Tales From Beyond Tomorrow: Volume One

by Catton John Paul

Frankie felt the words bubble up in his mind and opened his mouth to let them out.

  -I am Life, and the Giver of Life, yet therefore is the knowledge of me the knowledge of death, he replied.

  The jackal-headed god lifted up his arm and gestured to the left. Another door stood open, a light softly glowing. His head high, Frankie walked forward and entered the chamber.

  He entered a vast chamber with a smooth floor of tiles, black and white, in alternating squares. Before him was a low altar on which was placed roses, candles, incense, a chalice, and dishes of salt, bread and water. On either side of the chamber were statues of more seated gods.

  Behind the altar, lying on stone slabs and receding into the distance, were the bodies of the dead. ARP Wardens, firemen, ambulance crews, old men, teenage girls, housewives, mothers, fathers. The wounds gaped open, distended with blood and burned flesh. Severed heads were laid next to their limbless trunks, freed from the mortal constraint of organic unity, waiting for the promised afterlife to begin. Frankie looked upon them, seeing the rows fade into the distance, the darkness of a chamber that had no end.

  Again, he heard the whisper of the jackal-headed god behind him. – In the Sign of the Lion thou shall be purified, and in the Letter of Judgment thou shall be consecrated. Thou hast a task to perform, O man, for the Fraternity of the Inner Light.

  From the darkness at the other end of the chamber came a golden radiance, like the dawn of a new day in the desert above. The light grew and warmed everything in the chamber around him…

  And the mouths of the dead all began to scream; the vibrant, shattering howl of the air raid sirens.

  The sound shocked him out of sleep. He was in his cramped room on Bury St, and the sirens were sounding the all clear. The dim grey charred December dawn was trying to slide its way through the blackout curtains. He lay there, blinking the sleep out of the eyes, pulling the blanket around him in the morning chill, and as he drifted in and out of slumber the noises came to him, the gruff voices of people outside, the coughing of car engines, the chime of broken glass being swept up from the pavements, the scraping of metal on brick like a giant knife being sharpened on a whetstone. The city was waking up. London was a prize-fighter, getting up again after being knocked down to the canvas. Night after night.

  Over a breakfast of porridge with milk and a little salt, Frank scanned the morning edition of the Daily Express. On page five, he found news of the Western Desert Campaign; Churchill had confirmed a major allied attack for sometime later in the year, to break the Axis grip on eastern Libya and western Egypt.

  Egypt. Mussolini. Rommel. Nazi tanks grinding their way over Egyptian sand.

  Maybe everyone in London was having nightmares, he thought; but even bad dreams couldn't be as bad as the War.

  Frankie had never spoken to anyone about the myth of Osiris and Horus.

  When he'd first came across the myth, in the school library at Norwich Grammar School, he was so impressed by its profundity that he thought he was going to faint.

  Osiris, God-King of Egypt, is murdered by his brother Set, who usurps the throne. The divine body of Osiris is mutilated and dismembered, and the limbs scattered throughout the land, with the head thrown into the river Nile. Isis, his wife, travels ceaselessly across the desert to recover the parts of her husband's body. With the help of the gods Anubis and Thoth, she reassembles the body of Osiris and breathes temporary life into him, enabling them to conceive a child. He sinks once more into the Underworld, until Horus, the child of that union, deposes Set, takes power, restores peace to Egypt, and brings about the glorious ascension of his father Osiris into the true afterlife.

  The book in the library said the myth was the basis for the Egyptian practice of making mummies and the belief in a splendor-filled existence after death. To Frankie, it was much more. It was the start of an obsession that led him into a career in the medical services, where spending most of his working life in a mortuary made perfect sense. He wasn't just examining the bodies of the dead, like specimens under a lens; he was restoring them, reassembling them, preparing them for their entry into the next world. When Frankie performed his duties – washing the deceased, cutting them open, resealing them – he felt as if he was performing a magical act. He was an ancient Egyptian priest, respectfully removing the entrails of the deceased and placing them in Coptic jars. Sending them on to Anubis, who weighed their souls on his scales forged of divine metal. Easing their traumatized souls from the shattered flesh to a painless afterlife.

  But of course, he knew that if he ever told that to anyone, he'd be carted off as a right nutter.

  He left the copy of the Daily Express in the communal kitchen and walked out into the front yard to unchain his bicycle. He cycled to work, swerving around the piles of smoldering rubble and ripped cloth lying in the road, and the sites of destroyed houses looked like gaps in a mouth where teeth had been knocked out. Other homes had just had their walls blown out, exposing sagging ceilings, tattered strips of wallpaper, bathrooms filled with plaster, bricks and tiles. Everyone's life was public property now.

  Frankie passed a barricade made of kitchen chairs and two oil drums with rope strung across them. Propped against the middle chair was a wooden plank, which declared in hastily-painted white letters; DANGER – UNEXPLODED BOMB.

  As the Blitz ground on, recently Frankie had been wondering if Hitler was having the same dreams as he had. Perhaps what the Waffen SS were really trying to do was cut open London's flesh, twist it and stretch it into unnatural shapes, rearrange it into occult hieroglyphics.

