It was quite difficult to spot the moment at which the mood went from amused to bored, and from there to ugly. For sure, the crowd had gradually edged, pushed, and shuffled forward so that they were all but upon Staveley-Down’s podium, a fact revealed to the nose as much as to the eye. The RAF man had certainly never seen or smelled anything like it before, having been raised in a world of respect, whether earned or not. First he dodged a piece of putrescent fruit hurled from the assembly, then had to duck and dive to avoid several chunks of rubble, which mainly clattered onto the pavement behind him although one caught Lucius an eye watering blow to the groin, causing secondary pain when his dropped head thumped against the hard floor. Ethel was almost weeping in distress and fear at the clear threat. Adwahl retrieved the rolling head as it swore volubly at the pain being suffered in its body a little way away.
This escalation in missiles reached a peak when a particularly noisy group picked up a young man and despite his screams of protest hurled him bodily at the speaker. This time the Englishman did not just duck from the assault, but jumped clumsily from his box and looked at the others with wild eyes.
As the human projectile groaned in a pool of blood amongst them, Staveley-Down looked at Lincoln.
“This is madness. They’re going to tear us limb from limb. What kind of idea was this to try to get this mob to care about their situation?”
“I harbour a strong belief in the innate goodness of people. That is how I have made my way through life.” said Lincoln. His face remained stern and strong, unlike that of Staveley-Down, which was twitching, his eyes flicking from Lincoln to the baying crowd, who were chanting ‘Throw another one!’.
“Well good for you. I’ve had reason to doubt that before, but I’ve never seen anything like this.” Ron, who had watched Ethel shake with fear as she returned the head to Lucius, looked from one to the other.
“I think we had better abandon this experiment and get out of here. They might start throwing someone even bigger.”
“Can’t we just fight them? The boys would be up for it.”
Guntrick gestured to where his troupe was performing some basic pre-engagement callisthenics. Lincoln looked at the three and then almost as if on an impulse strode past them and mounted the dais. He looked out on a seething mass of all sizes, shapes and colours, from all times, in places fighting each other, others yelling, all clearly on the point of boiling over. He set his face into a familiar stern grimace.
“People of …er…here!” he yelled. It had little effect, so he cried out a couple more times and gradually the noise subsided as the swarm looked at the new figure about to address them.
“We cannot let our situation undermine our humanity!”
“We’re dead mate,” came a voice from the middle of the crowd, “it’s not exactly a situation, is it?” There was a general murmur of agreement.
“Civilisation! Liberty! These and our humanity set us apart. You cannot stay here in eternal filth, squalor, and criminality!”
“Sounds just like home.” Widespread, coarse laughter.
“We offer you the chance to fulfil your destinies. Join with us and you can make amends, atone for your crimes, not repeat them again and again.”
“I got you once, you self-righteous prig. I could do that again.”
As the crowd raucously cheered this cry, Lincoln struggled to identify its source. Deep in the middle of the melee, disconcertingly next to a man (or possibly woman) whose head had been cleaved vertically, he spotted the sarcastically smiling moustachioed face, the curly hair, and something clicked in his memory.
Ron, Guntrick and the others waited for his response, but Lincoln was silent as his mind worked overtime, flicking through the memories gathered through nearly two hundred years. Somewhere deep in the synapses he recovered a visual thought: the theatre, the box with his dear wife, the rumpus behind him, the flash of a pistol and behind it, the grim face of a curly haired man with a moustache.
He glared at the face in the crowd. Of all the pestilential, stinking, dens of iniquity in the afterlife, he thought, you had to walk into mine.
The thought was interrupted as quickly as it arrived, the man in the crowd having raised a gun, and Lincoln was pulled from the platform by Ron and Staveley-Down just as a bullet whistled overhead.
“We’re leaving.” said Ron.
“We’d rather fight.” Guntrick and his Visigoths had formed up and were looking suitably warlike. “We haven’t had much of a chance for a decent ruck recently. Be a shame to waste it.”
