Odds and Gods

by Tom Holt

  The gate opened.

  ‘Hang on,’ said a voice from inside the container body. ‘This isn’t right, surely.’

  The speaker, when fixed in a spotlight, turned out to be a white-haired old gentleman in a wheelchair. He was flanked by a plump girl, a large, stocky man with an expression like bad amateur taxidermy, a tall, thin man in camouflage gear holding a very large handgun and an even taller, thinner character with goat’s feet.

  Slowly, the hijackers backed away. Even those of them who could stomach the sight of Lundqvist’s Desert Eagle felt distinct bad vibes from the expression in the old man’s eyes and the curious terminals of Pan’s legs. In the version they’d heard, it had been an old lady with an axe in her shopping-basket, but this was clearly an updated rescension of the same basic urban folkmyth.

  ‘Sorry about this,’ Pan called out. ‘Only, we needed a lift, you see, and there was your lorry, and we thought . . .’

  There was a shot. Maybe it was fear, or perhaps just a nervous finger tightening reflexively on a trigger. The bullet hit Pan in the forehead, passed out the back of his head as if through thin air and buried itself in the mountain of boxes behind. Brown juice started to seep through the cardboard.

  Then there were more shots - Lundqvist giving area fire with the .50 calibre, which made a noise like a portable indoor volcano and took out most of the lights. The hijackers responded in kind. There were suddenly prunes everywhere.

  ‘Stop it,’ said Osiris briskly, ‘at once.’

  Simultaneously, every firing pin in the building jammed solid, and the lights came back on. This time, however, they were supported by unpleasantly-shaped figures with the heads of jackals; and for all their brilliance they seemed to produce more shadows than light. The hijackers came forward.

  ‘Now then,’ Osiris said. ‘Someone tell me where we are.’

  The gang leader, nudged forward by his colleagues, unravelled six inches of tongue from round his Adam’s apple and explained. He also apologised profusely, expressed extreme regret for having inconvenienced such obviously distinguished supernatural persons, and asked if they would very kindly care to turn the prunes back into Marlboro Hundreds, as he had a customer waiting.

  ‘Oh no you don’t,’ Osiris replied. ‘We’ve got to get to Aix by morning, and you’re going to take us there. Otherwise, ’ he added with a pleasant smile, ‘something around here’s going to get turned into cigarettes, but it sure ain’t going to be the prunes. Kapisch?’

  The journey was resumed. This time, however, the chief hijacker travelled inside the container, with the muzzle of Lundqvist’s gun nestling in his ear and Carl standing behind him with a tyre iron.

  ‘Going far?’ the hijacker asked.

  Osiris grinned. ‘You could say that,’ he replied. ‘I don’t think you’d want to know where we’re headed, really I don’t.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ the hijacker replied quickly. ‘Only making conversation.’

  ‘But I’m going to tell you anyway,’ Osiris replied maliciously. ‘That way, either you’ll tell someone else, and they’ll lock you up in a loony bin for the rest of your life, or else you’ll keep it to yourself and probably go stark staring mad anyway. Serve you right. We’re gods.’

  ‘You don’t say.’

  ‘And,’ Osiris went on, ‘we’re headed for the Kingdom of Death, if it’s still there. Last time I heard, they were trying to turn it into some sort of ghastly drive-in theme park, but I don’t suppose they ever got the planning permission. I mean, imagine the problems you’d have with off-street parking.’

  ‘Indeed.’ To those whom the gods wish to destroy, they first give pins and needles in the left foot. The hijacker rubbed his leg against the side of the van, but it didn’t help much.

  ‘We need to go there,’ Osiris went on, ‘because the Three Wise Women told us that in order to locate the last hiding place of the Golden Teeth of El Dorado (which, as you know, lie at the world’s end and are guarded by an enormous fire-breathing, hundred-headed answering machine) we have to find and read the Runes of Power chalked on the wall in the little boy’s room immediately adjacent.That’s what they said, anyway,’ Osiris concluded. ‘It’s not April the First today, by any chance?’

