by Maz Evans
Great, thought Elliot. The Gods had already been grounded since Christmas Day and they’d been going beserk. Now they’d be going even . . . beserker.
‘Hera – babe!’ said Hermes, fluttering over from the shed and kissing the Goddess’s hand. ‘Not being funny, but you look hotter than a taco in Tartarus.’
‘Charming as ever, Hermes,’ said Hera, losing her battle with a coy smile. ‘Could you kindly fetch Pegasus for me? The Council have decided to send him to a time-management seminar. He needs to leave now – it’s over a day’s flight away.’
‘For you, babe,’ winked Hermes, ‘anything.’
‘Thank you,’ said Hera. ‘I’ve been impressed with your attitude to your probation. Consider all restrictions on your movement lifted. You are free to leave.’
‘And that,’ said Hermes, bowing in mid-air before jetting off, ‘is why you are one awesomely authoritative mega-babe. Boom!’
‘Pardon me, er, Ma’am,’ said Elliot, ‘but when do you think they’ll be able to get out again?’
‘When their assessor is satisfied that they won’t run around Earth trying to steal Crown Jewels, fly commuter trains and fight Beefeaters,’ said Hera with a cool smile. ‘A full report will be filed to the Zodiac Council, who will decide how to proceed. Until then, they remain under house – farm – arrest.’
‘And who’s their assessor?’ asked Virgo.
‘Well, now,’ said Hera with a satisfied smile. ‘That would be me.’
‘I’M WARNING YOU!’ Zeus yelled again, this time from an upstairs window. ‘You have to the count of three! One . . . ’
‘Well, I’d better be off,’ said Hera calmly as Pegasus flew down beside her. ‘Dionysus is holding a poker night and we know how those end . . .’
‘Two . . . ’
‘Come along, Peg,’ she said with a smile.
‘I fail to see an issue with my time-management,’ huffed Pegasus. ‘Why, only today, I’d scheduled a facial, hoovicure and wing wax.’
‘You’ll return Friday morning,’ said Hera. ‘Goodbye, children. See you soon.’
‘Three!’
And Hera calmly led Pegasus down the path and out of Home Farm, just as an enormous thunderbolt exploded inches behind her.
Virgo and Elliot shrugged at each other.
‘So I’m guessing it wasn’t a friendly divorce?’ said Elliot.
‘You might say that,’ chortled Virgo. ‘But then you might say that the Trojan War was a neighbourly squabble!’
She laughed, clearly expecting Elliot to join her. He did not.
‘The Trojan War was in fact a protracted conflict between two embittered enemies that lasted for a decade,’ she explained. ‘I am obviously going to be highly optimal at joking.’
‘Let me know when you start,’ said Elliot.
‘Father, you have to calm down!’ they heard Athene say as they approached the back door. ‘Don’t let her rile you like this.’
‘That simpering shrew!’ barked Zeus. ‘This – this is why our marriage ended!’
‘Dad – not being funny,’ said Hermes, whizzing into the kitchen ahead of them, ‘but your marriage ended because you ran off with Sheila.’
‘Yes, I did!’ roared Zeus. ‘Sheila was my true Goddess!’
‘Sheila was your cleaner!’ Aphrodite said, then spotted Elliot and Virgo in the doorway. ‘Kids! You’re home!’
‘So babe – how did the trial go?’ asked Hermes.
‘Virgo’ll be off scot-free,’ said Zeus. ‘That Themis has a brilliant legal mind.’
‘Shame she didn’t bring it with her,’ said Elliot.
Virgo handed Hera’s parcel to Athene. ‘As Elliot would say, “she sucked”.’
‘So?’ asked the Goddess of Wisdom. ‘What happened?’
Elliot related the trial in as much detail as he could remember – and Virgo seemed more than happy to fill in the bits he couldn’t. And most of the bits he could.
‘So if I’m to regain my kardia, I have to prove myself a hero,’ said Virgo. ‘But how?’
‘I’d research the greats,’ said Athene, swapping two spices in the spice rack so they were in alphabetical order. ‘Hercules, Theseus, Jason – what made them the heroes we still celebrate?’
Elliot could almost see the light bulb illuminate over Virgo’s head. She pulled out her What’s What and scuttled away.
