The Parodies Collection

by Adam Roberts

Robert gasped. Directly opposite Sauna-Lurker’s office door was a mural, or ‘wall painting’, of Leonardo’s celebrated Last Supper, filling the space from floor to ceiling. Christ sat benignly harmonious in the middle behind a table laden with food, whilst his disciples reeled and leant away from him on both sides. A particularly juicy looking painted codfish occupied the plate directly in front of the figure of Christ. It’s beady little eye seemed to follow Robert around the room, almost quizzically. It was rather offputting. ‘The Last Supper,’ he observed. ‘Is this the original?’

  ‘Of course not,’ snapped Sophie, annoyance flashing attractively in her violet eyes. ‘The original is in the Santa Maria della Grazie, in Milan. This is merely a copy.’

  ‘That’s a relief,’ said Robert. ‘Because if it were the original, it would be very worrying that somebody had scribbled graffiti on it.’

  ‘No!’ cried Sophie.

  ‘They have too. There.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘There – on the hair.’

  ‘Where on the hair?’

  ‘Just there.’ Robert pointed at the graffito, scribbled in red across the hair-do of the central Christ. A little red graffito, there on the hair, saying: 9 Θ ?

  They both looked at it for long seconds. ‘What does it mean?’ Sophie asked.

  ‘I’ve not the slightest inkling of a foggiest,’ said Robert. ‘Not a clue. Not a clue.’ He repeated this phrase, apparently finding particular fascination in the final word. ‘Not a cluh-ew. Not a cloo. Not a cluue. Not . . .’

  ‘Alright, alright,’ said Sophie, hurriedly. ‘You’ve got a notepad. Write it down. We’ll try and decipher it later.’

  As Robert scribbled the strange rebus in his pad, Sophie tried the door to Sauna-Lurker’s office. It opened at once.

  ‘Good grief,’ said Robert, looking past her.

  Sauna-Lurker’s office was a mess. Papers were scattered on the floor. Books were pulled from the shelves. The desk was overturned. Blood was scattered over everything. Papers were scattered - or did I already mentioned the scattered papers?

  It was a mess, that’s the important thing.

  ‘Do you smell that?’ Sophie asked, sniffing the air. ‘Codfish. This is where the murder was actually committed. Here Monsieur Sauna-Lurker was attacked; the cuts were made to the side of his face, and the large fish was stuffed into his throat. He put up a struggle, evidently, but his assailant was too strong for him.’

  ‘But the body was found upstairs . . .’

  ‘Yes. Even though he couldn’t remove the fish, and had only moments of life left to him, he did not simply lie down and die. Instead he left this room. I’m guessing that he dipped his finger in his own blood, went through to the hallway outside and wrote that strange message on the mural of the Last Supper.’

  ‘But – why?’

  ‘He was trying to communicate something to us. Something he wanted us to know, but which he hoped to keep secret from the murderer. Can you not decipher it? You are, after all, an expert at codes, clues, anagrams, acrostics and monkey-puzzle-trees?’

  ‘I’m giving it some thought, alright?’ said Donglan, defensively. ‘I’m sure the answer will come to me in a moment. Let my brain lie fallow. Let the answer assemble itself. Trying to force it would be the worst thing I could do, believe me. Give me time, it’ll come to me.’

  ‘This is hopeless,’ said Sophie, looking around. ‘This is just a mess.’

  ‘Why didn’t the assassin finish off Sauna-Lurker right here?’ asked Robert. ‘Why did he let his victim get out of the room and write a message on the wall opposite?’

  ‘He must have been distracted,’ said Sophie, distractedly. ‘Perhaps he was looking for something,’ she added, rifling through the scattered papers as if looking for something, ‘which gave Jacques just enough time to get out of the room. It hardly mattered. His doom was sealed.’

  ‘Looking for what?’

  ‘Something well hidden. So.’ She walked out of the office and stood looking at the graffito’d mural. ‘He staggered out here, the fish in his throat, and wrote that on the mural. He knew he could not simply write out a straightforward message, or the assassin would see it and understand. So he put it in code. Then he made his way upstairs, wrote his final message on the wall of the main gallery, and died.’

  ‘Nine-tiny-h-in-a-circle,’ Robert tried out, standing next to her. ‘Question Eye? It doesn’t make a whole lot of sense.’

