by Tom Holt
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Not your fault.’ Osiris sighed. ‘You’re quite right, I am out of touch. No wonder I’ve felt all weak since I got here. There’s much of it about, is there, this not believing?’
‘Lots and lots.’
‘What do people believe in, then, if they don’t believe in gods?’
‘Hard to say.’ Sandra rubbed her nose pensively. ‘The telly, of course. And family life. And Wolverhampton Wanderers Football Club, which only goes to show what you can do if you really set your mind to it.’
Osiris shook his head slowly. Belief is to gods what atmosphere is to other, rather more temporary life-forms; they live in it, and it shapes them, in the way that millions of tons of water overhead shape the curiously designed fish that live at the very bottom of the sea. This can, of course, have its unfortunate side. When, for example, the Quizquacs of central Peru had finally had enough of their god Tlatelolco’s obsession with human sacrifice à la nouvelle cuisine (one small human heart, garnished with fine herbs and served with the blood under the meat) they exacted a terrible revenge, not by ceasing to believe in him, but by believing in him with a fervour never before encountered even in such a pathologically devout race as the Quizquacs. They also chose to believe in him in his aspect as an excessively timid field vole inhabiting an enclosed kitchen full of hungry cats.
‘I’ve definitely got to get out of here,’ Osiris said. ‘Look, don’t let me put you to any more trouble. Just call me a taxi and I’ll go and find a hotel somewhere.’
‘A hotel?’ Sandra laughed. ‘You wouldn’t last five minutes.’
‘Wouldn’t I?’
‘No chance.’
‘What makes you say that?’
By way of reply, Sandra reached for her handbag and produced a mirror. Osiris took it from her, automatically smoothed his hair, and had a look . . .
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Oh I see.’
‘Exactly. Now perhaps you understand why Mum doesn’t choose to be able to see you very well. It’s just as well she’s got such a limited imagination, or she’d be halfway up the wall yelling for the Social Services by now.’
The face Osiris had seen in the mirror was, beyond question, his own. That was, of course, the problem. The plain fact of the matter is, gods are radiant. They shine; and no amount of face powder and foundation was ever going to have any effect on the dazzling glow that was pouring out of him. You could have got a healthy tan just by briefly catching his eye.
‘It hasn’t done that for ages,’ he said weakly. ‘Why’s it doing it now?’
‘They’ve got some sort of infra-red thing back at the Home,’ Sandra replied. ‘Suppresses it, or filters it out, something like that. Out here, of course . . .’
‘Gosh.’
‘I’m used to it,’ Sandra went on, ‘and besides, all of us nurses are given these special contact lenses, otherwise we’d spend all day wandering about bumping into things. It’s a dead giveaway, I’m afraid.’
Osiris handed back the mirror, noticing as he did so that the plastic frame was just starting to melt. ‘Any suggestions?’ he muttered.
‘Well.’ Sandra helped herself to a planklike slice of bread and butter. ‘At first I thought of seeing if we could get you a job as a lighthouse keeper . . .’
‘Good thinking.’
‘Only that would take some time to fix up, and we’ve got to keep you out of sight until I’ve had a chance to find out exactly what’s going on. Really, your best bet is to stay here and sweat it out.’
‘Sandra . . .’
‘What choice do you have?’
‘Yes, but that mother of yours. I mean, please don’t get me wrong, salt of the earth . . .’
‘If by that you mean she makes you feel like having a very big drink, yes, I find that myself, too.’
‘It wouldn’t be so bad,’ Osiris said mournfully, ‘if only she’d admit I was here. Actually talk to me, things like that.’
Sandra nodded. ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘I reckon it might be possible to get her to do that.’
‘Oh yes? How?’
‘You could try offering her a very substantial sum of money.’
Even with Sandra’s mother talking to him, Osiris found it hard to settle. True, he now had his own room, with a view out over the shunting yards and a small black-and-white portable television capable of receiving two channels; but the waves of disbelief were definitely getting to him, and he didn’t like the effect it was having. Twice he’d dropped things because his hands suddenly became translucent and feeble, and he was getting pins and needles all over his body. He scarcely had the strength to wheel himself over to the telly to change programmes.
