“Sod that.” Said Marcel. “Give me that.” He grabbed the scythe from the tall dark figure and turning it around, began thumping the window with the non-bladed end. It took half a dozen blows before the toughened window cracked and then shattered into millions of nuggets, setting off a blaring alarm. He calmly handed the tool back, ignoring the shocked look on Mary’s face.
“Right you three. Hold it there.” They turned to see a portly security guard, who was unhooking a walkie-talkie from his collar. Marcel made a grab for the scythe. Mary grabbed his arm.
“You can’t!”
“He doesn’t matter.” Said Marcel, his eyes dark. “We have to get back.”
After all of the time they had spent together, particularly over the last few days, this flash of the ‘old’ Marcel was a real shock. There was no doubt in her mind that he would have been prepared to harm, or even kill, the innocent man there and then.
“Leave it to me.” The Reaper slowly reached out and took the radio from the security guard. He leaned close and began murmuring something into the man’s ear, and the guard visibly relaxed. Maybe he would make a good team leader after all.
Mary started to say goodbye, but the Reaper did not look back at them, as he led the guard away, just waved his bony hand in their direction. She picked up her bags, took Marcel angrily by the arm, and stepped through the shattered window into the restaurant.
In the darkened tunnel accessed through the ladies toilet they stood in heavy silence. An orange light glowed on the wall to their right.
“Look-“ said Marcel.
“Don’t talk to me.” She pressed the button. There was an apocalyptic glare, and then with a whoosh they were off.
Twenty Three
Ron, who prided himself on organisation (he had a critical path analysis for getting he and Ethel from their house to their holiday in Dawlish), had to admit that his skills in that area paled into insignificance when compared to those of the Amish.
When Geoffrey had dropped by to casually mention that Very Important People had insisted on their own seating area, Ron’s initial inclination was to ask the ancient man to tell them to get lost, since if they were that important they wouldn’t have let this whole situation arise in the first place. Geoffrey, however, managed to convince him that these were people who could make the whole situation a good deal worse, and even slow down or stop the judgement process. This was, of course, an economy with the truth, since The Afternet was chuntering on irrespective of the feelings, hurt or otherwise, of the panoply of deities, but Geoffrey had an inherent faith in their importance, and was prepared to believe his own words if that was what it took.
The problem for Ron was that anyone who could do anything useful was busy constructing defensive mechanisms for the threatened attack. He had no idea what it was they may be doing, but Guntrick and other volunteers spent hours plotting while Ron did his planning, fixture arrangement, and colouring in. The exception to this was a particular collection of souls who wanted nothing to do with violent conflict, even if it led to suffering on their part.
There were about three hundred Amish people collected in the area of the football tournament. They accepted this death, and lack of Ascension, without a word of complaint, no cursing of promises broken or years wasted when they could have been listening to iPods. They saw it, rather, as just a staging post on the way to their eternities. There were, of course, thousands more in this infinite landscape, but this group had accumulated gradually, moss gathered by rolling stones.
Their hewing and nailing fingers had twitched with desire when they saw the work going on around, but they would not deny now the tenets of their lives that had brought them this far. When they learned of the need to build an undercover area, therefore, they were quick to put themselves forward.
Jeb van Dorsen, beard a wispy penumbra, had marched up the hill to talk to an increasingly despairing Ron and offer the services of his fellow travellers. It was a Jack Spratt moment, given that Guntrick and his co-leaders refused to have anything to do with anything that wasn’t to do with the forthcoming conflict, and now he was confronted with someone who would only work on the opposite.
And work they did. Trees were felled (how did they grow so quickly?), timbers hewn, pegs whittled, and holes dug. As in life, plenty were happy just to watch, and there was plenty of choice.
When it came to The Raising, such questions became redundant. Even the defence force stopped work to first watch, and then help, the testament to the power of community. Massive ‘A’ Frames were pulled upright on ropes woven by their handlers, and precisely slid into receptive holes in the earth. Cross beams were hoisted and then, ironically almost a testament to evolution, carpenters skittered up on high like so many monkeys to hammer in pegs. Finally, the exterior was clad and benches fixed into place.
