“Eir?” asked Mary.
“Eir.” Said Dionysus. “The large girl with the plaits. She’s the Norse Goddess of healing. Well,” he leaned forward and spoke conspiratorially in a low voice, “she’s not a God really, she’s a Valkyrie, but we don’t remind her of that, because then she might not turn up and we might just need her if someone has a bit of a turn. Like him, for example.” Geoffrey had thrown back his arms and was wailing towards the ceiling with his eyes rolling back into his head. There couldn’t have been many more Gods left to worship.
“Is she any good?” asked Justin, staring over towards where a very plump and very short woman with a florid face was jabbering at a man.
“Not sure.” Said Dionysus. “Unless it was anything serious, I personally might wait and see if it went away on its own.”
Geoffrey stopped as suddenly as he had started, and hauled himself to his feet.
“Alright Di?” he said, clearly having expunged every sliver of overpowering respect. “Where is everyone? What time are they coming?”
Dionysus looked rather shamefacedly at the four others in the middle of the room and the young man by the statue. He appeared to have fallen asleep with his face in the carved gonads.
“I think this might be everyone, I’m afraid. There were rather more here earlier, but then they turned up.” He cocked his chin towards large French doors at the other end of the room.
“Who?” asked Mary.
Dionysus beckoned them to follow and they trailed him to the other side of the room, smiling in small greeting at the others as they passed. When they reached the doors, the God of Ritual Madness threw the doors open dramatically and the three looked out onto a huge balcony, which appeared to overlook the Aegean Sea.
It would have been beautiful, but their gaze was taken by the three figures leaning against the balustrade, drinking from huge goblets, talking in loud voices and laughing as they did so. They looked up at the opening of the doors and raised their glasses and laughed. Clomping around the enormous balcony were three horses. Huge, muscled steeds, one a chestnut which was almost red, another pure white, and the third with a ghostly pallour, almost green in tinge.
“Is it the Three Stooges?” asked Justin.
Dionysus shook his head.
“Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. End of any party when they turn up.”
“There are only three of them.”
“Yeah. Pestilence isn’t very well, apparently.”
Mary looked up to the God, who was obviously distressed that his party had been ruined by the arrival of this troupe.
“How did they get in? We had to have an invite.”
“Apparently they bought the tickets on something called A-Bay. You can get anything on there, they reckon. I don’t know what the Afterlife’s coming to.”
The tall God stared wistfully at the balcony, where two of the ‘guests’ were playing knuckles while the other, the pallid, translucent figure of Death, was casually smoking a cigarette. The enormous horses snorted and pawed at the terrace floor. As if he had made up his mind about something, Dionysus looked away.
“Come on,” he said, “I’ll introduce you and then we’ll have some cheese.”
A short while later, both Justin and Mary were feeling a little short-changed by the event, but Geoffrey didn’t need much heavenly contact to get a warm glow. The wine helped. They sat in a row of chairs, facing the display of cheeses. Geoffrey sat between Eir, who did nothing but complain that she had a cold, fungus on her toes and a strange rash between her shoulder blades, and Jum Sum. The latter, the Chinese God of pillows, wasn’t going to trouble the cheesemakers. Having been carried from a huge cushion to the chair without having his sleep disturbed, the smell of yak curd was hardly likely to disturb his reverie. Next to him, actually propping Jum Sum’s head on her shoulder, was Mary, with the host between her and Geoffrey. The turnip picker was flanked on his left by Wakan-Tanka, the Native American God who was capable of dividing himself into multiple parts. That, his party trick was a bit knackering, and he had got it out of the way earlier. To the Afternet team, he was just a wizened old man, albeit one with a name meaning ‘Great Mystery’.
“Where are you from?” asked Geoffrey, who was in full conversational flow.
“That’s for you to find out.” Said Wakan-Tanka.
On the end of the line was the ever-present Ganesha, who was hoping the cheese would be served soon, because he had a wedding reception at a curry house in Asgard. Despite his best efforts to achieve another position, Dionysus had ensured that the Elephant God was at the end of the line because he wanted the others to get at least a sliver of cheese.