Never mind. He looked up at the clock, which told him it was almost time for TheYoung Doctors. Soap operas were something of a lifeline to him, on the grounds that if the inhabitants of this peculiar country could watch this sort of thing without serious credibility disorders, they were capable of believing in anything. He switched on the set and settled back in his chair.
Adverts. Was there time to plug in the kettle and make himself a nice cup of . . . ?
He knew that voice.
... Absolutely free when you buy two or more packets of new Zazz with the unique biological fragrance . . .
Surely not. He must have retired years ago. Only, Osiris reflected, if he had then surely I’d have seen him about the place, and I haven’t. And nobody could call him inconspicuous.
But hurry, hurry, hurry, because this special offer must end soon, so don’t miss out on this unique chance to save, save, save . . .
It was him, for sure. Osiris could tell by the way that, in spite of everything, he was gripped with this insane desire to buy fabric conditioner. Not because he wanted it, but because he was afraid of missing out on the unique special offer. Very afraid. Panic-stricken, even.
‘The old bugger,’ Osiris chuckled. ‘Well, fancy that.’
‘Guess what?’
‘I’ve brought you some tea,’ said Sandra, putting the tray down on the bed. ‘It’s boiled chicken with cabbage and mashed potatoes, with stewed plums and custard to follow.’
Osiris looked away. ‘I’ve just seen someone I know, well, more heard than seen, and you’ll never guess—’
‘Come on,’ Sandra said, ‘eat up. Don’t want the custard getting—’
‘And,’ Osiris went on, ‘I’ve made up my mind what I’m going to do next.’
Sandra narrowed her eyes. ‘I don’t like the sound of this,’ she said. ‘I thought we’d agreed that you were going to be sensible and stay here until we’d got things straightened out.’
‘Ah yes,’ Osiris said, ‘but that was before I found out my old friend Pan’s still on the loose.’ He produced a theatrical chuckle. ‘Talk about a complete lunatic, the times we’ve had together, it’ll be a holiday just—’
‘Pan?’
Osiris took a deep breath. ‘He’s a god,’ he said. ‘And he’s doing voice-overs on the commercial breaks. Obviously he hasn’t retired yet. And we go back a long way, Pan and me. He wouldn’t begrudge a bit of house room for an old chum. So, first thing in the morning, I’m going to phone that TV station and leave a message for him.’
‘I see,’ said Sandra stiffly. ‘And you think—’
‘Yes.’ Osiris scowled. ‘Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I feel that at my time of life I’d be better off with my own kind. I’ve made my mind up, and—’
‘It’ll all end in tears, you mark my words.’
‘I’m a god,’ Osiris said grimly, ‘and I’ll do what I damn well please. I invented free will, dammit, so why shouldn’t I have some for a change?’
Sandra shrugged, and put the tray on his lap. ‘All right,’ she said, ‘that’s fine. Only what makes you so sure this Pan person will want you descending on him out of the blue and getting under his feet?’
‘Don’t worry about that,’ Osiris said, and a grin the size of Oklahoma spread slowly across
his face. ‘That’s not going to be a problem, you mark my words.’
‘Eat your nice tea.’
‘And that’s another thing . . .’
‘Or,’ Sandra said meaningfully, ‘there’ll be second helpings of everything.’
‘Oh. Right. Yes.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Thor said, wiping his forehead with his sleeve and scrabbling in the toolbox. ‘I can fix it. No problem. Just get out of my light and let the dog see the . . .’
To the gods, all things are known. ‘I still think it’s the main bearing,’ Odin said. ‘Else why was it making that tapping noise?’
‘What tapping noise?’
‘I distinctly heard a tapping noise five minutes or so before she seized,’ Odin replied. ‘I’d have mentioned it only you’d have bitten my head off.’
‘I’m hungry,’ Frey observed, from under the shade of his golf umbrella. ‘We’ve missed dinner and breakfast and I’m damned if we’re going to miss lunch too.’