  ‘You certainly have an unusual job,’ said the hijacker. ‘Did you always want to be a god or did you just sort of drift into it?’

  ‘We need the Golden Teeth,’ Osiris went on, ‘in order to pay our lawyer. That’s just something on account, by the way, to cover initial expenses, setting up the file on the computer, routine administrative work, that sort of thing. He’s very expensive, even for a lawyer.’

  ‘He must be very good, though.’

  ‘Oh he is. Very.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  ‘If this is Droitwich,’ muttered Thor, ‘they’ve definitely been fiddling about with it since I was last here.’

  ‘And when was that, then?’

  ‘1036.’

  ‘Well, there you are, then.’ Odin stood on the extreme edge of the kerb, wavering. Being omniscient, he knew all about cars; and besides, he’d seen them often enough on the telly. It was just that, en masse, thundering past like some stampeding herd of square steel cattle, they seemed a trifle, well, unnerving. Or would do, if he was a mere mortal. And there is, of course, this wretched convention that when gods walk abroad among mortals, they have to blend in. If it wasn’t for that, of course . . .

  ‘Get a move on, will you?’ Thor grumbled at his elbow. ‘We haven’t got all day, you know.’

  ‘Shut up,’ Odin replied. ‘We can’t just go charging through the traffic and have all the cars bouncing off us, it’d be too conspicuous. We’ve got to wait for those little coloured lights to come on.’

  ‘What, those ones up there on that stick?’

  ‘That’s the ones.’

  ‘And that’s what mortals do, is it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s a funny old world,’ Thor said. ‘And so we’ve got to do like they do?’

  Odin nodded. ‘When in Rome,’ he said.

  At his other elbow, Frey made a face. ‘Odd you should say that,’ he said.

  It hadn’t been Odin’s fault. Admittedly, it was the inner valve ring seal gasket that had blown, and it had been Odin who’d fitted it, and because you just couldn’t get the parts for these older models nowadays it had been Odin who’d gam-shacked up a substitute out of brown paper and treacle. But the brown paper and treacle gaskets of the immortal gods are by definition more lasting than diamonds, and in Odin’s opinion there was no way it should have blown if the inlet manifold had been properly set up in the first place. They were now looking for a car parts store, Odin having a hunch that the gaskets off a 1991 Leyland Roadrunner would probably do the trick at a pinch.

  ‘How do you mean, Frey?’

  ‘I think we are.’

  Odin scowled. ‘What’s he on about now, Thor?’ he demanded. ‘Because if this is some sort of wind-up you two are making up between you, I’m really not in the mood.’

  Thor, who had been conferring with his colleague, shrugged. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Our mistake. Of course this is Droitwich.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘And that . . .’ Thor pointed to their left. ‘That must have been the Droitwich Coliseum we went past just now, and those must be the Baths of Alderman Wilkinson, and that big square building over there is probably the world famous Temple of the Engineering, Municipal and Allied Trades.’

  ‘And what about that over there?’

  ‘Where?’

  Frey pointed towards the forbidding gateway in front of them, with its curiously garbed attendants.

  ‘Oh that,’Thor said. ‘I think that’s the Catholic church.’

  Enormous lorry thundering its way through the Provencal night. Exhausted driver blinking hazily through a fly-splattered windscreen. One step out of line would guarantee that he spent the rest of his life on a lily-pad.

  Round a hairpin bend, to find
a tractor standing right across the road. Marvellous new fifth-generation air brakes pull the rig up short before the two vehicles combine together in a Jackson Pollock of twisted metal.

  If he’d been looking in his rear-view mirror, instead of sprawling over the dashboard with a gearlever up his right sleeve, he’d have seen a dark green four-wheel drive with tinted windows purr up behind the tailgate.

  His door is jerked open. He looks down into the muzzle of a big black handgun.

  ‘Okay,’ hissed the masked man behind it. ‘Do as I say and you won’t get—’

  The driver blinked twice. ‘You what?’ he said.

  ‘Do as I say,’ replied the hijacker, irritably, in abysmal French, ‘and you won’t get hurt.’ He scowled. ‘Trust me,’ he added, ‘I’m a doctor. Really.’

