by Tom Holt
‘No.’ Lundqvist shook his head slowly. ‘You wait and see what we’ve got in store for you, and then tell me all about it.’
George mustered an expression of polite interest. ‘Something fun?’ he asked.
Lundqvist told him.
EuroBosch: a visitor’s guide.
Enter through the Burning Cities at the northern end of the Park, buying your ticket from the four-legged owl-headed egg (who also retails a wide range of souvenir goods, postcards, plenary indulgences and Masses for the Dead). Each visitor or party is then assigned a personal fiend to act as escort and guide for your tour. It’s very helpful if visitors can specify any preference for a particular fiend type well in advance; the spoon-headed monks in particular are in great demand, and are allocated on a first-come first-damned basis.
As you pass over the bridge embattled by armies, the first exciting and enjoyable activity you will come to will be the Ferris Ears. All you have to do is climb up the scaffolding to the gallows on the left of the Ears to get to your seat; you’re then churned round and round inside the Ears, being narrowly missed by the huge pendant knife-blade, until you’re hurled out, dizzy and terrified, through the slot at the front.
Next on the programme is the amazing free-to-enter Satanic Bagpipe Karaoke, situated on the flat circular platform on top of the severed head. Look closely at the illustration in the brochure and you’ll see a delighted visitor being led to the microphone by a bird-headed fiend with a burning torch.
Just down from the Karaoke is the popular Refreshment Area, conveniently situated in the shattered eggshell.The Refreshment Area offers a wide range of traditional infernal hot and cold dishes, light snacks and bird-headed fiends. Patrons are requested to refrain from smoking in the Refreshment Area, although residents may of course smoulder unobtrusively.
Across the boating lake from the Refreshment Area is the family favourite Lost Souls Tortured On Musical Instruments game. For a moderate admission charge, you can be crushed in a viol, rolled in a drum, strung on a harp or crucified on a lute, and the attendant dog-, rabbit- and amphibian-headed demons will be pleased to assist you in any way they can.
You may then wish to cross back over the boating lake to enjoy the unique sensation of participating in the rollicking Knight Eaten By Dogs stall; or perhaps you will prefer to spend a quarter of an hour or so simply walking about the grounds marvelling at the many varied and different species of wild fiend to be found there before embarking on a helter-skelter dash through the Horse’s Skull assault course, followed by a thrilling twenty minutes with the Manta Ray Paintball Team.
Whichever of the many colon-twistingly enjoyable activities you choose to take part in on your way round EuroBosch, you should on no account miss the high spot of any visit, the all-action non-stop Captain Beaky Extravaganza, guaranteed to haunt your nightmares with feverish intensity for whatever remains of your life.
Finally, a few Dos and Don’ts to make your visit more enjoyable:
Please do not feed the fiends, except with the specially prepared human souls obtainable from the gift shop situated in the Giant Lantern. The fiends’ diet is carefully regulated for their own health and well-being, and sweets, sandwiches and gobbets of human flesh can be harmful.
Please do not ask to be mangled by the giant bird-headed butterflies. Their wings are extremely fragile, and you risk spoiling your own and other people’s enjoyment.
Please take your sins home with you, or place them in the receptacles provided.
Only children purchased on the premises may be consumed in the Refreshment Area.
‘. . . And after that,’ Lundqvist was saying, ‘they stuff you straight back into your skin and round you go again, over and over and over, for the rest of—’
‘Sounds all right to me.’
Lundqvist lost his temper. ‘No it doesn’t,’ he shouted, ‘it’s horrible, and you’ll scream and howl and beg for mercy, but nobody will hear, and it’ll be the same, every day for ever, and—’
‘Except Thursdays.’
Lundqvist’s head snapped round. ‘What do you mean, Thursdays?’ he spat.
‘The park’s shut Thursdays,’ George said, ‘for cleaning and maintenance. And I don’t imagine your bosses will want to pay for the electricity if there’s nobody there, do you? I expect the whole thing’ll grind to a halt until opening time on Friday.’
‘Look . . .’
