by Heide Goody
She had black hair, cut in a severe Cleopatra style. From the back she had a boyish figure, but they saw that her face was lined. Heavy eye make-up dared them to cast her as old though. She gave them a challenging glare, an unlit cigarette hanging from the corner of her mouth.
“Er, yes, of course,” said Francis, knowing that she must be addressing him. He leant his weight against the large pink structure, only to find that it folded inwards and enveloped him. He gave a shout and backed out rapidly.
“It's latex,” explained the woman. “It'll fit through all right, it's just a bit of a handful. It's a fetish dragon costume for the parade.”
Francis looked at it critically.
“Is this thing a penis too? I mean, secwetly, metaphowically.”
“Isn’t everything?” said the woman.
Francis tried to gather folds of the quivering latex while Christopher stood by and laughed.
“It's true, you know,” said the woman. “It’s all penises. The world is ruled by penises. Politicians, bankers, priests. The people we're supposed to trust to run things. They're all knobs.”
Francis had become trapped in the latex again, so Christopher came and gathered the entire thing in his bulky arms and heaved it through the doorway. The pink dragon popped through like a cork, disgorging Francis onto a footpath that ran alongside the canal.
“Great, thanks,” said the woman, stepping back inside. “Now, who are you two and what are you doing in my gallery?”
“I’m Fwancis. This is Chwistopher.”
“Figures,” said the woman, taking out a little flame-making device to light her cigarette and then thinking better of it. “I’m Em. And I guess you’re not here just for a weekend of tolerance-themed partying and some heavy man-on-man action.”
Christopher was about to answer but was interrupted by the arrival of three people.
“Hi, guys,” said Joan as Wolfie and his henchman, Bonio, shepherded her through the curtain. Bonio had a livid bruise on the side of his head from where Joan had clonked him the night before.
“This place is closed,” said Em. “No visitors today.”
“He's got a gun,” announced Joan.
“I don’t care if he’s got a Turner Prize for me. We’re closed.”
Wolfie roughly shoved Joan forward past the penis car, the penis chair and an upright plastic contraption of pipes and concertina tubing.
“Is that a penis too?” said Christopher.
“No, that’s a vacuum cleaner,” said Em. “Although, given the whole witch/broomstick thing is a phallic metaphor, maybe it’s just an electric penis.”
“Enough of the mad talk,” said Wolfie.
“He says he wants more gold,” said Joan.
“Didn’t we leave him enough?” said Francis.
“I think we left him more than enough. Greed has worked its devilry upon his heart.”
“Really?,” said Em, shaking her head. “Are you really going to talk like a bad Shakespearean actor in a porn version of a Midsummer’s Wet Dream?”
“Who is this woman?” said Joan to Francis.
“Enough!” shouted Wolfie.
“No, it’s a good question.”
Matt, the newspaper-reading young man who had given them a lift the day before, casually entered the gallery.
“Knock knock,” he said. “Hi Joan. Francis. Interesting outfit, Joan. Kind of sexy.”
“Yes, what are you wearing?” said Francis.
“The man in the shop said it suited me,” said Joan.
“I bet he did,” said Matt. “But what you and Francis get up to in your spare time is none of my business.”
“See?” said Christopher. “He can’t see me. Never could.”
“But you, Mrs Van Jochem,” he said to Em. “What you get up to in your spare time is of the greatest interest to me.”
“You’re just an idiot who sticks his nose in where it’s not welcome,” said Em, with a roll of her eyes.
Wolfie turned and aimed his heavy pistol at Matt.
“I did not see that when I entered,” said Matt, his swaggering bravado instantly dented.
“I don’t give a damn who any of you are,” said Wolfie. “You in the dress!”
“Me?” said Francis. “This is a habit.”
“We all have habits friend, kinky or otherwise. Now give me my gold before I blow your house down.”
“Best do what he says,” said Joan. “Evelyn told me. Never argue with people with guns. Or badges.”
“Well, this is my badge,” said Matt, holding up his wallet to display a card embossed with a crest. “And there’s a dozen Dutch police officers outside with their shiny metal badges.”
“Well, this is my badge,” said Em, pointing to a coloured disc on her lapel that declared her to be a ‘Tofu Champion.’
Christopher could see that Joan was trying to calculate the relative importance of a Tofu Champion against a villain, so he decided to change the balance of things a bit. He hefted his weight against the 'Road Rage' installation.
“No!” yelled Em.
The tall structure crashed downward in the space between Matt and Wolfie, nearly crushing Bonio and knocking the gun from Wolfie’s hand.
“Patron saint of penis-shaped cars, that's me!” bellowed Christopher as the obscene sculpture smashed apart.
“Run!” yelled Francis, although Em had already done that, fleeing out of the canalside door.
Wolfie and Matt had both leapt for the pistol and rolled on the floor, wrestling among the fragments of the penis car. Joan turned on the stunned Bonio, drew her sword from the scabbard in his hand and laid him out with a flat-bladed blow to the other side of his head. Christopher could see that she was contemplating intervening in the scrap on the floor and barged her towards the rear exit before she could do the right thing.
