The Valkyrie

by Charlotte Vassell

  “So Apollo.” Freya said sternly.

  “Yes, Apollo.” Liberty was not entirely sure in which direction Freya was going to take the conversation (to use her vision to see it in advance would ruin all the fun).

  “I had sixteen voicemails today from him, all of them about you. He appears to think that as a Valkyrie you are contractually unable to get married whilst serving and that you have another two hundred and twelve years of service left on an unbreakable contract.” said a weary Freya.

  “You didn’t correct him did you?” asked Liberty anxiously.

  “Of course I did. I’m not getting involved in your bollocks.”

  “Aw no, I’ve been using that as an excuse for the last three days.”

  “Listen I don’t care who your father is or how bloody good you are at your job, you are not embroiling Asgard in any Olympian disputes.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Liberty

  “I’m telling you that if you go all of Helen of Troy on me I will shut that shit down. You can’t hide behind us forever. Would it not be easier to just succumb to a guy like that?”

  “What do you think eternity with him would be like?” Liberty knew that Freya would already have a concrete opinion about that.

  “He’s either going to go a bit odd and never let you leave the house or he’ll get bored of you very quickly and get back to shagging any odd nymph he can find. That or kill you. Look Apollo’s a catch. He’s a sun god who writes poetry and he’s so fit. So he’s a little bit defective, but they all are. You’re never really going to do any better so you may as well settle. You can learn to love him or at least develop Stockholm Syndrome or something, so what’s the problem?”

  “I can’t foresee it but I have this gut feeling that it will all end in a Greek tragedy.”

  “Gut feelings are just prejudices that we attempt to rationalise.” Freya said trying desperately to solve a problem like Liberty. At this point Freya had felt that she had done as much as she could to avoid too much grief from Apollo later and wandered off. Glory, Honour and Bea returned from the bar with glasses of mead. Bea handed one over to Liberty who sorely needed it.

  “Was Odin taking the piss when he named Freya as goddess of war and love?” asked Bea.

  “He is decidedly lacking in humour.” Honour said.

  “Are you okay Liberty?” asked Glory concernedly.

  “Yeah I’m fine.” Liberty was clearly not fine.

  The annoying girl who had sat next to Bea and tried to befriend her at the careers talk had spotted her through the crowd and came rushing over. Glory noticed her approach and rolled her eyes as Honour and Liberty stood there fascinated by the utter annoyingness of the girl. The girl was wearing Freya’s colours.

  “Hey girlfriend.” said the annoying dryad.

  “Hey, so I see you’re one of Freya’s handmaidens now. That’s almost cool.” Bea said.

  “Yeah, it’s pretty awesome. Oh I’m Amethyst by the way I don’t think I had a chance to tell you earlier. Today was so awesome; I went shopping for toe rings. Tomorrow I get to go on the hunt for the elusive perfect nail varnish remover. It takes off all the varnish, whilst leaving your cuticles soft and smelling scrummy. It’s all so awesome.” said Bea’s new friend Amethyst.

  “Oi, fuck off.” Glory barked like a Doberman. Amethyst looked bewildered and backed off like a wounded rabbit.

  “Such a fucktard. She described Freya’s piss. What strange dryads you attract Bea. Anyone want some more mead?” Glory asked having noted the abundance of empty glasses in their hands.

  “I need some.” Liberty said.

  “Ditto. What do you think of mead Bea?” Honour asked. Glory and Liberty walked off towards the bar get some more pints leaving the other two to talk.

  “I like it, it’s quite yummy.” Bea was heard to say.

  ***

  Glory and Liberty were standing at the bar both trying to make eye contact with an inattentive barmaid when they both felt an arm go around their shoulders. Liberty’s face fell; she had seen this one coming. Standing in the middle of them, like the pervy ham in a Valkyrie sandwich, was Odin. Odin was old; he was less of a silver fox and more of a flasher mac type.

  “Is your new girl a virgin? I like to break them in. How old is she?” Odin liked them young.

  “Lord Odin, good evening.” Liberty said, holding the rage in.

  “I’m not sure off the top of my head.” Glory said diplomatically.