‘By the same token,’ George went on implacably, ‘I very much doubt whether the machines will be running every evening after all the visitors have gone, because that’s when the little men with the oil-cans come round and do all the bearings. Mind you,’ he added, ‘if it’s like any fun-fair I’ve ever been to, at least a third of the time the place is open the machines will have broken down or overheated or something, so the actual net being-chewed time is reduced by - what, something like . . .’
‘All right,’ Lundqvist thundered, ‘it won’t be absolutely incessant. It’ll still hurt like buggery when it is working.’
‘It would hurt,’ George replied calmly, ‘if I hadn’t learnt advanced tantric yoga as a young man at college. Marvellous stuff, you know, means you can lie on beds of nails and prance about on red-hot coals for hours on end and not feel a thing. You should try it some time.’
Lundqvist was pulling handfuls of hair out of his horse’s mane by now. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘so maybe it’s not incessant and maybe it won’t hurt as much as it should, but it’ll be very, very boring. Or hadn’t you considered that?’
George smiled beatifically. ‘I come from a large family,’ he replied, ‘and we were for ever being visited by some cousin or other; usually middle-aged, with photographs. And you presume to talk to me about being bored.’
‘Look . . .’
‘Plus the tantric yoga helps with that, too. It’s extremely hard to be bored when you’re contemplating the vastness of Being through the sharp focus of Experience while standing aside from your Persona.’ George grinned like a mantrap. ‘It’s a bit like twiddling your thumbs, only less exhausting physically.’
Lundqvist glanced down at his bald horse and got a grip on himself. ‘You’ll see,’ he said, ‘who has the last laugh.’
‘Oh, I expect you will,’ said George, ‘Smiler.’
Although there was still a full week to go before the scheduled Grand Opening, the management had reckoned that it would be good business to have a few sneak previews. Potential advertisers, reps from the main holiday companies and other major clients in the making were therefore cringing and lurking their way round the Park when Lundqvist trotted through the main gate, remembering to duck so as to avoid leaving his head behind as he passed under the fish-headed monster perched over the lintel. It had been put there as a hat-check fiend, but old habits die hard.
A wave of his .40 Glock was enough to persuade the Egg that Lundqvist didn’t need a ticket and didn’t want any handmade demonic fudge, and after Lundqvist had parked his horse in the horse park they passed through into the Burning Cities area. Once or twice Lundqvist nearly jumped out of his skin as they turned a corner to be confronted by a flute-headed badger or a nine-foot-high cowled lizard; George simply smiled and occasionally nodded in tacit salutation.
‘Scared?’
‘Shut up.’ Lundqvist yanked hard on the chain, and George reeled heavily against a four-legged, Alsatian-sized wine jar, which staggered, slipped in a pool of its own spillage, and crashed to the ground, shattering into hundreds of razor-edged splinters. There was a howl of fury from a scaffolding tower overhead, followed by a forceful request that the two of them should look where they were going.
‘Smiler.’
‘Now what?’
‘If I were you, I’d let me go now.’
Amazing, the way that Life can still find things to take our breath away, even when we think we’ve seen and heard it all. ‘Are you out of your skull?’ Lundqvist demanded. ‘I wouldn’t let you go now for all the napalm in Iraq.’
‘Sure?’
Lundqvist grinned nastily. ‘Absolutely positive.’
‘Okay,’ George said, and shrugged. ‘On your head be it, then.’ And a few seconds later, it was.
It was a truck-sized expanded polystyrene turbot, dressed in a cardinal’s hat and playing a harp, and it hit Lundqvist in the back of the head before landing directly on top of him. All that was visible of him was his hands and one toe.
‘Told you,’ said George.
Furtively, and with a face like thunder, Hieronymus Bosch climbed down from the crane and looked round.
‘Right,’ he hissed, ‘that’s it, that’s the very last time I help you out of a jam. Understood?’
‘Afternoon, Ron.’
‘We are now,’ Bosch went on, fumbling in his pocket for the diamond-edged hacksaw, ‘finally and definitively quits. Got that?’
George nodded. ‘Very good of you to help me out here, Ron,’ he said. ‘Always could rely on you in a crisis.’