The assembly stood as one and applauded. Hundreds of thousands stood and cheered, whistled, waved. The architects and constructors looked shamefaced, but they stood tall, their faces red with exertion, their foreheads moist with the price of the toil. And they looked upon their work and saw that it was good.
Jenkin was in a state of disbelief when he emerged from an Everywhere Door and began to make his way up to where he knew Ron and Ethel would be. He’d been away, what? A week? The crowd seemed to have doubled. He had to pick his way between feet, fires, tents, children playing. In the distance some kind of stockade appeared to have sprung up, and he couldn’t recall the lake away to his left having been there before. There was even a huge wooden grandstand taking up a portion of the touchline near the halfway line.
Even as he began to make the ascent he could see that there was another structure, like a large scorers’ hut, positioned so as to overlook the entire amphitheatre. The crowd were in ranks down the hill, they were to his left, spilling into the woods, and to his right, banked high, a confetti of constant motion.
Melinda spotted him first. She had stopped looking for him, really, but his slumped-shoulder gait was easy to identify, and she shielded her eyes from the sun as she tried to be sure.
‘Ethel!” she said, turning to speak behind, her hand to her forehead. “It’s Jenkin.” Her other arm was pointing down the hill in the direction of several thousand people.
Ethel stood next to Melinda and gazed down the hill, but at first couldn’t make him out. As he came closer, though, she realised that the figure picking its way through so many feet and outstretched legs was, indeed, the gangly youth about whom she had been so concerned.
He finally stood in front of them, red-faced, panting slightly from the exertion.
“What’s been going on here?”
“Where have you been? We’ve been worried sick.” Ethel gave him the maternal glare.
“I’m sorry Ethel. It’s all done now, anyway. I’m not going anywhere now. This is amazing!”
“Oh ya! It’s the semi-finals tomorrow! It’s, like, so humongous!” Melinda, as ever, exclaimed. He smiled broadly at her.
“Are you alright, Ethel? How’s Ron?”
“Oh, Jenkin, I’m very well. I was worried about you, though. Ron’s just doing a fantastic job. He’s very busy.”
“And Guntrick?”
“He’s really busy.”
Melinda stood, and grabbed Jenkin by the arm. “Come on, I’ll tell you everything. Bring you up to date.”
The youth looked at Ethel, breathed in the atmosphere. She smiled at him and nodded, and he and Melinda walked off slowly, further up the hill.
Mary had rebuffed all of Marcel’s attempts to explain his behaviour, first with a few well-chosen words, and then with a set scowl, the latter instantly becoming a huge smile when she walked back into the Control Room. Geoffrey leaped from his seat and gave her a hug. He smelt of tomatoes, cream cheese, beef, and basil. She thought this was lovely until she realised it was probably lasagne. Even Justin gave her a brief embrace.
They all, Marcel apart, talked at once. He said curt hellos and perched on the edge
of one of the tables as the others danced with joy at their reunion.
“Stop! Stop.” Said Mary. “I’ve brought Christmas presents.”
She picked up one of the bags she had transported through the tunnel.
“This is for you, Geoffrey.” She held up a brown and orange Kigu suit. The recipient looked disconcerted.
“It’s a red panda. I thought it would suit you.” Between them they cajoled Geoffrey into putting on the suit. He wandered to the mirror, turned around to get a good look at his own tail. When he turned back he was almost in tears.
“I think it’s the best present I’ve ever had. I’ll never take it off.” The first was true because it was the only present he had ever had. The second would prove to be unfortunately close to the truth.
“And for you, Justin…” she reached into the other bag. On the desk she laid out a selection of Marks and Spencer meals for two. Curry, Chinese, and a crispy duck. The afterworld provided food, but on a very prosaic menu. Justin looked at her, tears forming in his eyes.
“Jalfrezi?”