‘We should go up to that bally Council and blast them into the middle of next week!’ roared Zeus, with a wave of his arms, sending the spice rack flying across the kitchen. ‘The ruddy nerve of them – I’ve got a good mind to—’
‘LOCK THE DOOR!’ Josie suddenly screamed behind them, running to secure the open kitchen door. ‘Where are the keys?’
‘Mum!’ said Elliot, slightly more impatiently than he meant to as she threw the orderly kitchen into disarray. ‘Mum, it’s OK – we’ll find the keys . . .’
‘Here you are, Josie,’ said Athene, transforming a nearby ball of wool into a set of house keys. ‘Shall we lock the door together?’
‘Yes,’ said Josie, calming slightly as Athene turned the key in the lock. ‘We must keep it locked. At all times. We must keep the bad man out.’
‘What bad man, babe?’ said Hermes kindly.
But Josie had already wandered to the other side of the kitchen. Hermes shot Elliot a questioning look. Elliot just shook his head. He didn’t feel like talking.
‘Why don’t we go and do some more patchwork?’ suggested the Goddess of Wisdom, leading Josie gently into the other room. ‘I’ll make us some tea.’
Elliot’s heart sank. Today clearly wasn’t a good day either. He turned to the Gods.
‘Guys. We can’t keep having this conversation,’ he said. ‘You’ve got to chill out. I get it. It must have been hard since all that Hera stuff on Christmas Day . . .’
‘WE DO NOT MENTION CHRISTMAS DAY!’ roared Zeus.
‘Sorry!’ said Elliot, putting his hands up. ‘But all this drama, all the time – it gets Mum all . . . y’know.’
‘Quite right,’ said Zeus more calmly. ‘I’m sorry, old chap. It’s just being stuck in here while Hypnos is out there . . .’
‘I know, but . . .’ Elliot began.
‘We have to find that feathery fruitcake,’ Zeus muttered for the millionth time. ‘Only he knows where the bally Chaos Stones are and if he gets to you or them before we do, I shudder to think . . .’
‘Dad – I’m on it like a car bonnet,’ said Hermes. ‘I’ve got Uncle Hades on the case – he’s got eyes everywhere. The second Hypnos shows his crazy kisser – bosh!’
‘We have to stay on our guard,’ Zeus said. ‘Hypnos could be anyone. Like that chap who charged at you brandishing that huge grenade . . .’
‘That was Steve the milkman,’ said Elliot. ‘The “grenade” was a pint of semi-skimmed. And he was charging because you turned his milk float into a Challenger tank and fired it at him . . .’
‘Or that fella who tried to melt your mind with his daemonic incantations?’ Zeus insisted.
‘That was my local MP, campaigning to turn the local library into a gym,’ said Elliot. ‘You turned him into a two-headed slug. Although that was quite funny . . . The point is that you can’t keep being so over-protective. I have a life . . .’
‘Which we’re trying to protect, sweetie,’ said Aphrodite, sashaying over for a cheek-pinch.
‘And people are going to get suspicious,’ Elliot pointed out. ‘I can’t have people sniffing around here. If anyone finds out about Mum, they’ll split us up.’
‘We’re just trying to look after you, old boy,’ said Zeus softly.
‘And I appreciate that,’ said Elliot. ‘But you “looking after” me has cost three doors, two sofas, that unfortunate incident with Bessie’s dungheap, and no one will deliver milk. I am surrounded by Hephaestus’s magic fence that attacks any stranger who tries to enter. How much safer can I get?’
‘Who left the ruddy gate open?’ Hephaestus bellow
ed from across the paddock.
‘Message received loud and clear,’ said Zeus. ‘Brains in. Noses out.’
‘Deal,’ said Elliot. ‘Listen, I’d better . . .’
He trailed off and stared at an envelope the floor. It was his mum’s letter. It must have fallen out of her pocket. He should really give it back to her . . .
Elliot slowly put his foot over it. Surely a quick peek wouldn’t hurt? No one needed to know . . .
‘You’d better what, mate?’ Hermes grinned. ‘Finish your sentence?’
‘Er . . . tie . . . my . . . shoelace!’ said Elliot, bending down and pretending to fiddle with his shoe, quickly scooping the envelope up into his pocket. ‘And check on Mum. Back in a minute.’