The canal was packed with colourful boats laden with outlandishly dressed passengers. More people walked along the footpaths, sporting rainbow colours, painted faces and all manner of bizarre accessories.
“Aw crap,” said Em.
“What?”
Em pointed out three men in blue uniforms walking up the footpath in their direction.
“Police?” said Christopher.
“Do they have badges?” asked Joan.
Em held up the side of the pink latex sculpture.
“Enter the dragon!”
“What?”
“In! Now!”
Joan went behind Em, Christopher took the middle position and Francis went at the back. They had little handles to hold onto and Christopher found that they could animate the dragon somewhat by moving them around.
He took up the rhythm of some music from a boat that travelled alongside them in the canal. It was loud and joyous, so Christopher made the central part of the dragon leap in time.
“There are so many costumes,” said Joan. “So colourful! How lovely to spend time celebrating gayness.”
“You do know that 'gay' means 'homosexual' in modern parlance?” said Em from the front.
“Homosexual?” said Joan surprised. “As in…”
“Not straight,” said Em.
“What?” said Francis. “Men and, er, men?”
“That’s the one.”
“And the empress of Europe doesn’t punish them for their sinfulness?”
“Careful now,” said Em in a darkly warning tone.
“No, that can't be right,” Christopher chipped in. “I've seen lots of women joining in the party too.”
“Women can be homosexual too,” said Em.
Christopher roared with laughter at that.
“Oh, you are funny. Imagine that! How, I mean how would that even work?”
Em turned and fixed him with steely look, which wasn't easy when she was threading a path through the crowd for them.
“If I had the time, I'd draw you some diagrams, but right now we have more pressing problems.”
Christopher shut up, but giggled every
few minutes at the absurdity of the suggestion.
“Chwistopher!” came a loud whisper from behind.
“Yes Francis?”
“Someone else has joined us. He's holding onto my, er, my postewior!”
“Is it a policeman?” Christopher asked.
“No.”
“Well ask him what he's doing then.”
“Excuse me,” said Francis, slightly louder, and turning to the balding man behind him. “Who are you and what are you doing?”
“Hey, I'm Heinz from Helsinki,” drawled the man.
“Yes and..?”
“I saw your super-funky dragon and thought I'd insert myself.”
“That’s, um…”
“Peace and love, man.”
“If you say so.”
Francis turned back to the front and Christopher caught a glimpse of his tight-lipped expression. He shrugged and continued to make the dragon dance along to the music and tried to avoid staring at Joan’s leather-clad fundament jiggling in front of him.
It was a shame that the translucent material prevented them clearly seeing much of the festivities outside. Christopher wondered what their dragon costume looked like from the outside. He hoped it looked like a massive, undulating caterpillar but feared it was just another penis.
“I’m going to have dreams about penises for a month,” he muttered.
“I know,” said Heinz from the back. “Magical, isn’t it?”
“We’re going to have to ditch the dragon in a minute,” said Em up front.
“So soon?” said Heinz, disappointed.
“Round this corner and then I’m going one way and you lot are not to follow me.”
“We understand,” said Joan. “So that man, Matt, he’s like a thief-taker?”
“He’s British police. He could make a lot of trouble for me. And you’ve clearly met him before.”
“Only yesterday. So, does that mean you’re some sort of…”
“Criminal? I live on the edges. I do my own thing. Laws are made by cocks for cocks and you’ve got no right to judge me.”
“We all face judgement one day,” said Joan.
“Jeez,” sighed Em. “Definitely not to follow me. Now, three, two, one!”
The dragon collapsed into a rubbery heap at the side of the footpath with Heinz still happily entangled in its rear end. Christopher looked round to get his bearings. Em was already walking briskly up a side street, through the partying masses of men and women.
“We should head this way,” he said, pointing.
“Why?” said Joan.
“Travel’s my thing. Trust my instincts.”
In the direction he was pointing, Christopher saw Wolfie and a groggy-looking Bonio push through a group of men in grassy hula-skirts.
“Or not,” said Christopher.
“This way!” declared Joan.
They hurried down a narrow street through a flock of angels. Some had wings of traditional white, while others had shades of pink and baby blue. All of them had well-oiled six packs and muscly legs. Christopher squeezed through after Joan.
“Homosexuals!” he heard Francis squeak behind him. “They’re evewywhere!”
“Just think of them as angels,” said Christopher. “Imagine you’re back in the Celestial City. There’s Gabriel and Uriel and—”
“Whoa!” said Joan. “That one’s the spitting image of the Archangel Michael!”
They all paused for a moment to stare.
“Little pigs!” shouted Wolfie from somewhere not too distant, certainly not distant enough.
“Run!” yelled Joan.
“There!” said Christopher.
Down another street, Em stood by a motor vehicle. The door was open and there was a key in her hand.
“VW camper van,” said Christopher.
“What?”
“Our quick exit.”
Joan nodded tersely and ran to catch up with the woman.
“Em!”
Em looked at them and swore.
“I told you not to follow me! You followed me! That’s the exact opposite of not following me!”
“We don’t know where to go,” said Joan.
“Not my problem,” snarled the older woman, finally lighting the cigarette clenched between her lips.