  “Is she legal?” Odin asked.

  “Since when did you care? Don’t mix business with pleasure your lordship; it’ll get you into all sorts of trouble.” Glory was surprised that she got away with saying that.

  “Too right you are, too right.” Odin said with mirth as he placed his hand on Liberty’s arse.

  “Mead your lordship?” asked Liberty.

  “Why yes thank you.” Odin said. Glory had finally signalled to the awful barmaid who handed her a pint into which she slyly dropped a little blue pill while Odin stared at Liberty’s tits.

  “Here you go.” Glory said handing over the unholy pint.

  “Thank you Glory. I trust I will be seeing more of the both you this evening, together, naked?” asked Odin, again.

  “That is a most tantalising offer, but as always we take our solemn duty very seriously, very seriously indeed.” Glory said gravely.

  “Unfortunately we’re busy at the moment, what with the Second Korean War coming up. You can expect the documents soon.” Liberty was still being touched up by the old pervert.

  “Erm quite, quite.” Odin said.

  “Good evening, Lord Odin.” Liberty glanced at Glory.

  “Good evening.” Glory said as both of the girls curtseyed and excused themselves with a pint in each hand.

  “Ew!” Liberty was trying hard not to convulse and spill the mead down her dress.

  “How did you not see that one coming with your vision, it was as broad as day?” asked Glory.

  “I did, I took one for the team.” Liberty was still really creeped out.

  “I’ll chalk it up on the pervert board in the kitchen. That earned you at least an extra lie in next week.”

  “What did you put in his drink?” Liberty was buoyed by her friend’s mini revenge.

  “He’ll soon find out.” Glory said. She looked proud of herself. They strolled back to Honour and Bea and give them their pints. They toasted to their good fortune and all took long sips of their drinks.

  “Drink up girls The Queen’s Head awaits.” Honour said excitably.

  “Bottoms up.” they all said in unison.

  “Oh gods, Sigyn alert.” Glory said.

  “Does she know?” Liberty asked Glory.

  “Of course not.” Glory said.

  “Know what?” asked Bea as the tepid Sigyn ambled over. She was a mousy creature, who you wished would soon have some form of small breakdown during which she’d discover her own indomitable spirit. Sigyn was sad to look at and even sadder to think about.

  “Hello girls, how are you this evening?” asked Sigyn.

  “Sigyn, great. How are you?” said Honour.

  “Never ask her that, she’s the type of twat who will actually tell you.” hissed Glory at Honour.

  “I’m great, I bought some new crochet patterns this morning. I’m branching out into doilies. So exciting. Very intricate they are…” said Sigyn breathily.

  “Fascinating, have you met Bea our newest member?” Liberty said before Sigyn could tell them any more about her doily ambitions.

  “Oh no, hello. How lovely.” Sigyn shook Bea’s hand rather limply.

  “Hello, nice to meet you.” Bea said.

  “Awfully sorry Sigyn, but we’re just about to leave. We’re under deadline.” Glory said.

  “Oh, of course. Well I was about to say that…” said Sigyn about to start up again, but it was too late the girls had all turned tail and left.

  “Bye, Sigyn, bye.” Honour said over her shoulder.
/>   “What doesn’t she know?” Bea asked Liberty quietly.

  “Glory is sort of shagging her husband Loki.” Liberty said even quieter.

  “It’s only oral. That doesn’t count.” Glory said as the merry quartet stormed out of Valhalla and on towards to The Queen’s Head.

  Publicans & Presidents

  The Queen’s Head used to be a proper East End boozer and that was how Glory liked to remember it. It was Victorian in origin and still had some of its grimy Jack the Ripper charm. The windows were stained glass and the carpet beer stained from shakily held glasses. There were less old men in there these days but more young men dressed old with their ironic facial hair and penny farthings, or whatever ludicrous retro-vintage fad was going on that week. There were a few regulars, like Ted who didn’t say much and Bert and Arthur who squabbled over articles in The Daily Express, but more and more the clientele were nice boys and girls, from nice families, who had nice jobs and edgy haircuts. Honour had once seen a television show called Eastenders and was convinced that the show would have to end when the cafe was taken over by a gluten free bakery and the laundrette became a pop-up art gallery come restaurant come performing arts venue. Geoff the landlord couldn’t complain, he was raking it in from all these ironic sherry drinkers, but he harked back to the good old days when pork scratchings were eaten in earnest and you could be casually homophobic and no one gave a shit. That night was the pub quiz and Geoff stood near the bar in his blue polo shirt reading out tremendously easy questions in a monotonous fashion. The girls all had a minimum of three drinks each already on the table and there was hardly any room for the answer sheet.