“Look Guntrick,” said Ron, “Maybe if you can hold them off for a while it would help us to get away. Best of both worlds. You and the lads get some action and we can make our escape.”
“Brilliant! Lads, we’re going to give ‘em a bit.” The Visigoths cheered.
“How will you find us?” said Ethel, as though she were talking to her young children.
“No problem. Lucius!” The young Roman looked up from where he had been contemplating how he might stay out of harm’s way, then ambled over to Guntrick. The huge German smiled at him and then gently took the head from under the boy’s arm.
“Take this.” He said to Ron. “The body always knows where it is.” The expression on Lucius’ face suggested he was less enamoured of the separation, but settled into a look of weary resignation as the head was tucked under Ron’s arm.
“ Be careful, Guntrick.” Said Ron with some emotion. The massive man smiled.
“What would be the point of that, Ron?” he said. “Come on lads! Chaaaarge.”
Geoffrey, as ever, didn’t think it was his fault that he was the only one of the group not to make good his escape from the gambling den. He had been following the others through the smoke and watched as Mary brained Bonnie over the head with a handy chair. They had carried on through the smoke and Geoffrey had stopped for just a second and leaned down to look into the face of the unconscious dealer, and then was up and ready to run when he felt something grab his leg.
He kicked at whatever it was (a hand in fact, belonging to one of the bodyguards) but the grip refused to release, and then began to tug at him until he actually pitched forward on top of Bonnie. Underneath the smoke there was some clear air, and turning his head he could see not only his captor but also Capone and the Naval Officer crawling along the floor. He was helpless as the enormous hand dragged him backwards, digging his nails into the carpet but still taken inexorably wherever his captor wished. After a few moments there was a shaft of light in the dark, smoke-filled room, a hubbub from behind him, the slamming of a door and then the grasp on his ankle was released.
Geoffrey kept his face to the floor, still measuring his entire length with his arms stretched out above his head. The smoke seemed to have gone and he could breathe freely, and he could make out a heated discussion taking place although about what he wasn’t quite sure. He did know, however, that through some slight oversight he was not with Marcel and the others. He felt hands upon him and was pulled roughly to his feet, where he blinked a few times and then considered the group in front of him.
Capone was at the centre, flanked by two of the bruising-looking henchmen and the Naval Officer. All of them were in a state of advanced dishevelment, hair awry and faces black from the inferno, which, he now noted, was beginning to seep smoke under the door through which he had just been dragged. They were back in the main gambling room, and the punters, a strange brew of low-lifes, Chinese in various states of disrepair, and heavily disguised deities were being shepherded out with degrees of force. Geoffrey dusted some motes of burnt fabric from his already filthy cardigan.
“Well, that was a close call,” he said, “thanks. I’ll be off then.” He was only able to make one step in the direction of the exit before one of the henchmen stopped him.
“You ain’t going anywhere.” Said Capone.
“What about Bonnie?” said the Englishman.
“She’s toast.” Said Capone unconcerned. “And what about
you?” The gangster glanced at the naval officer. “You were supposed to be playing for me.”
“Yes, well, Mr Capone.” The distinguished man looked a little uncomfortable. “ I am afraid I had bargained without the devil’s hand.”
“You certainly did. I think it’s time you had a taste of what the Devil might have in store.” He gestured with his chin towards the door and the bodyguards seized the Englishman and carried him forwards as he struggled desperately.
“But I never lost before! I’ve made you millions!” When the door was opened there was a flash of fire, which threatened to set off the high viscose content of Geoffrey’s outfit. He could feel the heat on his blackened cheeks. With little ceremony the card player was thrown into the burning room and the door slammed behind him with a deathly thud. Geoffrey winced at the sound, and looked back to Capone who had him in an icy stare. Even one so slow as he began to suspect that he had not been so much rescued as captured.
“And whadda we do with you?” Geoffrey opened his mouth to make a couple of suggestions, largely in the realm of being given something nice to eat and a lift home, but Capone cut him off.