  ‘Surely,’ Sophie purred, leaning closer to him. ‘If anybody can decipher it, you can.’

  Robert’s heart made little thrumming skips in his chest. Was this extremely alluring young French-woman flirting with him? Could it be that she found him attractive? Were sparks flying? Was the chemistry between them clicking? Was this going to be the first day of the rest of their lives? Could it be that it only takes a minute, it only takes a minute girl to fall in love? He stopped, all his clichés used up. Now now, Robert, he inwardly warned himself. Let’s not get ahead of yourself. Of myself, rather. Is what he thought, I mean.

  He looked down at Sophie’s well-proportioned face, with its full French lips and violet French eyes, and imaged French kissing it. Then he imaged eating French toast. Then, for reasons that were not clear to his conscious mind, but presumably related to some buried logic of the subconscious mind, he thought of ‘Frenchie’, the character from Grease. Then he thought of Olivia Newton John. His mind was running away with itself. He was becoming intoxicated with the proximity of this beautiful creature.

  ‘Um,’ he said, finally. ‘I’m sorry, what was the question again?’

  ‘Can you decipher it?’ she repeated.

  ‘Um,’ he said.

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ she said sharply. ‘Well, if you can’t perhaps there is somebody in this city who can. Indeed - perhaps Monsieur Sauna-Lurker was giving us a clue as to that person’s identity.’ She pointed at the mural again.

  Next to the figure of the Christ was Thomas, with his hand raised beside his face and his finger pointing straight up. To this, dying Sauna-Lurker had added a single curving line, like a mirror-image of a question mark. It looks, thought Robert, it looks like . . .

  ‘A hook!’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Sophie. ‘And it just so happens that I know that a certain Father Thomas Hook, of Our Lady of the Silver Scales in Bankside, was a good friend of a certain Jacques Sauna-Lurker.’

  The sound of footsteps was becoming audible, banging down the staircase, coming closer. Well, the sound wasn’t coming closer. The sound waves were simply in the air, and indeed in Sophie and Robert’s ears, and remained in place. But the feet that were making the sound were coming closer.

  ‘Come on,’ urged Sophie. ‘Father Hook will be able to decipher the strange code. We’ve got to get to him!’ She hauled him through the Fire Exit at the far end of the little hallway, and up a spiral staircase into the night.

  4

  The Exterminator stepped out into the clear night air. He had enjoyed himself at the brothel as only a man who had successfully completed an extermination can do. Now he had new tasks to complete, more vermin to be purged from the world, his near-sacred mission to be continued. He chuckled to himself as he strode down the street.

  Always stay one step ahead of your foe, he thought to himself.

  He walked up Blackfriars road towards Blackfriars bridge.

  5

  Robert and Sophie hurried up the Strand on foot, heading towards the location of the Church of Our Lady of the Silver Scales. Robert’s head spun. Not literally spun, of course; not like that scene in The Exorcist, that would be just weird. And would suggest that he was possessed by the Devil. Which he wasn’t. As far as I know. But his head span metaphorically. Only a couple of hours earlier he had been in his bed, blithely and peacefully slumbering! Since then he had been taken to the scene of an horrific murder, he had met a beautiful French woman, been accused of murder, and had fled the police.

  ‘It’s hard to take in,�
�� he gasped, trying to keep up with Sophie Nudivue’s powerful thighs. With the strides taken by Sophie Nudivue’s powerful thighs, I mean. ‘I can’t believe that somebody is trying to frame me.’

  ‘Somebody,’ said Sophie. ‘Or perhaps some organisation .’

  ‘The deep conspiracy thing,’ said Robert. ‘Yes, you were telling me about that weren’t you. Tell me . . . um, Miss Nudivue. Can I call you Sophie?’

  ‘By all means.’

  They passed Waterloo Bridge away to their right, and crossed the interchange into Fleet Street. To their left were the Royal Courts of Justice, home to the Court of Appeal, the High Court of Justice, and the Crown Court, all housed in a spectacular 1000-room Gothic mansion, designed and overseen by the great Victorian architect George Edmund Street, after whom several London Streets are named, amongst them George Edmund Street Street. Looking to his left, Robert could see the statues of Christ, King Solomon, King Alfred, and Moses, that are positioned above its main entrance.