For Geoffrey, anything that took him away from the Control Room was a cause for unbridled excitement, but Justin and Mary had really hoped for more from their first Gods party. It was interminable.
Nymphs served the cheeses, while Dionysus gave some vague commentary on their origins.
“This is Yarg. From, er Yargland.” He said. “Delicious, wrapped in nettles. Lovely, creamy texture.”
“I like this bit. It’s really tasty.” Said Geoffrey, stuffing a piece of dark rind into his mouth.
“That’s mould, Geoffrey.” Mary told him.
“Mmm. Mould. Thought he said it was Yarg.” Marcel’s tweed suit was already covered in an unfeasible amount of cheese crumbs.
Not long later they were playing charades. Ganesha had signified that he was performing a ‘film’. With two of his arms he pointed to himself and particularly his trunk. With the other two he indicated Geoffrey and Justin. The other Gods were laughing and proclaiming themselves bewildered.
“Is it The Elephant Man?” asked Mary, suppressing a yawn. Ganesha nodded and to cheers from the crowd wandered over to the table where he hovered up with his trunk the remaining comestibles.
“Thought it was.” Said the host. “I’m sure he did that last time.” And every time, thought Mary, given the limitations on creative mime when you are a mutant elephant.
It was Geoffrey’s turn to replenish the wine, and he took the goblets over to the spigot as Dionysus co-opted the others to set up the ping-pong table. The clatter as Geoffrey dropped one of the goblets caused the thin young man to wake with a start and withdraw his head with slow horror from the private parts of the statue. He leaned back against the trough in front of the flow of wine and gazed blindly around the party and then back to Geoffrey, who, tweed suited and slick-haired, was brushing about a kilo or so of mixed cheese from his waistcoat front.
“Awright?” said the younger man. Geoffrey looked up.
“Yes, I’m fine thank you. Did you have a nice sleep?”
“Sleep, me?” The thin man tapped his nose. “Always watching, me.”
“Geoffrey.” Said Geoffrey, thrusting out his hand.
“Slaven.” Said Slaven, ignoring it. “You a God? God of ancient weaving?”
Geoffrey laughed as he began to fill the goblets.
“Me? Heavens no. I am unfit to wash their feet.”
Slaven glanced to where the Gods were trying to remove a particularly runny Camembert from Ganesha’s huge hoof.
“Yeah. You probably are.”
“What about you?” asked Geoffrey. “Are you a God?”
The young man spluttered with laughter.
“Nah mate, not me. I’m only here because I was bored and bought Pestilence’s knock-off ticket on A-Bay. But. I’ll tell you what. I am about to make a significant move which will make my death much better.” His words were slurred, but he had a conspiratorial air that made Geoffrey vaguely interested.
“That’s nice. What’s going to happen to you then?”
“I,” Slaven paused either for dramatic effect or to regain his footing. “am going to run The Afternet for The Devil.”
The turnip picker dropped a goblet with a crash into the trough.
“Sorry.” He said.
“Yeah.” Slaven was holding his head, eyes screwed up. “That was real
ly loud.”
Geoffrey’s natural instinct was to dash back to Mary and Justin and tell them the story, hoping that one of them would know what to do. He looked back to the party, where Justin and Eir were playing ping-pong against Mary and Dionysus. He might have to do this on his own. He racked his brains for a vestige of inspiration, and then somehow remembered Columbo. Of course! The best detective in the world. Geoffrey had been glued to his true-life crimes for years. He tried to think himself into the role of the detective.
“What’s wrong with your eye?” asked Slaven.
Columbo would not have been distracted by such a question. Geoffrey had managed to close one eye to a slit and open the other surreally wide. He gestured with one of the goblets, poking it towards Slaven.
“You, er. You. You, er”
“What?”
“Sure?”
“Course I am. There’s some pillock there now. Marcel he’s called. Satan just hates him. When we get this thing done, I get the gig. The pillock goes back to where he should be.” Slaven belched.