“That’s what they call rhetorical, buddy. I know what we’re gonna do with you, and it isn’t throw you in that room to burn up.”
“Phew.” Said Geoffrey, although it was only now that it occurred to him that this was one of the options under consideration, “that’s a relief.”
“We’re just gonna wait for your pals to come back for you and then we can throw you all in there at the same time.”
Geoffrey would have tried to point out that this scenario was unlikely, given that one of his ‘pals’ was an unreconstructed representative of the Lord of the Underworld, and the others a man they had had killed on purpose and a woman they had had killed by accident. Not exactly The A-Team. The opportunity didn’t arise, however, because he was roughly grabbed by the henchmen, gagged, and tied to a chair.
The two brutes lugged the chair towards the door to the back room, under which black smoke was emanating at a worrying rate; they set Geoffrey down barely a yard from the door, facing into the now deserted main casino. He could feel the heat on his back.
“You just stay there and keep warm, pal,” said Capone to the apparent amusement of his colleagues, “we’ll just wait for your friends to come back with my money.” They turned and walked from the room. Geoffrey squirmed on the seat, surveying the room which so recently had been filled with the excited exclamations of the dead gamblers. He had seen James Bond in similar situations on his TV screens, although usually with the added concern of a rotary saw or laser beam targeted at his gonads, rather than a warm back.
“What would Bond do now?” he thought, but then as was his nature his mind floated into more pressing questions, largely to do with how Bond’s face had changed so much over the years, and more bizarrely, how the same had happened to Felix Leiter of the CIA, even to the extent of defying the ageing process by becoming black. If only Michael Jackson had taken the same route. The back of Geoffrey’s cardigan gently steamed.
In contrast, Marchant was seated with his back to the cooling wall of the alleyway. The daylight was beginning to fade, and this, combined with the awkwardness of the situation, was making Marcel jumpy. He paced up and down, turning now and again to look at Mary, who had set her face to warn him against questioning her. She stood next to the spot where Justin was hunched on the floor, watching the dead Frenchmen in his tortured pacing, vaguely aware of the rising noises from the dockside some distance away to her left.
“We’ll get killed. He’s a complete murderer.” Marcel turned to the recently arrived couple.
“So you said.” Mary gazed back. “And I said that I’m really the only one taking a risk from that point of view.”
“It’s not free of pain, you know.” Marcel thrust his face close to hers. “Just because we’re dead doesn’t mean we can’t suffer.”
“Oh, yes, cut me and do I not bleed?”
“Well yes, I do actually. And lose limbs, or eyes, or have my fingernails pulled out. And Capone and his crew are just the people to demonstrate.”
“You can’t just leave Geoffrey. You’ve worked together for, well, hundreds of years. That has to mean something.”
Marcel was about to speak but then didn’t. He found it hard to admit, but the thought of the control room without his aromatic, badly-dressed comrade did not seem as attractive a prospect as he had imagined it would be.
“I don’t want to die again.” Marchant looked up pathetically from the floor. “I wasn’t even really supposed to die the first time.” Mary looked at him with distaste.
“I don’t know what we can do.” Marcel looked helplessly at Mary. “He’s a vicious killer with a crew of sadistic bodyguards and we’re a woman, a long-dead aristocrat and a man in shorts.” There was a rumpus at the end of the alleyway and four hyperventilating figures burst towards them. “Plus,” he added, “ a middle-aged couple, an effete looking airman, and a misguided man in a big black hat. Oh, and a head.”
Ron managed, between deep gulps of the dank and foetid air, to inform them that everything had not gone to plan. He explained that for some reason Lincoln in particular found hard to fathom, these scarred and vicious individuals were not seeking a quicker final judgement, and had no interest in ‘closure’. Having seen the crowd themselves this did not come entirely as a shock to the Afternet threesome, but seeing Ron’s evident distress they made a reasonable effort to feign surprise. Well, apart from Marcel, who shook his head and gave Ron the look of pity and exasperation he normally reserved for Geoffrey when he offered one of his ideas.