  “Right, number eleven: who was the first black President of The United States of America?” asked Geoff.

  “Not a clue. Geoff why do you ask such trivial questions? When’s the round on thermonuclear dynamics?” asked Glory with zero irony.

  “I don’t know why they ask questions about US politicians. Their Presidents are the least powerful people in the country. Liberty you should know this they idolise you." Honour said to a distracted Liberty.

  “Fat lot of good it’s done them. Val knows this kind of froth. Anyone want another?” asked Liberty as she did the international drinking hand signal to the group as she went to the bar. Zoë the bar maid rushed over after spotting her opening and quickly cleared away the empties. They were running out of shot glasses.

  “I couldn’t get through to Val on the phone this arvo.” Honour said.

  “Val leaving us at a time like this with this wretched pub quiz, t’was very selfish of her.” Glory said.

  “It was George W. Bush, wasn’t it?” said Honour.

  “Sounds like a good enough guess to me. Bea put that down.” Glory said as Bea wrote Obama down on the sheet.

  “Liberty’s a bit off this evening. Normally she’d have got that question, or she would have at least cheated by predicting Geoff reading out the answer in an hour’s time, even though she knows I strongly disapprove of that sort thing.” Honour said.

  Liberty came back to the table with a round of Tequila. The Valkyries made quite a sight to see, but gods are only ever truly seen by mortals when they let them. To the onlookers in the pub they merely looked like a group of stunningly attractive, overdressed girls having a good time. It was like seeing something extraordinary out of the corner of your eye and then dismissing what you glimpsed as a fabrication. The questions rolled on and the drinks poured.

  ***

  “Question number 42: who wrote Sense & Sensibility?” read Geoff.

  “Who gives a flying fuck?” asked Glory who was beginning to get a little shouty drunk. That wasn’t a good sign. That usually meant that some shit was going to go down at some point in the evening.

  “Really Glory, that’s not the spirit of things.” Honour was beginning to think Glory’s lack of sportsmanship was, well, dishonourable to the team and other players.

  “That wasn’t a rhetorical question.” Glory said.

  “Calm down over there or I will have to disqualify you. What was your team name again?” asked Geoff, this being the sixth time he’d threatened to disqualify their team for Glory’s lack of decorum.

  “I don’t know that I can read it out…” Bea tailed off.

  “Oh, oh, oh” said Liberty.

  “Are you coming?” asked Glory.

  “No, I actually know the answer.” Liberty said proudly.

  “It’s Jane Austen.” Glory was sure she had once stood next to dear Jane at a ball and they bonded over how dull it all was, although she couldn’t for the life of her remember why she felt the need to dance a cotillion in the first place. The Nineteenth Century (Common Era) was a bit of a giddy blur to Glory.

  “You thief. You stole my thunder.” Liberty burst into a fit of giggles “Thunder? Oh come on it’s funny.”

  “What’s fucking Apollo like Liberty? No? You’re not going to answer that are you? That’s a bonus round question. Anyone want some coke? I want some coke.” said Glory.

  “Yeah alright, but only if it’s the good stuff.” Honour said. Glory and Honour got up and wobbled off to the disabled loos together to do lines of Honour’s house keys. The questions continued rolling on by like tumbleweed, the drinks were overflowing and the lines were all snorted.

  ***

  Liberty’s cheeks were numb and the room spun above her. She could feel the throb of a vision coming on again but every time she tried to focus all she could see were those bastard flowers from earlier but they were becoming more and more pressing. Liberty didn’t recognise the variety but she thought they looked like lilacs. She could feel her chest tighten with the weight of fate. That night was going to be something. Bea had been a little quiet since they got to the pub.