  Perhaps they were trying to finish the work started in Smithfield and Whitechapel by Saucy Jack, all those years ago; carve out a spell in a dark language with meat and blood and bone. A ritual of divination, reading the entrails of an entire city.

  How can they catch me now? I love my work and want to start again…you will soon hear of me, with my funny little games.

  THREE

  "Ladies and gentlemen; I call this meeting to order."

  The Medical Superintendant at St. Bart's was a Dr. Wheeler, who looked a jovial character, despite his frequent bouts of losing his temper. He was rather plump, bald from brow to the Brilliantined strands of hair on the back of his head, had large bushy eyebrows, and smoked a pipe almost constantly during the day. At the head of the table in the hastily rearranged staff canteen, he tapped his pipe out in the big glass ashtray and looked down at his notes.

  "Ladies and gentlemen, doctors and nurses, this will be the final meeting of the Christmas Party General Purposes Committee, for the day will soon be here and we just need to tie up the loose ends."

  The muttering of the fifteen men and women around the long table lapsed into a respectful silence.

  "The latest news from the Home Office," Wheeler announced, "is that the Nazis have called a truce for the Christmas period – perhaps three or four days, from Christmas Eve. When I say truce, I mean a reduction of bombing, perhaps not a cease fire."

  "Do you really believe that?" one of the staff nurses said. "They also said they weren't going to invade Poland, and look what happened." The muttering started up again.

  Wheeler straightened his back and looked around the table. "Nevertheless, we should hope for the best. This party is designed to cheer up the patients, and of course ourselves, so let's be positive and make it the best it could be, with our limited resources. Matron, how are the decorations coming along?"

  "We've nearly finished making the paper chains, Doctor, and we've managed to get some real holly and mistletoe to put on the tree. One of our land girls is sending it up from Kent."

  "Splendid. Now, about the carols…" Wheeler turned toward the nurses on the left. "Let me stress that the main thing here is, everyone should know the words. Last year's carol singing was a pretty sorry affair, and everything has changed since then, so I hope we can count on you, sister, to provide everyone with songsheets."

  "Doctor." One of the nurses held up her hand. "The BBC is
broadcasting a special carol service from Coventry, because of what happened to the cathedral. Do you think we could have the wireless on during the party?"

  "Why yes, that's a good idea. It depends on what time the service starts – sister, could you look into that? Thank you. Now, I'd like to move on to the most important part of the menu – sorry, I mean the agenda – which is the dinner itself. Mrs. Nichols, who owns the flats near Leadenhall Market, has been growing quite a few vegetables in her Dig for Victory garden in preparation for this dinner, so I'm proud to say potatoes won't be a problem."

  Higgins, another orderly from Path Lab, leant over to whisper in Frankie's ear, "That means it'll be turkey with spuds, spuds, and more spuds."

  "Higgins, do you have a question?"

  "Me? Oh no, doctor, sorry."

  "Now let us remember the words of Lord Woolton…this is a food war. The vegetable garden is the nation's medicine chest; the battle of the home front is also the battle of the kitchen."

  "Well it's all right for Lord Woolton, I bet he doesn't eat potatoes every day."

  "Higgins, if you have something to say, could you address it through the chair? Thank you. There'll be potatoes, of course, that we shall have roasted, mashed and boiled, and also we have parsnips, cauliflower and carrots. We shall be using grated carrots in the Christmas pudding instead of currants and sultanas. Mr. Babcock has kindly allowed us to have a jar of pickled silverskin onions, which he pickled himself – and I'm very happy to say that Mrs. Walsh has been able to get her hands on some oranges, which have slipped their way through Mussolini's blockades."

  There was a brief smattering of applause.

  "Now, the main issue is of course the turkey itself. Matron will be taking care of the cooking, and she will be using the oven in number one kitchen, which seems to be the biggest one in the hospital." While talking, Wheeler scooped some more tobacco from his pouch into his pipe, and smoothed it down with the little silver tamper with the royal coat of arms embossed on the side. "Matron will also handle the stuffing…"

  "Parsley, thyme and chestnuts," Matron announced gravely.

  "Therefore, could I ask Path Lab and the orderlies to prepare the vegetables?"

  Frankie looked around. The men and women glanced at each other and nodded until someone said, "Yes, Doctor, that'll be fine."

  Tucker, a West Country-born senior doctor sitting at the back, raised his hand. "What's going to happen to the turkey bones, Dr. Wheeler?"

  Wheeler harrumphed and straightened his cuffs. "They're going to help the War Effort, you know. They'll be collected in special bins and taken to the War Office. Meat bones are a source of nitroglycerine for high explosives, glue that can be used in aircraft, food for cattle, and fertilizer for crops."

  "Just as long as the bins are kept out of the back yard," said Matron severely. "We'll have stray dogs all over the place if we're not careful."

  "I hope you're not throwing the giblets into one of those bins?" Tucker suddenly piped up from the back, his face indignant. "They make a smashing gravy, giblets do. With a pinch of salt."

  "Yes, what about the gravy? Can't forget that. Turkey can be very dry, you know."

  "Never mind the gravy, what about the parson's nose?"