Elliot raced into the hallway before anyone could speak. Checking no one had followed him, he pulled out the letter.
His conscience made one last feeble protest. Opening someone else’s post was invasive. It was rude. It was wrong.
But since when had any of those things bothered him?
Elliot opened the crumpled envelope and withdrew a single sheet of paper. The brief letter was written in a scruffy biro scrawl.
As Elliot read, the words started to swim in front of his eyes. It sounded like . . . but that was impossible . . . He searched for the signature at the bottom to prove himself wrong. His heart punched against his ribcage. It was the first time he’d ever seen that name handwritten. The letter couldn’t possibly be from . . .
But it was.
‘Elliot?’ said Virgo, suddenly appearing in the hallway with his satchel. ‘Time to go. What’s that?’
‘Nothing,’ said Elliot quickly, scrumpling the letter back in his pocket. ‘It’s . . . my . . . I . . .’ He had no idea how to explain what he had just read, let alone lie about it.
‘Elliot?’ asked Virgo again. ‘Are you optimal?’
‘Sure,’ said Elliot, his whirring mind racing his manic heartbeat. ‘I just . . .’
‘Come on, children, you need to get back to Brysmore this afternoon,’ said Athene, popping her head around the door. ‘I told Mr Sopweed you had an eye appointment, but that wouldn’t take all day would it Elliot . . . Elliot?’
But Elliot was replaying the words now tattooed on his brain. So that’s why Mum had lost it this morning. Because of . . .
‘Elliot?’ said Athene softly, putting her hand on his shoulder. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Er . . . yeah . . .’
‘OK – well, off you go, then,’ said Athene. ‘Try not to worry, Elliot. Josie will be fine. I’ll find out what’s upsetting her.’
Elliot nodded dumbly as he stumbled out of the door. The question wasn’t what was upsetting his mum.
It was what on Earth Elliot was going to do about it.
5. School’s Out
Graham Sopweed, headmaster of Brysmore School, was feeling all right. Not great, you understand – there was always the risk of injury, death or his mother-in-law – but Friday was . . . OK.
The school governors had been right. The Management Assertiveness Course they had sent him on had done a power of good, especially the seminar ‘How to Stand Your Ground and Give Nothing Away’.
He hadn’t quite stood his ground and had given the headmistress of Privel Ledge Prep School his right sock, his annual pass to Hedgehog World and his car. But Graham knew that a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. Especially if you’ve just lost your car.
‘Stand up for yourself, you pathetic excuse of a spineless moron!’ the ballet mistress from St Mary’s Primary School had yelled at him.
‘You can Call Me Graham,’ he’d whispered back.
But when Call Me Graham had walked over the fire pit to celebrate his more confident self, he’d felt ready to take on the world.
(It was just a shame he hadn’t felt ready to take off his shoes. Those burning coals had ruined his favourite brogues.)
Yes. Even though his wife had threatened to destroy his ceramic badger collection unless they went caravanning in Skegness, Call Me Graham was doing fine.
Until he looked in his diary and saw his next meeting. Mr Boil.
A quivering Graham tried to remember his ‘How to Stop Being a Doormat’ tutorial.
‘You mustn’t let people take advantage of you,’ the tutor had insisted. ‘Now be a love and fetch me a decent coffee from Latte Shack. Shouldn’t take you more than an hour.’
The door flew open and Mr Boil stomped in.
‘I am in control,’ Graham chanted under his breath as his legs started to shake. ‘I am a strong, brave, independent woman.’ (He’d accidentally wandered into the wrong classroom on Day 3, but rather enjoyed discovering his ‘Warrior Woman Within’.)
‘Hello, Mr Boil,’ whimpered Graham. ‘Won’t you take a—?’
‘Get a move on,’ groaned Boil, slumping into a chair and folding his arms over his gut. ‘Whaddya want?’
‘Right . . . well . . . as you know, we regularly give pupils questionnaires rating their teachers,’ said Graham. ‘I feel it would be . . . beneficial to discuss your results.’
‘That makes one of us,’ spat Boil.
‘Let’s start with student satisfaction,’ said Graham. ‘You averaged a score of 5.6.’
‘Sounds all right,’ said Boil.
