by Heide Goody
“Er, what shall I do with this?” James asked, still holding the cake.
“Ah, well remembered. Let me take that. Where’s the kitchen?”
He pointed through a door.
“Thank you, James.” She popped the kazoo in her mouth and tooted out a tune as she went through to the kitchen. She put the cake down on a table and straightened, looking round. The kitchen was small and dilapidated, but it was fully-functioning. There was a tiny map of sauce and gravy stains on the counter by the microwave, and a tell-tale smattering of food crumbs in front of the grill oven. Microwave ready meals and oven tray food. Consistent cooking for one. Polly imagined he had one favourite mug and none of the others got any use.
“Are you sure this is for me?” he called from the lounge, voice tremoring. “I don’t think it’s the kind of thing my brother would— What are you doing in there?”
“I’m preparing things.”
She opened a couple of cupboards, needing to know where she would find the key ingredients to make this mission successful. She spotted what she needed after a couple of tries. She carried on around the room, in case anything else looked useful. She had got halfway through the cupboards when he appeared in the doorway.
“But who are you?” His voice was rising, initial confusion being replaced by the certainty that this situation was profoundly wrong.
“I’m mother,” she said.
“What?”
“I said, I’ll be mother when we’re ready for a slice of cake.” She gave a loud whoop.
“Are you drunk?”
“I don’t know about you, but I’m always ready for a slice of cake!”
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Plates, James! Where do you keep your plates?”
He pointed wordlessly to a cupboard and Polly opened the door. “Perfect!” She clattered inside the cupboard and removed a small pile of plates. She wanted to keep alive the notion this was some sort of surprise arranged by a friend, although she suspected actual friends were thin on the ground. “I’m going to leave these here for a moment. Back into the lounge!”
She shooed him through as though he was a rabble of children rather than a tired, bewildered man. As she left the kitchen, she pulled a chair along with her. “Just borrowing this for a moment.”
She put the kitchen chair down in the centre of his lounge. She stepped back a little way, stared at it thoughtfully, then adjusted its position. “I want to make sure you’re sitting in the perfect spot for the entertainment.
“I normally just sit there,” said James, pointing at the sofa. It had a greasy sheen on the velour seat cushions, clearly marking his favourite spot.
Polly put her hands on her hips. “It’s a little bit like those old-fashioned shops that sell high-end stereo systems. They make you sit where the speakers sound best. I’m just doing the same thing here.” She turned the chair slightly. “Nearly there.”
He had a phone out. “I’m calling my brother. Was it Evan who booked you?”
“No, no, no,” she said, not sure if she was channelling the spirit of a headmistress or a dominatrix. “Put that down at once.”
“I don’t think he knew what he was doing if…”
She steered him to the chair, gently but insistently pushing the phone and his hand to one side. “We don’t want to spoil it for everyone,” she said, almost simpering.
“I’m not spoiling anything,” he said, neither angry nor apologetic. “It’s not even my birthday.”
Polly giggled. “Of course it’s not. Just sit, give me a moment and all will become transparently clear.”
James allowed himself to be sat down. Polly stepped back and eyed his position critically. She walked back and forth, using her hands to make a viewfinder.
“Do we need to do this?” he asked.
“Not bad.” She walked around behind him and pulled the handcuffs from her bag. She bent behind, took hold of his left wrist.
“Are you a proper party entertainer?” he asked. She clicked the bracelet around his wrist, let the chain drop over the chair back strut, and grabbed his right hand. He resisted too late. She had him before he could pull away.
“What are you doing?” he said loudly, his voice strangled to a squeak.
“Oh silly,” she said, stepping back. “You’ve heard of a captive audience, surely?”
He tried to stand and shake himself free, then sat down clumsily, twisting an arm. “Ah!”
“Be still, James. It’s to help you focus.”
His head whipped side to side to try to see her out of the corners of his eyes. “Is this – is this a kinky thing?”