Christopher grinned broadly and he ran his hand over the chassis of the vintage vehicle. The paintwork was blotchy in places and there were spots of rust, although it appeared that Em had attempted to cover most up with stickers and badges.
“I’ve had more prayers and curses directed my way about this beauty than any other vehicle,” he said to Francis. He tugged open the side door.
“Oh no you don't!” said Em, smacking his hand.
“But those men keep chasing us,” said Joan.
“What men?”
“Bad men.”
Em gritted her teeth and then her expression softened.
“I’m running you to the city limits and then you’re to leave me the hell alone. I’ve got enough problems.”
“Thank you!” said Joan.
The saints filed in through the side door while Em slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine.
“Let’s go!” said Christopher.
“Problem,” said Em.
Christopher looked up. Wolfie was stood at the driver’s window, gun aimed squarely at Em’s head.
“See? This is what happens when you’re nice to people,” said Em to herself.
“Gold,” panted Wolfie, breathless from running.
Christopher looked to Francis. Francis dug into his pockets.
“Oh.”
“What?”
“There’s good news and there’s bad news.”
“Now!” said Wolfie.
“The bad news is that, in all the kerfuffle, I’ve mislaid our gold.”
“Hand it over,” said Wolfie. “Or I’ll huff…” – he pulled back the hammer on his pistol – “and I’ll puff…”
At that instant, a large grey shape clattered round the corner and launched itself at Wolfie. The villain went down with a scream. There was a loud bang from the pistol and the distant tinkle of breaking glass.
The Wolf of Gubbio stood over Wolfie snarling and drooling into his face. Francis pressed his nose to the window, delight on his face. And then Em floored the accelerator and the three saints tumbled as one to the back of the van.
“Stop! Stop!” howled Francis. “We have to go back for him!”
“Keep going! Keep going!” yelled Joan and Christopher in unison.
Em took corners at terrifying speed, flinging the three of them from side to side. Only when they were passing the city’s outskirts did she slow down to a merely alarming speed.
“Let's find a good place to drop you off,” said Em. “I can't take you with me.”
“We appreciate your help,” said Joan. “Although our mission seems to have failed before it’s begun.”
Francis gazed gloomily out of the back window.
“Hey, buddy,” said Christopher. “At least you know he’s alive now.”
“I suppose so.”
“Anyway, you said there was good news and bad news. What’s the good news?”
Francis gave him a tiny smile and held aloft a fat brown rat.
“He was in my other pocket all along,” said Francis.
“Champion,” said Christopher sourly. “We lost all our gold and gained a pet rat.”
“Rat? What rat?” said Em from the front.
“Actually, I have a question,” said Joan.
“Just the one?” said Em.
“Yes. How come you can see and hear Christopher?”
Chapter 3 – Sint-Jan-in-Eremo
“Still not worked it out?” said Em.
“It’s because you’re an artist and trained to see what’s really there,” suggested Joan.
“You’ve ignored church teachings about my deletion perhaps,” said Christopher.
“You’
d like a little bit, wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t you?” cooed Francis.
The others looked at him.
Francis was feeding pieces of his hotdog to the rat. The delightful rodent – Always interested! Always sniffing! – gladly took the bread but turned its nose up at the sausage.
“Are you wasting good food on that thing?” said Christopher, stuffing the remainder of his hotdog into his giant gob.
The back roads leading south had, in the late afternoon, brought them back over the border into Belgium. Although Em had explained that country borders in the European Empire were no barrier to the imperial police officers, it seemed as good a time and place as any to stop in order to stretch legs, refuel the camper van and celebrate their freedom with a ‘hot dog’, a modern delicacy that Francis had been assured did not contain real dog. However, neither he nor the rat could identify exactly what meat it did contain. Francis was in half a mind to go back into the garage café and ask the man what it was.
“Okay,” said Em, sighing. “A clue.”
She ducked back in the open door of the camper van, came out with a blue and white tea towel and draped it over her head.
“Well, you’re no Mother Teresa,” said Christopher.
“Seriously? That’s your first guess?”
Em adjusted the tea towel, put her hands together and gazed upward in soppy doe-eyed devotion.
“Holy Mary, Mother of God!” gasped Joan.
“Bingo!” shouted Em, one index finger on her nose, the other pointed at Joan.
Francis looked at the woman narrowly.
“No,” he said. “The Blessed Mother looks… well, she doesn’t look like that.”
Em flung the tea towel back in the van, mussed up her hair and lit a cigarette.
“I’ll manifest how I damn well please, Franky-Boy. Black, white, Hispanic. Never done Aborigine, but I’m sure I will one day.”
“But that policeman called you Mrs van – what was it?”
“What? Mary van Jochem? I’ve had hundreds of names. Our Lady of the Gate of Dawn. Star of the Sea. Untier of fucking Knots. Names are nothing.”
“But this is great news!” said Joan. “I thought we’d failed but we’ve found you now and that’s fantastic.”
Em – Mary – shook her head.
“I don’t know what the Big Guy Upstairs wants but the answer’s no. I’m not going back just yet. I’ve got my own plans.”