“O, for God’s sake! Every single one of them is facing nothing but an eternity of torment and unspeakable pain. Compared to that, this interregnum of torment and occasional pain is like winning the lottery.”
“It’s a matter of principle.” Lincoln looked the libertine in the eye. “Everyone has the right to the judgement they have earned.”
“Whatever.” Said Marcel. “See if you can keep thinking that when the judgement involves ritual castration, on the hour every hour. That’s what this lot will get.”
“Look.” Mary said, “this is very interesting but getting us nowhere. We have to find a way to get Geoffrey back.”
“Geoffrey? Is that the older gentleman who was with you?”
“Well,” said Marcel, “strictly speaking he’s not old, just ancient. But yes, he’s the one, and he’s gone and got himself captured by an Italian-American mass murderer.”
Mary explained to the new arrivals how the loss of Geoffrey had occurred, to much head-shaking and tutting from Ron and a suggestion from Lincoln, quickly ruled out, that what was needed here was negotiation. Even as she finished the tale, Mary began to fall into despondency, realising that the task of rescuing the old man from the clutches of Capone and his extremely nasty henchmen was going to be very difficult without the benefit of extreme force.
Ethel heard them first, as Mary drew the story to an end, raising her head to pinpoint the thudding of heavy feet and a throaty, tuneless chant. One by one the others adopted poses of strained listening, the thudding growing nearer, counterpointed by an elevated grunting.
“Oh shit.” Marchant jumped to his feet and made ready to run. “Now we’re going to be mown down by a rampaging herd of rhinos!”
“Rhinos?” Marcel sneered. “How often does a herd of rhinos rampage through a dockside town?”
“Oh, forgive me. I’m talking to a man with a steering wheel in his chest and an assassinated President of the United States whilst dressed in my running kit. How could I possibly think anything so unlikely as a herd of rhinos could appear?”
Justin’s acid response was cut off by Ethel’s joyful cry of “Guntrick!” as the massive Visigoth appeared at full pelt around the corner, followed in short order by the rest of his tribe, all yelling in unison a one-note litany, which could have been “Run for it!” as easily as any celebration
of victory. When they reached the others the Visigoths shuddered to a halt and sucked in air, clapping each other on the back and exchanging looks of approval. Joy was unconfined as the remarkably speedy torso of Lucius was reunited with its head.
“Guntrick, what happened?” Ethel was brushing his animal hair coat as if to remove any chance of dire consequence.
“It was fantastic!” His clan roared and nodded enthusiastically. He launched into a tale of how, outnumbered though they were, they had faced an enemy who, whilst full of bluster, had grown soft on the ability to carry out minor woundings with apparent impunity. It appears that a few judicious limb removals by the Visigoths had given them pause for thought. Many had simply thrown themselves into the oily water, others been macerated in the stampede to escape, and the odd one, having stupidly decided to make a stand, simply thought better of it and dropped their hands better to allow themselves to take the beating. Guntrick asked out loud what had happened in the centuries since his death to the warlike spirit, the love of the fray, the sheer bravery to stand up and be emasculated knowing that it will occur?
“It’s been replaced by bullying mate.” Marchant replied, “You just find a weaker group, like the Jews, the blacks, the Sunnis or Shias depending where you are, even the internet entrepreneurs, then you create an overwhelming force and bully them into submission.”
“Internet entrepreneurs?”
“Inland Revenue. Got it in for us.”
While Guntrick bemoaned to his troops the state of the modern dead person in terms of bravery despite overwhelming odds, Mary whispered to Marcel, who thought for a moment and then shrugged as though being forced to accept something he would rather not.
“Maybe,” she said, silencing the hubbub from the Visigoths, “we should bully the bullies back then?”
“The Inland Revenue?” Marchant swivelled his head nervously as though they were coming up behind.
The Complete Afternet: All 3 Volumes In One Place (The Afternet) Page 17
