklace in some strange belief that it may not be needed). The cashier, a gaunt figure with a cleaver in his head, sniffed with disdain and threw the Queen’s currency onto a pile made up of notes of all nations, doubloons, jewels, and atop it all, what looked like a golden nugget as big as a fist. When Justin returned to his seat at the table, his competitors were already in place, and he took the remaining player’s seat opposite the dealer. She was a statuesque blonde dressed in stylish clothes and the crimped hair of a Hollywood star of the ‘30s. He had to admit that if it hadn’t been for the bullet holes he would have quite fancied her.
Marchant had played poker in some pretty dodgy circumstances and against some people whom only a mother could love, but there was something about the atmosphere in the room which made this a different kettle of fish altogether. On his left was a swarthy South American with a set of teeth the like of which Marchant had last seen in the winner of
the Grand National. He had a couple of days’ stubble which didn’t hide the livid purple line encircling his neck, and as he played with his chips Justin noted the thick marks around his wrists which told a tale of some restraint. Next to the blonde was a squat but very wide Indian, swathed in richly coloured robes and perspiring malodorously as he chewed on some kind of snack set before him, turning at intervals to spit residue to the floor at his side. Marchant could not immediately locate what had caused this particular death, but from the look of him it could just have been that he collapsed under his own bulk.
Incongruously, the final player wore the uniform of a senior officer in Her Majesty’s fleet around the time, Justin guessed, that the Bounty had succumbed to insurrection from its motley crew. The officer was pallid and dark around the eyes, his face bloated, the collar of his dark tunic uncomfortably snug around the taut skin of his swollen neck. Of course, it never occurred to Justin that, in his Nike moisture ticking vest and ‘Just Do It’ headband, he might be the one who looked a little odd.
Capone, who had left the room, returned with several henchmen and closed the door to the main gaming room softly behind him. He nodded to the blond as the men who accompanied him spread themselves around the room. Marcel, who had taken Geoffrey and Mary to the bar, where they had spent the waiting moments mopping up the drinks Geoffrey had knocked over, whispered nervously. “Here we go.”
“The game,” said the blond rapidly, in a husky Southern American accent, “is Hades Hold ‘Em. Jokers wild. Blind is one chip; Big Blind is two, doubled each round, first bet pre-flop. My name is Bonnie and if you need any help, you’re in the wrong room.”
“What language is she talking?” asked Geoffrey.
“Shut your trap.” The nearest thug eyed him threateningly. Geoffrey shut his trap.
Marchant got lucky in the first few minutes of the game, which as far as he could tell from the early exchanges was the same as the Texas Hold ‘Em he usually played; where the Hades came in he had no idea. He picked up a couples of pairs in the opening hands and it would seem none of his opponents had anything going, so when they folded he was able to build his meagre stash without taking any risk. On his second big blind, however, he was called upon to actually play, at which point he began to get a glimpse of why this particular version might be a touch different from the version with which he was more familiar.
The Complete Afternet: All 3 Volumes In One Place (The Afternet) Page 15