  ‘Sophie,’ he asked. ‘How did you know to come to the National Gallery just as I was being brought there?’

  ‘I had an appointment to meet with Monsieur Sauna-Lurker this very evening,’ she explained. ‘At ten pm, in his office. I hoped to discuss with him certain aspects of a giant conspiracy that has begun to reveal itself to my investigation. Alas the conspiracy got to Sauna-Lurker first. They silenced him.’

  ‘That doesn’t explain how you knew that the police were about to arrest me.’

  ‘Being attached to the Sûrité as I am,’ said Sophie, airily, ‘I have access to the London police radio bands, and so I heard about his murder, and also about the instructions to apprehend you - to pick you up from your Southwark apartment and transport you to the murder scene, only to arrest you there. But I knew as soon as I heard this that you were innocent! I have followed your work . . .’

  ‘Have you?’ said Robert, flattered. ‘Really?’

  ‘Indeed. More, I knew that the conspiracy would attempt to frame somebody. They would never risk being uncovered themselves. And when I heard your name . . .’

  ‘It’s jolly lucky for me that you did,’ said Robert, earnestly. ‘I mean jolly lucky.’

  ‘Don’t mention it.’

  ‘No - really - it could be that today is my lucky day. In many ways.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘Sophie,’ said Robert, after a pause. ‘Might I just ask? Are you . . . you know, seeing anybody at the moment? Are you single?’

  ‘The church,’ Sophie replied, with a rather studied nonchalance, ‘is just up here . . .’

  6

  It was past ten o’clock by the time Robert and Sophie arrived at the Church of Our Lady of the Silver Scales, and slipped inside. ‘This,’ said Sophie, ‘is the priest’s church. We absolutely must speak to him - and we must speak to him right away. We cannot delay! The police have as good a chance of deciphering Sauna-Lurker’s “hook” symbol as we had. Father Thomas Hook is well known as a cryptologist, and as a friend of Jacques Sauna-Lurker. They could be here any moment to question him themselves - or perhaps to take him into custody.’

  ‘Right,’ said Robert. ‘And, just remind me, why are we talking to this chap?’

  ‘Because he can decipher the strange message that Sauna-Lurker scrawled on the Last Supper!’

  ‘Ah yes,’ said Robert. He looked about him. ‘So we’ve got to speak to the priest.’

  ‘Yes, now—’ Sophie urged. ‘Go – find him.’

  ‘Why me? Why don’t you find him?’

  ‘Because you are the expert with the codes. You can tell him what we know. You can ask him what Jacques meant by his strange message. Show him the sketch you made of it.’

  ‘Right,’ said Robert. ‘Er – OK.’ He looked about the dimly lit church, walking slowly down the aisle, which means ‘wing’ and is the name for the passageways that run down the sides of any given church, not, as many believe, for the central walkway. An elderly lady stepped from a large wooden box set against the wall of the building and started up the aisle towards the exit. ‘Excuse me,’ said Robert, politely. ‘I am looking for Father Thomas Hook . . . do you know where he is?’

  ‘He’s taking confession right now,’ said the old lady. She indicated the box from which she had just emerged.

  ‘I see,’ said Robert. ‘In there?’

  ‘That’s right. Left hand door.’ She walked off.

  Sophie came over. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘Go on – go in.’

  ‘In there?’ said Robert. ‘I’m not going in there. I’ve never been in a confessional in my life. I wouldn’t know how to start.’

  ‘Start by saying “Forgive me father for I have sinned”, and then tell Father Hook why we are here - impress upon him the importance of our speaking to him.’

  ‘You do it.’

  ‘No,’ said Sophie. ‘You.’

  ‘Can’t we,’ said Robert, slightly querulously, ‘wait until he comes out?’

  ‘There’s no time to waste!’ insisted Sophie. She nudged him. ‘Go on.’

  Robert walked nervously over to the confessional and stepped inside. It was rather like a photo-booth except that it was made entirely from dark wood, and instead of a camera there was a wooden grill. And there was no slot for money, or any buttons, or any instruction panel telling you how to obtain a photograph. But I was hoping to suggest, rather, the overall scale of the confessional, and the fact that it had a little seat inside. Robert sat down.

  Through the grill, Robert could see the shadowy silhouette of Father Hook.