She pulled a face, amused, saucy, and shocked. “Let’s see. Now, you must concentrate please, and save any questions for the end.”
“Who paid you to do this? You’re not a children’s entertainer at all.”
“Oh, no. This is strictly a show for adults.” She wondered where the words were coming from. She had slipped into a persona, a dark and mischievous persona, and she was loving it.
56
Hilde walked the length of the mead hall, making sure all was in order. The keel of the ship filled the entire building. Construction had been forced to move from her shed to the mead hall once it had become clear that her farfar would not budge on the monstrous dimensions.
The keel was crafted from enormous pieces of interlocking oak. She had cut those pieces herself, knowing how critical they were as they formed the backbone of the ship. The horizontal strakes were now in progress, and she had delegated work on those to various hammer-wielding Odinsons as there was a great deal to be done. As predicted, the noise of a dozen Odinsons hammering the iron nails was overwhelming. Hilde wore ear defenders, but she found it difficult to persuade her male relatives to consider their well-being above their self-image of manly swagger.
“Farfar,” she called when Ragnar strolled in. “We need to persuade everyone to wear their PPE.”
“PPE?” said Ragnar.
“Personal protective equipment,” shouted Hilde. “They’ll all be deaf by Yule if they don’t protect their ears. They should wear glasses for hammering, as well.”
“I’ll sort it,” said Ragnar. He walked across to Hilde’s planning table, which was covered with diagrams and timetables. She had schedules for everything from the sawing of the wood (so that the build was kept supplied with planks as they were needed) to the procurement of specialist tools (where they would either need to engage with a hire firm, or discreetly borrow what they needed while the owner wasn’t paying attention). There was also an overall project plan that carefully spliced in the building of the vessel with other activities that traditionally involved the mead hall. The biggest headache was the upcoming Yule celebrations. There would be feasting for the whole community, so Hilde had planned for the ship to have reached a point where it would contain benches, so that they could have their traditional celebrations inside the body of the ship. It was the only viable option as it would, by then, fill the entire hall.
As Hilde watched, Ragnar grabbed a sheet of blank paper and a felt tip pen. He inscribed a poster in bold runic script.
* * *
By Order of Odin
For all who want to be blind and/or deaf,
we will perform the ceremony with the sacred spear as part of the yule sacrifice.
To be considered for this honour, leave off the equipment Hilde recommends for protection.
* * *
Hilde nodded with approval as Ragnar pinned the sign where everyone would see it.
“What was that?” said Hilde, as she heard a different noise below the tink tink tink of hammers.
“Dint hear owt,” said Ragnar.
Hilde eyed him. The air of studied innocence was a dead giveaway. “It were a pneumatic tool,” she said. The tell-tale hiss-thump formed a bass note which shuddered through her feet as it sounded again. She walked off to see where it was coming from. As she suspected, she found Yngve with a p
neumatic nail gun. He was firing them into the strakes.
“What are you doing?” she shouted.
“Ragnar said we should do what we can to speed things up,” said Yngve, more than a little defensively.
“I did that,” said Ragnar, coming up behind them. “Lad’s been and got this. Ingenious, no?”
Hilde sighed. “It’ll be great for benches and internal fitments and such like, but we need the strakes to be riveted, with the nails going into them roves behind. The entire hull will flex when it’s at sea. We can’t afford to have weak joints.”
Yngve looked to Ragnar. “But it’s a top machine, this is. Quality!”
“Do as Hilde says,” said Ragnar. “It’s a fine machine, no doubt, but we’ll use it another time. Back to hammering.”
Yngve lugged the nail gun away, crestfallen.
“Tha’d best come and see this other machine,” said Ragnar, clapping a hand on Hilde’s shoulder.
Hilde feared the worst. Ragnar led her out of the mead hall and into one of the smaller buildings nearby. Gunnolf was inside, poring over a workbench. He looked up as they entered.