Geoffrey had hunched his shoulders forward. He tapped Slaven with the goblet.
“This thing? What, er. Well. What would this thing be?”
“Bit of havoc here. Bit of havoc back in life. Bit of havoc, basically. Then I am in. Cushy number.”
“It’s a lot of work, you know. The Afternet.” Geoffrey had shot upright and opened his eyes to issue this erroneous defence of his job.
“How do you know?” Slaven looked at him suspiciously. The figure in front of him re-hunched, and did the thing with his eyes.
“Oh, you know, I just heard, is all. Well, bin nice meetin’ ya, Mr Sluman.”
“Slaven.”
“Right” Geoffrey clasped the three goblets and turned away. He had only taken one step when he turned back and looked at the thin man leaning on the trough. The ‘detective’ was now almost bent double, and both eyes were alternating between slits and wide open almost at random. More Hunchback of Notre Dame than Peter Falk, he poked a goblet towards Slaven, then pulled the hand back and scratched his forehead.
“Just one more thing, er, ah.”
“What?”
“This…” he made circles in the air with one hand, “er, promotion. When’s it gonna happen?”
“When FR is up and running and we get him back from life.”
“Get who?”
“The kid. Jenkin Furvill or whatever he’s called.”
Geoffrey did a little bow.
“Sure. I knew dat. Thanks. Nice to meet ya, er, er…”
“Slaven.”
“I knew dat.” Geoffrey walked away, gradually regaining his full height. He couldn’t get his right eye closed, however.
Justin had never been so pleased to see the turnip-picker. His game of table tennis over, his partner had him in the corner and was regaling him with her ailments.
The Goddess (or Valkyrie) of Healing, short enough that her plaited head only rose as far as Justin’s chest, was stroking a hand up and down her left flank.
“I think it might be intolerance to dairy,” she was saying. “whenever I eat more than, oh, two or three pounds of cheese, I get a tingling and a pain all down here and I feel bloated.”
“You are bloated.” Said Justin, whose thin veneer of decorum had been washed away on a sea of red wine some time ago.
“I knew it! What about the pain, do you have any idea what that might be?”
“I’m getting a pain right here,” Said Justin, pointing to his rear, “and I think I might know what’s causing that.”
Before the woman could respond, Geoffrey breathlessly intervened.
“Sorry, sorry. Justin, we need to talk. Where’s Mary?”
“I think she stepped outside. Bit tipsy I reckon. What’s wrong with your eye?”
“It’s probably some gluten response.” Said Eir.
“It’s Columbo, actually.” Geoffrey was hurt.
“Columbo?” Eir looked over at the cheese table. “Which one was that? Was it the one with the green veins?”
Geoffrey had been there for about thirty seconds, and Justin was completely lost as to where the conversation might be heading. He did however, recognise an opportunity for escape when he saw one, and grabbed Geoffrey by the elbow.
“Sorry, Eir. It’s been lovely, but we clearly have a crisis and Geoffrey and I had better get Mary and sort it out.”
“Is it medical? Maybe I can help, although my foot is hurting quite a bit. I wonder what that might be?”
They left her to ponder this and headed for the terrace.
Mary was sitting on the balustrade, listening intently to a tall, muscled figure with an open leather jerkin revealing a well-defined abdomen. She gazed into his eyes, which were almost black but seemed somehow to have a flash of fire. Death had not affected her habit of mixing alcohol and unsuitable men.
“I think I get a bit of a bad rap, you know,” he was saying, “I mean, people make the decision themselves, don’t they? I see myself as a facilitator, and all I get is abuse.”
“That must be awful for you,” said Mary, who was feeling a bit tingly, “it’s terrible when people don’t take account of the good that you do.”
The man was about to reply when Justin grabbed Mary by the hand and pulled her to her feet.
“Sorry, mate. She’s gotta go. Come on Mary, Geoff’s discovered a crisis.”
He led Mary from the terrace as she gazed back at the bronzed figure, who was holding his thumb to his ear and little finger in front of his mouth in an ‘I’ll call you’ gesture.