‘Well,’ Bosch snapped back as the severed halves of the first handcuff hit the ground, ‘in future you can rely on me not being here, understood?’
‘You always were a pal, Ron,’ said Lucky George, smiling. ‘Well, I mustn’t keep you. How are you getting on with those chains and things?’
‘Huh!’ Bosch winced sharply as he touched the blade of the hacksaw with the tip of his finger. It was hot, very hot indeed. ‘Bloody things, they’ve gone and used carbon steel for these damned manacles. Don’t they have any idea whatsoever of how much things cost?’
‘Never mind.’ George swung his arms and rolled his neck to suggest that it would be nice to move, if only eventually. ‘Can’t expect this lot to know things, Ron. Be seeing you.’
Once he was clear of the chains and the collar, George made for the giant lantern. He needed food, and a drink, and quite possibly a new pair of feet.
Well, he said to himself as he looked round. If I did want some new feet, this would be the place to come. Hundreds of them, and some with nothing attached at either end.
After the drink and the sandwich, of course, there would be the problem of getting out of the Park. As priorities go, however, it wasn’t exactly holding pole position. He walked up the back of the oversize carving knife and swung open the door.
Then he remembered. No money. Damn.
He tried to conjure for some, and then remembered. Magic doesn’t work here, because of interference from the tannoy system.
‘Hi,’ he said. ‘You got any washing-up needs doing?’
Seven pairs and three trios of eyes turned and stared at him. ‘You what?’ said a voice from behind the bar.
‘I said,’ George repeated, sitting on a bar stool, ‘any washing-up you want doing? In return for a cup of coffee, something like that.’
The barfiend cackled through its twisted beak. ‘Listen, chum,’ it said. ‘This is Hell, right? No problem getting washing-up done here.’
‘Fair enough.’ George nodded. ‘Plenty of unhelpful husbands, you mean. All right, then, will you take a cheque?’
The fiend scowled, and pointed with its wingtip at a notice over the fireplace, which said:NO CREDIT
NO LOITERING
SERVICE NOT INCLUDED
‘I think I’ve been here before,’ George said. ‘Well, sorry to have bothered you. See you around.’
The door through which he had just walked swung shut. Worse than that, it folded its arms. George sat down again and surreptitiously pulled a bowl of peanuts towards him. Before his fingers could close around any of the contents, they jumped out of the bowl and scurried for the ashtray.
‘Where d’you come from, anyway?’ demanded the fiend. ‘Haven’t seen you in here before, have I?’
‘I’m with the preview tour,’ George replied. ‘Actually, I’m a bit lost.’
‘Who isn’t?’
‘Good point.’ With a deft flick of his wrist, George brushed a slower-than-average peanut into the palm of his hand and swallowed it quickly. ‘Could you direct me to the main gate? The bus leaves in ten minutes, and . . .’
The fiend wrinkled its beak. ‘I know who you are,’ it said. ‘You’re that Lucky George character. Well, sunshine, this time you won’t be so bleeding lucky, because . . .’
Out of the corner of his eye, George caught sight of something nice. Niceness, like beauty, is very much in the be-holder’s eye, because all he’d seen was two more bird-headed monsters. But these ones were different.They were seagull-headed.
‘Here,’ the barfiend was saying, ‘you two. Are you from Security?’
A seagull head nodded.
‘Took your bloody time, didn’t you? Here he is. Now get him out of here.’
George waited till they were past the Knight Eaten By Dogs and out on to the hard ice of the pond before breaking the silence.
‘Like the thing said,’ he muttered. ‘You two took your bloody time.’
Larry shrugged. ‘It’s not easy, you know,’ he said. ‘We had to find costumes.’
‘And they had people in them, too,’ Mike added. ‘So we had to get rid of them, and then we had to find you. And people kept stopping us and asking where the lavs are. We did our best.’
George nodded. ‘No problem,’ he said, ‘just so long as you can find the way out. To be honest with you, I don’t like it much here. Don’t let Ron know I said that, by the way.’