  ‘I don’t believe this.’

  ‘Straight up. That’s a nasty cut you’ve got on your forehead, by the way.’

  ‘Must be where my head hit the wheel.’

  ‘You should get that seen to. Any dizziness, nausea, double vision?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I’ve got this migraine coming, I think.’

  ‘No spots in front of the eyes?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Take two aspirin,’ said the hijacker, ‘get a good night’s sleep and we’ll see how you are in the morning. Meanwhile, ’ he added, ‘get out of the cab before I blow your fucking brains out.’

  ‘Yes, doctor.’

  Shortly afterwards, the lorry continued on its journey, with a new driver. If it was supposed to be going to Aixen-Provence, it was going the wrong way.

  ‘All right,’ said the customs official sleepily, ‘what’ve you got in there?’

  The driver leant out of the window. ‘You’re going to laugh when I tell you,’ he said.

  Out of wind-scoured, sleepless eyes the customs official glowered at him. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘Come on, where’s your bill of lading?’

  The man in the passenger seat rummaged about in the glove box, and handed down a packet of papers. The customs official sighed.

  ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Prunes. Okay, you two out and let’s see inside.’

  There was a brief flurry of conversation inside the cab.

  ‘Hang on,’ said the driver. ‘Diplomatic thingummy.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Immunity,’ the driver said. ‘Just a tick, here we are, passports. And this lot here’s a diplomatic bag, okay?’

  ‘Get real, will you? It’s a bloody juggernaut.’

  ‘Ah.’ The driver nodded. ‘Diplomatic juggernaut, though, innit? You want an international incident, be my guest.’

  There was a moment’s silence.

  ‘You’re absolutely sure,’ said the customs official, ‘that it’s prunes you got in there?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ replied the passenger. ‘Look at it this way. Would we say it was prunes if it wasn’t?’

  The customs official thought about it. The argument had a certain specious attraction. Tractor spares, yes. Engine parts, certainly. Any time a customs official sees Engine parts on a manifest, he ducks for cover and calls up the bomb disposal guys on the radio. But prunes . . .

  ‘No armaments, then? Drugs, illicit diamonds, rare species?’

  ‘Not as far as I know, officer.’

  ‘Pirate radio equipment? Dutiable goods such as alcohol, perfume or tobacco? Works of art requiring an export licence?’

  ‘Don’t think so. Are you feeling all right, by the way?’

  The customs official raised an eyebrow. ‘’Course,’ he said; and then, catching the driver’s eye, added, ‘Or at least I think . . .’

  ‘You look a bit under the weather to me,’ said the driver, putting his head on one side and pursing his lips, ‘if you don’t mind me saying so.’

  ‘Oddly enough,’ said the customs official, ‘just lately I’ve been getting these sharp stabbing pains round about here . . .’

  ‘Been eating regularly?’

  ‘Not very regularly, no . . .’ the customs official looked up. ‘Why?’ he demanded.

  ‘We’re doctors,’ the passenger explained. ‘Any heart-burn or related symptoms?’

  ‘Not that I’d noticed.’

  ‘Headache?’

  ‘Can’t say I have.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Positive.’

  The driver looked up and down the road. At this time of night, they had the place to themselves. There was nobody else to be seen in the customs post. Accordingly, he swung open the door of the lorry, dealing the customs official a sharp blow just above the ear. The customs official, predictably, fell over.

  ‘Laymen,’ the driver called out, putting in the clutch and pulling away. ‘What do they know? And when you wake up, take two aspirins.’

  The Swiss guard hesitated, his mind scrolling back through recent memories. He’d seen something, just subliminally, for a fraction of a second; but there had been an anomaly - an abomination, even. Something had been where there should be nothing. He stood for a moment, like a statue representing Contemplation on some baroque triumphal arch; then he remembered, and sprang into action. Just as he’d thought.

  Down by the side of the sentry box, four-fifths hidden in the shadows, was an empty crisp packet. He snatched it up, marched over to the receptacle provided, and binned it. Another blow struck, he congratulated himself, against the forces of entropy.