“I reckon I’ve got the hang of this thing now.”
“Oh, a router,” said Hilde. She had one in her own workshop, but she didn’t mention that, as Gunnolf had obviously sourced his own.
“Gunnolf’s practising carving the sacred runes, so’s he can do them on the ship when it’s time,” said Ragnar.
“Good idea,” said Hilde. It made a lot of sense. The runes would have been chiselled by the Vikings, and a router was a modern, electric chisel of sorts. It would speed up one small part of the job. “What are you carving?”
“Well,” said Ragnar, his chest swelling with pride. “Don’t want to waste wood, so Gunnolf’s creating a saga that’ll go round the wall of t’ mead hall.” He drew a hand across the wall at shoulder height to illustrate his vision.
“A saga?” Hilde asked. “Of Vikings of old?”
“Well, yes and no,” said Ragnar. “It’ll not be long. Just a short saga. It’ll detail the exploits of us Odinsons on us ship.”
“But … but how can we have exploits when we haven’t built it yet?” Hilde was confused.
“Ach, we can do most of it wi’ a little bit of poetic licence,” said Ragnar. “Tek a look.”
Hilde saw there were already three planks stacked to one side, carved with writing. She inclined her head to read what they said. The execution of the lettering visibly improved along the length of the first plank.
* * *
Gulls and seals screeched a warning as the fearsome dragen was seen through the waves.
* * *
“You’ve spelled dragon wrong,” she said.
“That’ll be the Viking spelling,” said Ragnar automatically. “None of tha Saxon spellings here.”
Hilde just about stopped herself from rolling her eyes. “And do seals screech? I’m not sure—”
“—You do the building, we’ll tek care o’ the writing, lass,” said Ragnar firmly. “Now, Gunnolf lad, mebbe you should write t’ saga out on paper before doing the routing, eh?”
Hilde returned to her planning table, as she had a few wrinkles to sort out in the overall project plan. An unexpected figure was waiting there.
“Hey, Farmor.”
Astrid Odinson – Hilde’s grandma and Ragnar’s wife – was like no other Odinson. Hilde had once come across the word ‘sanguine’ in a book and, after looking it up in a dictionary, concluded it was a word that entirely described her farmor. Whereas every other Odinson tended to a greasy and emaciated look, like they had been raised on a diet of gruel and engine oil, Astrid was round and rosy-cheeked. She was filled with colour and hope and life itself. She loved the Viking lifestyle, but loved it a little differently to everyone else. There were those who loved quaffing and feasting, and then there was Farmor Astrid who brewed the finest quaffing mead and the lightest feasting bread. Every one of her grandchildren would receive a decidedly Viking soft toy, stitched by farmor’s hands – cloth doll warrior men and warrior women, cuddly goats and sea serpents. In her hammock (hidden between two pillows), Hilde still had her plump eight-legged horse, Sleipnir. Old Slippy was made from neatly stitched denim, with red button eyes.
Astrid was as Viking as the rest of them, but Viking like none of them.
Hilde bent to give her a kiss. “What brings you into this noisy place?”
If there was one thing Hilde associated her grandmother with, it was peace and quiet. She was the calm anchor to Ragnar’s crazy ambitions.
“I heard that the build is getting along nicely, so I thought I’d come and see for myself. It’s starting to look like a boat.”
“It is,” said Hilde. “A ship.”
“Yes, said her grandmother peering across at the structure. “So where will the benches go?”
“Across the width of it,” said Hilde, pointing. “Why do you ask?”
“I thought I’d make a start on some cushions,” said Astrid.
“Cushions?” Hilde was stunned, then realised this was her farmor, and of course there would be cushions. Possibly embroidered with hearts and flowers (along with the expected dragons and lightning and such). “I see. Everyone will be so pleased if you do, although maybe there’s something you could do that might be of more practical value—?”
Astrid gave her a look.
“—Or cushions. Yes of course.”