‘It was out of 1,000,’ whispered Graham. ‘When asked, “Is Mr Boil approachable?” 99.6 per cent of students answered “No”, with several adding, “Only with a gas mask”.’
‘This is what happens when you let children have these stupid things,’ muttered Boil.
‘Questionnaires?’ asked Graham.
‘Opinions,’ sneered Boil.
‘Finally your students were asked, “Do you feel safe in Mr Boil’s classroom?” Let’s focus on the positives – 46 per cent answered “Yes—”’
‘See!’ said Boil.
‘“Until he walks through the door”,’ Graham read. ‘It seems we could brush up your student welfare.’
‘They’re children,’ shrugged Boil. ‘Who cares about their welfare?’
Graham sighed. He thought about his ‘Who Wears the Trousers?’ role play, but could only remember his partner giving him a wedgie.
‘We have an inspection from our child welfare officer after half-term,’ said Graham. ‘I suggest you think about pupil safety.’
‘Lock them in a cupboard?’ suggested Boil. ‘That should keep me safe from pupils.’
‘I mean it, Mr Boil,’ said Graham more forcefully, slightly breaking wind with the effort. ‘I need to see your duty of care.’
‘Or you’ll do what?’ jeered Boil.
‘Or I will recommend some staff training,’ said Graham. ‘There’s a course called “Feeling Your Way Around Feelings” that would help. You’d work with over one hundred disadvantaged children . . .’
‘And why would I do that?’ spat Boil.
‘Because if you don’t, I will be forced to review your employment at Brysmore,’ whimpered Graham. ‘Under my management, this school has been deemed “Barely Adequate”. I won’t see you undermine that achievement. Please. If you don’t mind.’
‘Fine,’ seethed Boil, attempting to free his bottom from the chair, but it was stuck fast. He hobbled out of the office, chair and all, leaving Graham trembling at his desk.
‘I did it!’ the headmaster whispered to himself. ‘I stood up for myself! There’s nothing I can’t do!’
With a triumphant flourish, he picked up the phone and called his wife.
‘Lilith?’ he said. ‘I’ve made a decision . . . We are not going to Skegness . . . yes, it is my final word . . . oh . . . great . . . so pleased we agree, dear. What’s that? You’ve made a decision too? Well, super . . . you’re going to what? No . . . no, you can’t do that . . . we only took those photos to get a closer look at that funny lump on my . . . no . . . you don’t have the password to my Facebook account . . . OK, maybe you do, but you . . . Lilith, don’t you hang up this phone . . . Lilith . .
. LILITH!’
That afternoon, Elliot’s head was still swarming with the contents of his mum’s letter. Every time half a thought formed in his mind, another jumped across it. His brain was one big tangle of ideas and feelings. What should he do?
‘HOOPER!’ roared Mr Boil. ‘Repeat what I just said!’
Elliot tried to pluck a single word out of Boil’s history lesson. He had nothing.
Virgo’s hand shot up. It usually did.
‘If I might assist,’ she began, ‘you were informing us about historical regulations regarding pavement height.’
‘I didn’t ask you!’ spat Boil.
‘Sorry, sir,’ Elliot sighed. ‘I was just . . . thinking.’
‘Unacceptable!’ Boil snapped. ‘I will not have students thinking in my class!’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Elliot, sinking back into his seat.
The bell signalled half-term to a whoop of excited cheers as everyone shot out of their chairs.
‘Sit down!’ commanded Boil.
The students begrudgingly returned to their seats.
‘As you’ll be aware, you will not attend school for one week,’ Boil spat at the sea of happy faces.
A chorus of excited whispers erupted around the room.
‘But to ensure you don’t fall behind with your studies, you will be required to research our topic “Historical Town-Planning Regulations” during half-term.’
Elliot groaned and Virgo shook her head disapprovingly.
‘Your attitude towards education is as woeful as your bathroom habits,’ she whispered. ‘Seriously, is it that hard to flush the toilet?’
‘And to ensure you don’t miss this invaluable opportunity,’ Boil continued, leering at Elliot, ‘I have left a register with Mr Simpson the librarian, which you will be required to sign. Anyone failing to visit the Local Studies section and research Little Motbury’s Drainage System in the Inter-War Years will spend the next term in detention. With me.’
Elliot rolled his eyes. How could one man have so little life?