  Prompted by this thought, he reviewed his position in the cosmos, and saw that it was good. Only three months since he’d left his Alpine canton and joined the standing army of the Papal State, and already he was standing guard at the gates of the Vatican. All right, yes, the goods entrance of the Vatican, which was pretty much like goods entrances anywhere, but only if viewed superficially. I had rather be a goods entrance keeper in the house of the Lord than dwell in the tents of the ungodly.

  Then the ground started to shake. Instinctively, his hands tightened on the shaft of his halberd; but a glare of white light and the low roar of massive engines reassured him. Just a lorry.

  A lorry. At three o’clock in the morning. What could it be, he asked himself. And, in due course, the driver.

  ‘Prunes.’

  ‘Prunes?’

  ‘That’s right. Now if you’d just open the damn gates, we can unload this lot and I can go to bed, all right?’

  The guard narrowed his eyes. ‘Prunes?’ he said.

  The driver leant out of the window and manoeuvred his head until the tip of his nose was but a few microns from the guard’s forehead. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘prunes it is, and if you want to go and get the Big Fella out of his pit and ask him what he wants six million dried plums for, then jolly good luck to you and send me a postcard from Hell. Otherwise, open this flaming gate before we all die of old age.’

  ‘Yes, but prunes.’

  A few seconds before the driver would otherwise have put his foot down on the throttle and crashed the gate, the passenger leant across, smiled placidly, and said, ‘Perhaps I can explain, my son,’ he added.

  ‘Gosh,’ said the guard, stepping backwards and standing stiffly to attention. ‘I didn’t see you there,Your Reverence.’

  ‘No matter.’ The passenger removed the cardinal’s hat and put it on the seat beside him. ‘The Holy Father’s compliments,’ he said, ‘and may we please proceed?’

  ‘Of course, Your Reverence. Only . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Prunes, Father. It just seems . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Just a moment and I’ll do the gates for you.’

  Monsignor Donatus O’Rourke did up the last buckle on his crimson flak jacket, muttered a final Hail Mary, and drew back the plunger of the syringe, flooding the chamber with holy water. His bell jingled faintly in its shoulder holster.

  ‘Okay, lads,’ he growled into his walkie-talkie, ‘this is it. Don’t screw up, and let’s go for it.’

  Mgr O’Rourke was no back-street exorcist; he wa
s a pro, from the tips of his asbestos gloves and ring with built-in geiger-counter to the toes of his rubber boots. People called him a mercenary, a theologian of fortune, have bell, will travel; he laughed in their faces. Whenever he did a job, he knew he was doing it for the Big Guy, in the way that he knew was right, even if the redhats round the Curule Chair had declared his methods anathema.The substantial sums of money that found their way to his Swiss account he regarded simply as contributions to the war chest. Fighting the old gods with the new technology wasn’t cheap, and he’d long since learnt not to expect any funding from Holy Mother church (or, as he preferred to think of it, the Organisation). As a result, he had to do business with some pretty dubious characters, who he suspected were motivated by concerns not one hundred per cent connected with the struggle against the forces of darkness. So what? As he’d said in his evidence to the Walinski Commission, he knew that what he was doing was right, and if he had to raise his own funds in order to do it, that’s the way the eucharist crumbles. Not, of course, that he’d ever even considered selling holy water to the Shi’ites as the yellow press had alleged; but even if he had, his conscience would still be clear.

  His men - all hand-picked, the flower of the priesthood - should all be in position by now. He turned to the man crouched beside him, and said, ‘Well?’

  The man, who was a doctor by profession, nodded. ‘What are we waiting for?’ he said.

  ‘Okay,’ replied Mgr O’Rourke. ‘Let’s nuke some spooks. Go, men!’

  On his command, three priests in black balaclavas abseiled down from the balcony above, landing with pinpoint precision beside the tailgate of the lorry. From their backpacks they unslung heavy black chainsaws. A second or so later, the night was torn by the sound of steel on iron.

  ‘Second wave into position,’ Mgr O’Rourke barked into the walkie-talkie. ‘This is it, guys. Remember Joppa!’