They dashed through the main room, only one of them having any idea why they may be in a rush. Eir was leaning over Slaven, who was on his knees being sick. ‘Good luck mate’ thought Justin.
“What’s the hurry? I was just starting to have a good time.” Asked Mary as they pushed past the fauns.
“Do you know who that was?” asked Justin.
“No, but he was lovely.”
“Well, you tell me when, exactly, War was given a ‘bad rap’, and exactly what good things people might not be taking account of.” Mary looked a little shamefaced.
“He seemed alright to me.”
Justin shook his head in disbelief. They had reached the corridor leading to the Control Room, and he stopped and turned to Geoffrey. “So, Geoff, I assume that this is all an over-reaction on your part. Nonetheless, I would like to thank you for creating the opportunity to get us out of that so-called party. What’s it all about?”
In the Control Room, Marcel had heard the approaching footsteps and assumed it was his colleagues returning. That was fine, because he had just completed the task of sending the Afternet Key to Jenkin Furvill, which would enable the youth to proceed with the creation of Fiends Reunited. He had a feeling that he had done something bad and, uncommonly, wasn’t happy about it. Still, what harm could it do? The kid probably wouldn’t be able to make it work anyway. At least he was safe in his job.
“So that’s it.” Said Geoffrey. “When this young person has done something called FR and something back in life, Marcel is going to be replaced by that horrible man.”
They looked at the floor and the walls, then back to the old man who was visibly upset at the prospect. Then Mary smiled.
“It’s okay Geoffrey. The Afternet has a Key. No one can change it without the Key, and there is no way the kid can get it. It’s unbelievably well encrypted.”
Geoffrey heaved a sigh of relief. At least Marcel was safe in his job.
Twelve
Once Jenkin had the Key from Marcel, he was able to move on quickly with the design of his application, Fiends Reunited. He had found a productive spot high on the hill behind one of the goals of the football pitch, which offered soft, grassy seating and shade from the sun. It seemed to be summer in the afterworld, but those who had wandered around it longer than Jenkin could have told him not to book a holiday, because seasons seemed to have no particular logic and it could be winter
tomorrow.
Ethel had watched him repeatedly wander away from conversations, computer under his arm, to sit by himself on the hillside, and wondered what could be keeping him entranced for so long. She had seen the Afternet terminals, and was aware that they had a couple of games, but nothing that you would have thought could occupy a young mind for hours. She had no inkling that he was writing a programme which would bring havoc to their world, or that he was preparing his Grimsby Town team for a European Champions League semi-final against Real Madrid on Football Manager.
The football match had been such a success that word seemed to have spread that something interesting was happening, and more people arrived daily to join the crowds who were hanging around the arena. The American girls had a regular kick-about in the mornings, which attracted particular attention, not least from the Visigoths. They remained convinced that they had won the match, but also were determined that they should improve. Jenkin was particularly shy around the girls, and though he would join in the conversations when others were there, if he were left alone with any of them this was usually the trigger for him to march off to his spot on the hill and spend hours working at the computer.
He was putting his imaginary football team through a rigorous training session, whilst also designing the front screens for Fiends Reunited, when Ethel wandered up the hill and stood in front of him.
“Hello Jenkin.” She was a little out of puff from the steep climb. “Is it ok if I sit down?”
His automatic response was to close the laptop. On the few occasions his mother had come into his room, usually to warn him obliquely that an ‘uncle’ was about to visit, he had automatically clicked his PC back onto its’ screen saver. She always assumed that he was watching porn, but in actuality he was much more likely to be trying to decipher the deployment of American troops in Afghanistan from information on the Pentagon intranet.
Ethel sat beside the boy. They gazed down on the scene beneath them. A football pitch, the young girls kicking a ball about; hundreds of people sitting, strolling, chatting. It could have been a city park in England but for the fact that it was Icelandic fishermen sitting, Japanese soldiers strolling, Pashtun and Kurd chatting.
The Complete Afternet: All 3 Volumes In One Place (The Afternet) Page 39