57
James Huntley looked up at Polly. His sweaty face reflected anguish, confusion and fear. He was little more than half her age, but time had not been kind to that face. A pitiful, ravaged, lonely man. A guilty and cowardly man.
Polly took measured steps across the room, like a gymnast about to perform a floor routine. “And now! The fans!” she shouted. She held a fold-out fan in each hand and flicked them out to display them fully. She held them aloft and stalked across the room. She was certain her moves were more attention-seeking than erotic, but James had widened his eyes, assuming perhaps that she was about to perform some sort of strip tease. She continued, striking lots of different poses to keep his attention. She added a song to the mix, turning to These Boots are Made for Walking as it struck the right tone. She didn’t think it mattered that she wearing a pair of comfortable ladies Skechers shoes rather than actual boots. Once she’d started thinking about Nancy Sinatra, it seemed natural to turn to Frank. She segued into New York, New York, and added plenty of kicks. They were not quite as high as she would have liked, but she didn’t want to get carried away and injure herself by having too much fun.
“How are we liking the show?” she called at James. “Any requests?” She peered at him over the top of her fan, fluttering it lightly.
He muttered faintly.
“Sorry James, speak up! What was that?”
“Ferry Cross the Mersey,” he said. “I always liked that one.”
“Of course!” Polly pulled a feather boa from the bag and held it aloft, channelling a hybrid of burlesque performer and football hooligan. It took her a few moments to remember how the song started, but as soon as her mind had plucked the opening line from her memory, she crooned her way through the entire song. She added in vocal flourishes, based on every terrible pub singer she’d ever heard, building to an impassioned climax.
“So, now I will astound you with some close up magic. I will need your car keys. Where will I find those, James?”
James started to move his arms, grunting with frustration when he remembered he was tied to the chair. “You going to steal it?” he said.
“An old Vauxhall? Hardly worth stealing, wouldn’t you say?”
He frowned.
“Ah,” she said. “Probably wondering how I knew what car you had, eh?”
“The keys are—”
“Yes!” she said, grabbing them from the table nearby. She repositioned the table in front of him with the keys at their centre.
“I will now cover these up with a cloth,” she sa
id. “I want you to watch them very, very closely, otherwise you’ll miss the good part. Are you watching?”
He grunted, a possible affirmative. Polly reached down into her bag, removed the snorkel mask and popped it over his head. He gave a small shriek of shock.
“What the— Mmmph!”
She wiggled the mouthpiece between his lips. “Do not spit it out, or I shall be very angry,” she said.
There was another brief mmph from James, but he complied.
“Doing the magic now, keep your eyes on the cloth.”
She found her roll of duct tape, located the end and pulled it free of the roll. The sound made James turn his head slightly, but before he could react, the duct tape was around his head, securing the snorkel in place. Round she went, two, three times. She made sure she kept his nostrils free, so that he could breathe, but there were no gaps around his mouth.
“Isn’t this fun?” she said, giving his cheek a little waggle.
“Mmph!” he honked down the snorkel tube.
She fanned herself. “Time for some refreshments, I say.”
James tried to speak and shout through the snorkel, but all that came out was a drowning tuba sound. “Mwamph! Mwamph! Mwamph!”
She slipped into the kitchen, returning with the small bottle of cheap vodka she’d spotted in there earlier, and a tumbler. She poured a very generous measure and held it out to him. “A drink, James?”
Through the glass visor, he gave her a perplexed and hateful look. She took hold of his snorkel and tipped the shot down. He coughed a second, then swallowed hard.
“Gosh, you were a thirsty boy, weren’t you? Another?”
She held the vodka bottle up to pour more. He was ready this time and lashed out with his feet. The edge of his heel clipped her ankle painfully. She stepped away round his side, out of reach. He screamed – “Mwaph-a! Mwamph! Mmmf!” – and tried to tear his head away. Polly poured another generous measure of vodka into the snorkel.