“Oh yes. And a jar of lime pickle.” He rushed across and embraced her.
“How lovely.” Said Marcel. Mary gave him a look that could have cooked the curry.
“Have you put on weight, Marcel?” said Justin, looking at the evil side, who had his jacket buttoned to the neck.
“Not exactly.” Marcel unzipped the jacket and opened it wide. Hanging form the fabric inside were a large brown envelope, and bags and bags of cannabis resin. Kilos.
“Garth’s never had it so good.” Said Marcel. “I cleaned him out.”
“I don’t understand.” Said Geoffrey. “What is it?”
“It’s a mind expanding drug, Geoff.” Said Mary.
“Why would I want to have my mind expanded? Ooh, Bewitched!” Geoffrey turned his tail upon them and was oblivious to everything but the TV screen.
Justin, heating a chicken chow mien, filled them in on developments. He told them that the masses collected by Fiends Reunited were on the move, almost certainly to begin domination of the afterlife at the football fiesta, that they hadn’t been able to track them all; that the Gods now had their own stand at the football, which put them in the firing line for whatever the Fiends were hatching. Immortal they may be, but the leaders of the evildoers were no great respecters of religion and would no doubt be happy to pile on at least some ignominy, if not pain. The only upsides he could think of was firstly that he was rich, and secondly, that the source of his wealth, arms deals on A-Bay had dried up since the buyers had hit the road.
“Oh,” he said, “I thought we might go over there tomorrow. It’s the semi-finals.”
“Good idea.” Said Marcel. “Let’s go and put ourselves at risk of slaughter by a bunch of marauding murderers.”
“Ignore him.” Said Mary. “He’s reverted to type.”
“Dump him! He’s not good enough for you!” shouted Geoffrey, staring transfixed at the screen.
Jenkin had the unfamiliar sensation of an arm hooked in his as he and Melinda strolled to the top of the hill, where they sat on the grass and looked down at the small city below them.
“So where did you go? What did you do?”
“Oh, it’s not important Millie. I decided not to go ahead with it in the end, anyway. This place looks like it’s gone crazy.”
She sat upright.
“It’s been, just awesome. Some Amish folk built those bleachers for some celebrities or whatever. And,” she almost shivered with excitement, “apparently there’s gonna be a big fight. They don’t tell us much, but I hear that somehow all the shitheads got together and they’re gonna attack us. Loads a folks bin buildin’ fences and diggin’ and such.”
Jenkin had a sinking feeling.
“How did they get together?”
She shrugged. “Dunno. They reck’n it’s from some kinda Facebook or sump’n on The Afternet, but I don’t look at it.”
“And they’re going to attack here?” Shit.
“Yup. They’re on the way. Ron’s had a barnful of kittens.”
Shit. Why was he so stupid? He needed to talk to Ron.
“Did you play in the football?”
“Nah. They got guys. And Stacie. She kicked the shit out of Eye Ran, though.”
“I bet she did. I really need to go and see Ron.”
The girl looked at him.
“You not ok here with me?”
He looked embarrassedly down to her shinpads.
“Yes, of course. But I need to see what’s happening with this attack, see if I can help.”
“No offence, Jenk, but you’re not gonna pull up any trees, are ya?”
He pushed her gently on the shoulder and she collapsed dramatically to the grass. She looked up at him.
“Sure you wouldn’t rather stay here with me?”
Shit, again.
“I’m sure I would. But I can’t, not now. We’ll come back again, hey?”
She feigned a terminal disapproval, but allowed herself to be helped to her feet.
“I’m not impressed with you, Jenk.” For once, he almost was.
Ron was busy. He was always busy, now, and his steering wheel had developed a disconcerting itch; he barely acknowledged Jenkin.
‘What’s happening with this attack, Ron?” asked the young man when he had made his way back down the hill, allowing Millie to go back to her friends.
“Not really anything to do with me, Jenkin. I’ve got enough on my plate trying to organise this tournament.” He was shuffling papers on the desk in front of him.