  “What did you think of Valhalla Bea?” asked Liberty.

  “It was interesting.” Bea said tactfully.

  “It’s a shit hole. Odin is a pervert; there are so many chairs I’d rather sit on. And Freya, how one deity can be both that lazy and have that degree of influence is beyond me.” Liberty said slurring a little.

  “Liberty, are you drunk?” asked Bea.

  “Oh yes.” Liberty said.

  “Do you love Apollo?” asked Bea catching Liberty off guard.

  “No, I don’t. He’s cute but deranged” Liberty said “Although, he’s a good fuck you know?”

  “I don’t.” Bea said.

  “You don’t? What, you’re still a virgin? No, don’t say it too loudly that’s highly sort after amongst some of the less gentlemanly gods. I’d screw you.”

  “Promise?” asked Bea.

  “You can have all the foresight in the universe but when presented with such a god as Apollo. I turn into this, this puddle. It’s nine inches deep and I drown in it. I don’t want to marry him. I’ve got to be smart. He gets obsessions quite frequently but proposing marriage is something quite else. In truth I’m worried. You see I have this weak spot for poets or really any guy with low self-esteem and a notebook. As does Glory, our taste in guys overlaps there. On top of that Drunk Liberty is Sober Liberty’s worst enemy; she sabotages Sober Liberty all the time like a sloppy Dr Jekyll. Gods I’m snookered. I should have taken Glory’s advice and stayed away. Say something pretty and tell me you love me and I’ll be yours.”

  “Say something pretty and tell me you love me.” Bea said.

  “Oh Bea, you are a funny bugger aren’t you.” Liberty said laughing as Glory and Honour came back buzzing with another bottle of bloody tequila.

  “What did we miss?” asked Honour, fully aware that they’d all stopped paying attention to the pub quiz about forty minutes previously.

  “A fair amount.” Bea said.

  “Geoff? Geoff? What’s going on? Is it the scores yet? Did we win?” yelled Glory.

  “Calm down you. Now the quiz is out of 100. I’m going to announce the top three first and then the team that came last, who are the winners of this week’s booby prize. In third place was Qu
izted Sister, 83 points. In second place was The Quizanthropes, 85 points and big round of applause first place goes to The Quiztery Machine, 93 points, a bottle of Blossom Hill for you. Coming in last is team” he said pausing, squinting at the page before continuing “I lost my virginity at age, 14 points.” He jabbed his finger at Glory, in frustration “Any more from you and you’re barred.”

  “Don’t be silly darling Geoffrey. You’d go under in a week without me. What’s the booby prize? It best be worth it.” Glory said.

  “It’s my ex-wife’s old plug-in foot spa. She only used it a few times.” Geoff said.

  “That is suitably shit. Bravo Geoffrey, bravo.” said Glory.

  “More booze yeah, more booze.” Liberty said as she poured herself more shots.

  ***

  The pub was beginning to bustle with Hackney’s finest before the karaoke carnage began, a tone deaf petit bourgeoisie got up to sing Bonnie Tyler ironically, kicking it all off into full ear-bleeding swing. A few chequered shirted men had propped themselves up at the bar and were debating the merits of moustache wax whilst their girlfriends chatted about the yeast cultures growing in their airing cupboards. One had multiple facial piercings and a barrister father, and the other worked in a boutique t-shirt shop and was trying really hard not to let the outside world know that as a child she had a pony called Effie-May.

  “Alright before the karaoke let’s play a game.” Glory said.

  “Let’s play Massacre.” Honour said excitedly.

  “Yes.” Glory said.

  “What’s that?” asked Bea.

  “We pick groups of mortals who we’d happily murder for the sake of it because something about them pisses us off. I’m not sure that it’s technically a game, as I don’t know how you win.” Honour said.

  “You win by actually doing it.” Liberty said solemnly.

  “It has happened before.” Glory said.

  “Bubonic plague…” Liberty said.

  “Never play this game with Ares or Fortune. They’ll both carry it out. Even I draw the line at that, well for the time being anyway.” Glory said winking.