‘Belt up, Frey,’ Thor replied, rubbing his beard with his oily left hand. ‘Odin, can you remember which way round the cotter pin’s supposed to go on this axle?’
Frey stood up and shaded his eyes with his hand. In front of him, the Alps rose in dizzying white majesty, blinding in the cold, clear sunshine. ‘Are you sure that’s Matlock over there?’ he asked.
‘Nowhere else it could be,’ Odin replied. ‘But look at the map if you don’t believe me.’
‘I think I’ll just go for a stroll.’
‘Don’t get lost.’
Frey grinned. ‘I’m only going as far as the nearest place they sell food,’ he said. ‘I don’t suppose I’ll be very long.’
He walked away down the slope, picking his way with care through the rocks. Hm, he thought, gazing out over the surrounding landscape, so that’s why they call this the Peak District.
He hadn’t gone far when he came across a man and a woman walking slowly up the hill. The man was about sixty, the woman perhaps a year younger; they were plainly but neatly dressed, and the man was leading a laden donkey. Frey smiled; here was a source of inside information.
Now there is a well-established tradition that when the gods walk abroad among men, they do so in some form of disguise; gods manifest themselves as beggars or weary travellers, goddesses as washerwomen or old crones gathering firewood. Men say that this is typical underhand management behaviour, sneaking about and spying, like unmarked police patrol cars on motorways. Gods know that the real reason is to spare gods the embarrassment of not being recognised by their adoring worshippers. Frey shrugged his shoulders and became in a fraction of a second a weary traveller à la mode; aertex shirt damp with perspiration, heavy flight bag over one shoulder, suitcase in hand, crumpled sun-hat perched on head. He cleared his throat.
‘Excuse me,’ he said. The couple turned and looked at him.
‘Excuse me,’ he repeated, his memory trying to recollect the local cuisine of north Derbyshire, as reported by popular television drama. ‘Could you possibly tell me where I might be able to get cod, mushy peas, pickled gherkins and a really tasty chip butty, please? And jam roly-poly and a nice strong cup of tea,’ he added.
The man and the woman looked at each other and conferred in a foreign language, which Frey (to the gods all things are known) thought was probably Portuguese.
‘Sorry,’ said the man haltingly. ‘No understan Inglis. Sorry.’
Between gods and men there are differences, and there are similarities; as between, say, the very rich and the very poor. Divine public relations have in the past tended to play down the similarities, understandably enough; but in more recent years this approach has been revised. Hey guys, the gods now say, we aren’t really all that different. We’re just guys and gals, same as you. If you prick us, they say, do we not bleed? Well, no, actually, they admit, we don’t; and anyway that’s not a particularly apt example to choose, because anyone trying to prick us is likely to find himself on the bad end of many millions of volts of static electricity. But you know what we mean.
Accordingly, it’s not too remarkable that as Frey continued his journey down the hill, and the man and his wife plodded on up the hill, exactly the same phrase should have leapt spontaneously into their minds.
‘Bloody tourists,’ they all thought.
‘Of course,’ said Mrs Henderson, ‘we’re all extremely concerned. Extremely. Taking off like that, a god of his age.’ She paused, and Julian’s extra-perceptive senses caught a whiff of a point being surreptitiously made. ‘I’m very much afraid,’ she said, ‘that Something might Happen to him.’
‘Really? Such as what?’
Mrs Henderson shrugged, as if to say that in a curved universe, anything is by definition possible.
‘I’m sure he’ll be all right,’ she said. ‘After all, he is a god and fundamentally quite sensible, for his age. But with this terrible cold weather we’ve been having . . . And he hasn’t taken his blue pills with him.’
‘You don’t say.’ The two looked at each other, and electricity crackled in the air. It was as if the two thieves crucified on either side of Our Lord on that first Good Friday had put their heads together and decided to cut out the middle man. ‘His blue pills,’ said Julian slowly. ‘That could be serious.’
‘Very.’
‘I dread to think what might happen to him without his blue pills.’
‘Not that anything will, of course . . .’
‘No, of course not.’
‘It’s just that it’s always advisable to consider the very worst that might happen. Just in case.’