Jenkin didn’t point out that it was probably going to be something to do with all of them.
“Who’s figuring out what to do, then?”
“Go and find Guntrick. He’s got some people together. Semi-finals this afternoon, you know.” Ron looked up from his paperwork with a combination of pride and excitement. “England versus Germany (excluding the Sudetenland), and Brazil versus China. Should be fantastic.”
“China?”
“Lot of people to pick from, apparently.”
“Great. Where’s Guntrick?” Ron waved off to his left and returned to his multicoloured sheets. Jenkin walked off in the indicated direction wondering what it could be about two games the following day that was taking so much time.
He found the Visigoths in a copse at the side of the hill, practising not charging. He watched as they hid, not entirely successfully, behind trees, trying to hide whilst Guntrick counted to fifty. There were issues. Each time, one of them would crack and leap into the open, running screaming down the hill with a blood-curdling guttural curse. After a few attempts, most of which had involved everyone peeking out to watch the sword in Franzel’s arse disappear, flapping, down the hill, Guntrick called a break.
“Hello Guntrick.”
“Ah. Jenkin. Any idea how I stop my lads from attacking?”
“Sorry Guntrick, warfare’s not really my area of expertise. What do you know about this attack?”
“We just know they’re coming, really. We don’t know when or where. Or how many for that matter. I’m beginning to think I should just let the lads charge them, pin a few of them down and ask them some questions. Course, we wouldn’t have this problem if some idiot hadn’t set up a way for them to get in touch with one another.”
Jenkin looked briefly to the sky, then back at the giant.
“Would it be useful if we could find out where, when, and how many?”
Guntrick shrugged, but looked vaguely interested.
“I suppose so. It’s not anything we ever paid a lot of attention to, to be honest. We’d never have crushed the Romans at Adrianople if we’d had any idea how many of them there were. We’d have gone off to find someone weaker. The other folks who are ready to fight are interested, though. Doesn’t matter, really, though, does it? We can’t find out.”
“I might be able to.”
Guntrick looked at him with a suspicious glance. “Are you on
e of them?”
“Oh yeah. You’d be terrified if I came over the hill at you, wouldn’t you?”
“Danger of dying of laughter Jenkin. No offence.”
None was taken, and Jenkin, the ‘idiot’ who had allowed the naughty people to hook up, arranged to see the leaders of the defence first thing in the morning. They met every morning, discussed tactics, and then basically despaired.
Jenkin went to see Ethel, with whom he had left his laptop. She handed it over and then looked gently at the young man.
“Are you going to tell me what happened?” she said.
“What happened where? I don’t understand what you mean.”
She gave a low ‘harrumph’.
“Come on Jenkin. You’re different somehow. You disappear for days and then you come back and it’s as though someone’s taken chunks of lead out of your pockets. You’re not jumping and dancing (Heaven knows what it would take to get you to do that), but something’s gone that was bothering you.”
Jenkin put on his surly face. If there is one thing an adolescent hates it is an adult being right. Even as he did it, though, he knew it felt like an affectation now, whereas before it had felt like, well, him.
“How do you know this stuff, Ethel? I know you didn’t have kids. How come you can just look at me and come out with this?”
The middle-aged woman smiled, almost blushed.
“Well, I was your age once. I was a bit of a terror, actually, not that you’d think that to look at me now. Stayed out after ten o’ clock one night- school night, mind- and my dad slapped my leg because he said he could smell beer on my breath. As if! It was barley wine. Besides, I’ve got a kid.” She cocked her head to the wooden structure where Ron, tongue out to one side of his mouth, was completing the complicated colouration of a large Union Jack.
“Thanks Ethel.” Jenkin waved the laptop and turned to go.
“Hey, hey hey. You didn’t answer my question. “What happened? Where did you go? Why were you with that horrible man?” He didn’t point out that this was now three questions.
The Complete Afternet: All 3 Volumes In One Place (The Afternet) Page 54