  ‘Forgive me father for I have sinned,’ he said, just as Sophie had instructed him. Catholicism is a much more prevalent religious faith in France than in England, and it is not surprising that she knew the forms and rituals of the confessional.

  ‘How long since your last confession?’ the priest asked.

  ‘How long?’ said Robert, a little thrown. ‘Long. Lengthy. Yes. Actually, the reason I’m here – I’ve got a little diagram.’ He pulled out his notebook. ‘I really need to talk to you about my little diagram.’

  ‘We are talking, my son. Unburden yourself. What sins are troubling your conscience?’

  ‘Sins? Right.’ Robert hummed. ‘Could we, maybe, talk about something else? I’ve a diagram I need to show—’

  ‘Don’t be shy, my son. Tell me of your sins.’

  ‘But there are other things we need to talk about—’

  ‘I am here,’ said the priest, firmly, ‘to hear confession of sins. Not idle chit chat.’

  ‘Sins,’ said Robert. ‘Right. So, if I, um, tell you my sins, can we talk about something else after that?’

  The priest paused, minutely. ‘How do you mean, my son? “Something else?” You are seeking absolution from your sins, are you not? This is a confessional, after all.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘My son,’ said the priest, more sternly. ‘I sense that you are trying to avoid talking about what is on your conscience. You must confront it directly. I do not want to hear you prevaricate. I want to hear your sins.’

  Robert resolved to confess to a sin, and when that was gotten out of the way to address the priest directly. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Well in terms of sin, I . . . um . . .’ But his mind was blank. He couldn’t think of a single sin. He wracked his brain for the conventions of the Catholic faith. What he needed, he decided, was a relatively small sin, something to as it were break the ice, to open a channel of communication between himself and Father Hook. That would have to be a relatively minor sin, of course. He could hardly confess to - say - murder, and then hope to win the priest’s trust afterwards. No: he needed a small, a venal, sin; a quick confession and then a proper conversation with the priest. But in the panic of the moment he could not think of a single one. He toyed with the notion of eating fish on a Friday. But was eating fish on Fridays a sin? Or was it not eating fish? He really couldn’t remember.

  ‘Sins,’ said Robert, in a casting-about-a-bit sort of voice. ‘Sins, sin
s.’

  ‘My son,’ said the priest. He sounded annoyed. ‘Confession is a holy sacrament. You must not mock it. Either confess your sins to me, or I shall have to ask you to leave.’

  ‘Could you give me a clue?’ suggested Robert.

  The priest’s silence was not an encouraging silence. ‘Clue?’ he said, shortly. ‘What do you mean, clue?’

  ‘Well I was just wondering what my options might be, sin-wise? I mean, if you could just, you know, give me a quick run-down, a top ten perhaps, then I could indicate which . . . um . . .’

  ‘Have you never been to confession before, my son?’ the priest asked sternly.

  ‘Yes, yes, of course. Of course!’ Robert tried a brief, carefree laugh, but it came out far from carefree. It sounded, instead, rather careful. Or care-y. ‘Hah! Yes, of course I’ve been to confession before. Loads of times. It’s just that, I mean, I’ve so many sins, it is hard to pick out just the one. Couldn’t you just give me a general absolution for everything?’ An idea popped into Robert’s head. ‘Yes, that’s it. Tell you what, I confess to all of them.’

  The priest was silent for a little while. ‘All?’ he repeated.

  ‘Yes. I’m terribly sorry Father, I’ve committed all the sins. Can you absolute me? Absolve me, I mean? A blanket absolution should cover them. And once that’s out of the way—’

  ‘You are a soul in confusion,’ said Father Hook gravely. ‘Something has muddled your mind.’

  ‘Hurry up!’ hissed Sophie from the doorway of the confessional. ‘Robert - hurry up. I think I can hear police sirens . . .’

  Suddenly a sin popped into Robert’s head. ‘I’ve got one,’ he said excitedly, ‘I’ve been coveting false idols. Will that do?’

  There was a pregnant pause from the other side of the grill.

  ‘You what?’ asked the priest.

  ‘Coveting them. There were these idols, you see, and the urge to covet them just came bubbling up inside me. I told myself, of course, come along Robert, be strong, resist the temptation to covet, but the lure of the thing, um, the idol, was too much for me.’