‘Quite so.’
‘Which is why,’ said Mrs Henderson, taking a deep breath and hoping very much that she hadn’t completely misinterpreted the messages emanating from under Julian’s eyebrows, ‘I’ve taken the liberty of engaging a, um, private enquiry agent to see if he can, um, find your godfather for us.’
‘Splendid. Splendid.’
‘A Mr Lundqvist.’
‘Ah.’
‘He came very highly recommended.’
‘Top rate man. Exactly what I’d have done, in your position.’
‘Oh I am glad.’
Julian allowed himself the luxury of a smile. It would cost a paying client about a year’s salary to be smiled at by Julian, but he treated himself to a smile a month at cost. ‘If Kurt Lundqvist can’t sort this business out,’ he said, ‘nobody can.’
The same Kurt Lundqvist was, at that precise moment, locked in hand-to-hand combat with a tall gentleman with projecting teeth and a conservative taste in evening dress at the bottom of an open grave somewhere in what used to be called Bohemia.
It should have been a perfectly straightforward job - go in, garlic under nose, whack the hickory smartly through the aorta and home in time to catch the closing prices on Wall Street - but he’d recently taken on a new assistant, and she wasn’t yet a hundred per cent au fait with the technical jargon of the supernatural contract killing profession.
‘Look,’ he gasped through clenched teeth as the Count’s icy fingers closed around his throat, ‘can we cut this a bit short, because I’m due in Haiti for a rogue zombie at six-thirty. I don’t like to rush you, but . . .’
A right pillock he’d looked, reaching into his inside pocket and fetching out a five-pound lump hammer and a prime cut of best rump steak. He would have various things to say to Ms Parfimowicz when he got back.
‘Nothing personal,’ grunted the Count, ‘but I’d rather we went through the motions. Aaaaagh!’
‘Okay, that’s fine,’ Lundqvist replied, as his right hand finally connected with the butt of his .40 Glock automatic. ‘I’m about through here anyway.’
The bullet wasn’t, strictly speaking, silver; but it was a Speer 170-grain jacketed hollow point, backed by six grains of Unique and a Federal 150 primer. By the time the echoes of the shot had died away, the Count didn’t seem in any fit state to discuss the finer points of metallurgy.You would have to be abnormal
ly thin-skinned to take ‘Gluuuurgh!’ as any sort of valid criticism.
Nevertheless, Lundqvist felt peeved. It wasn’t the way these things ought to be done. You had to preserve the mystique. Once people cottoned on to the fact that any Tom, Dick or Harry could blow away the Undead with a factory-standard out-of-the-box compact automatic, they wouldn’t be quite so eager to pay through the nose for the services of a top flight professional.
A quick glance at his watch told him he was badly behind schedule. A quick scout round produced a three-foot length of broken fence post, and a few strokes of his Spyderco Ultramax lock-knife put enough of a point on it to do the job. He was just dusting himself off and searching the pockets for any small items of value when his bleeper went.
‘Lundqvist here.’
‘Oh Mr Lundqvist, I’m sorry to disturb you like this, I hope I haven’t called at an inconvenient moment.’
‘No, it’s okay. While I think of it, what I had in mind when I gave you the equipment list this morning was stake S-T-A-K-E, not—’
‘Oh gosh, Mr Lundqvist, I’m most terribly sorry, really I am, I never thought—’
‘That’s fine,’ Lundqvist broke in - in order to have the time to wait for a natural break in the flow of Ms Parfimowicz’s apologies you had to be a giant redwood at the very least - ‘it wasn’t a problem as it turned out. Just remember for next time, okay?’
‘I will, I promise. I’ll just quickly write it down and then I’ll be sure to remember. That’s stake spelt S-T-A...’
‘Ms Parfimowicz,’ Lundqvist said firmly, ‘quiet. Now, what was so goddam important?’
‘Oh yes, I’m sorry I got sidetracked, I must stop doing that, it must be so irritating for you. A Mrs Henderson called - she’s not in the card index but she knew the private number so she must be genuine, don’t you think - and she wants you to kill a god.’