‘It’s over there,’ Larry said, pointing. ‘Up past that big head thing with the plate on top. Better still, there’s a fire escape just below the Burning Cities. We could go through that.’
George nodded. ‘Where’s Helen?’ he asked.
‘Waiting out front with the car,’ Mike answered. ‘She insisted on coming.’
‘Quite right too. Now then, I left Lundqvist under a fish, but he’s probably on the loose again by now, so we’d better get a move on.’
As they made their way up the bank away from the pond, a rabbit-headed demon shuffled up and asked them if they wanted to go on the Man-Eating Lute. They shook their heads and walked on.
‘Freeze!’
‘Oh for pity’s sake,’ George muttered, clicking his tongue and dodging a bullet from the .40 Glock. ‘Come on, we’d better make for that thing over there.’
‘Just a minute, boss, you don’t want to go there, it’s the—’
‘Come on, Larry, and don’t dawdle.’
‘I see,’ George whispered, ‘what you mean.’
Larry acknowledged the remark with a tiny dip of his head. The rest of him was frozen with terror.
‘It’s all right really, Larry, the worst that can happen is they’ll ask you to sing. What’s so terrible about . . . ?’
George caught sight of the seagull’s face and decided that this was a topic best left alone. He folded his arms, looked straight in front of him and set his lips in a slight smile.
Lundqvist woke up.
William Shakespeare was a great describer of sleep, referring to it as (inter alia) balm of hurt minds, knitter-up of the ravelled sleeve of care, great nature’s second course and the season of all natures. Kurt Lundqvist, who had always taken the view that the pen may be mightier than the sword but is still no match for a twelve-gauge Remington Wingmaster with an eighteen-inch barrel loaded with Double-O buckshot, preferred to think of sleep as a right bastard, particularly when induced by an outsize expanded polystyrene fish.
It didn’t help matters that the first thing he saw on opening his eyes was Links Jotapian, who said, ‘Are you all right, Mr Lundqvist?’
‘Yes. Get this bloody thing off me and raise the alarm.’
‘Straight away, Mr Lundqvist.’
‘Links.’
‘Yes, Mr Lundqvist?’
‘Try pushing it the other way.’
‘Gosh, sorry, Mr Lundqvist, I wasn’t thinking. Did it hurt?’
‘Not nearly as much as what I’m going to do to you if you don’t get a goddamn move on.’
‘I’m doing the best I can, Mr
Lundqvist.’
‘Yes,’ Lundqvist replied bitterly, ‘you probably are.’
A few minutes later, every alarm bell in the complex was howling its head off, producing a volume of noise so great that it was almost audible over the sound-effects from the various rides. On the Karaoke stall, however, it had about as much chance as a Bic disposable against Lundqvist’s Remington.
‘Every time I say goodbye,’ Larry was singing, ‘I die a little.’ He didn’t carry absolute conviction, because to judge strictly by appearances he was already dead; more than that, he’d been steeped for a week in formaldehyde and inexpertly stuffed.
‘He’s really very good, isn’t he?’ hissed the other seagull under his breath. ‘Mind you, he gets that from his mother.’
Larry carried on singing until the rat-headed fiend in nominal charge of the proceedings eventually took the microphone away from him and passed it on to a circular nun with light shining out through her ears. All right, so this was Hell; but there are limits. The nun started to sing ‘My Way’.
‘Come on,’ George hissed, ‘let’s get out of this. I really do fancy something to eat.’
Before he could make good his escape, however, the rat-head snatched the mike away from the nun, and jabbed it into George’s hand. He smiled, as if receiving a bunch of flowers from a welcoming committee, took a deepish breath and sang.
It took the rat-head less than seven seconds to realise that he’d made a serious mistake; but by then the damage was mostly done. When he tried to take the mike away from Lucky George, all he got for his pains was an expertly placed elbow in his solar plexus. Thereafter he confined his energies to switching the whole plant off at the mains and biting through the mike cable with his teeth. The difference it made was negligible.
Finally, having assured the world at large that he’d done it his way, George handed back the mike and sighed contentedly.