  "Just a minute. Just a minute." Wheeler banged his little silver tamper on the table for quiet. "I was about to get to the giblets. My wife has volunteered to be in charge of the gravy, and rest assured, the giblets will be put to good use. Now, does anyone else have anything to contribute?"

  One of the orderlies held up his hand. "Joe Chapman the butcher told me he could be able to get us a few sausages. Just don't ask where they came from."

  "Don't trust him," said the orderly next to him resentfully. "They'll turn out to be whale meat or horse."

  "I wouldn't have sausages from him any more," said someone behind Frankie. "The last ones we had from him were so full of bread they were like toast when they came out the grill." He turned to the nurse next to him and nudged her in the ribs. "I didn't know whether to put mustard on them or marmalade!"

  Wheeler looked at his watch. "Can we move on from the sausages, please? The quality has been noted in the minutes. I would like to turn our attention now to…"

  Once Wheeler had tapped his pipe to announce 'meeting adjourned', everyone stood up to chat as they headed for the doors, until the head doctor caught Frankie's eye.

  "Cooper, could you stay behind?" This was the old hospital habit of always using surnames, even in a friendly chat.

  Frankie shot a worried glance to his colleagues as they filed out and left him behind.

  Wheeler made a grand show of filling up his pipe again while Frankie waited nervously in his seat. Eventually lighting it, the head doctor sat back in his chair and regarded his subordinate. "Do you think the Nazis celebrate Christmas, Cooper?" he asked conversationally.

  Frankie tried to think of what to say. "I've never really thought about it, sir. I suppose they do…the normal German people, I mean. The ones who aren't bombing us."

  Wheeler puffed at his pipe. "There are some queer stories coming out of Nazi Germany, you know."

  Frankie made no reply.

  "Swastikas decorating Christmas trees. Pagan bonfires and torchlight parades. Turning December 25th into some German 'Blood and Soil' ceremony. Oh yes, I've heard all kinds of queer goings-on."

  Frankie waited, wondering what was coming next, as Wheeler shifted in his seat and looked rather embarrassed.

  "Matron tells me that you were talking to some of the patients on the children's wards about…mummies."

  Frank inwardly sighed and forced himself to smile. "Yes, I was telling them about how mummies were made."

  "And scaring them into the bargain, I think."

  "What, sucking the brain out of the nose with a couple of straws? Kids love that kind of thing!"

  "Well the boys might, but the girls are a bit more delicate, Cooper. It gave some of them quite a turn. We need to cheer them up, not scare them out of their wits."

  Frankie suddenly recalled what Liz had said to him. Oh, I get it, he thought with irritation. Wheeler thinks I'm 'eccentric' as well.

  "Are you a Christian?" Wheeler asked.

  He stared back at his supervisor. "Yes," he said eventually.

  "I'm not a big God-fearing man myself," Wheeler said, "but it would be a good idea if you could join us at the Sunday services at St. Bartholomew the Great occasionally. As far as I know, you've never been. Show a bit of support and decency and solidarity."

  "Onward Christian soldiers," said Frankie with a nod.

  Wheeler put away his schedule book and stood up, ready to leave. "That's the spirit. Smile a bit more, Cooper, look happy. The most important thing here is to keep the patients cheerful, they need…"

  "Well, sir, I am doing my music hall routine at the Christmas party. That'll cheer them up!"

  "Oh yes, of course. Your Max Miller. Good show. Perhaps I could join you. I'm rather fond of Robb Wilton, you know."

  Wheeler fixed his eyes on Frank and said in a nasal, high-pitched voice, "The day war broke out, the missus said to me…"

  "The day war broke out, my missus said to me, you'll have to stop it. I said, stop what? She said, the War."

  Reading was a passion that Frankie had held ever since he could remember, and he'd been delighted to discover it was one of the things that he had in common with Liz. On his days off he spent a lot of time in the second-hand bookshops on the Charing Cross Road. One of them, Doorway to the Ages, kept him coming back with its treasure trove of first editions in the back, and lurid, yellowing pulp thrillers in the basement.

  Today, he was not only browsing, but looking for something special; a present for Liz. He needed something else, something to give her a little bit of intellectual stimulation, and spend the rest of his meager festive budget on something she'd like. He didn't have enough money for a first edition, but he thought he'd be able to find something interesting.

  He pu
shed open the door with its glass square of window covered with brown sticky paper, letting the bell above tinkle to announce his arrival. There was nobody to be seen. A half-eaten cheese roll lay on a handkerchief next to today's Daily Telegraph; perhaps the shopkeeper had restrained himself from eating the full lunch, so he had something to look forward to in the afternoon.

  Frankie let the door close and the hubbub of the street behind him sunk to a quiet hum. He felt a wonderful sense of calm settle upon him; here, for a short while, he could escape the War, and lose himself in ancient lands, in other worlds, in pre-revolutionary France, in Prohibition Chicago, communing with cowboys, detectives, Highland chieftains…he could lose himself and find the mysterious something else. The dusty smell, the mild yellow color of the aged books, the touch of the paper as he turned the covers to flick through them, they were all treasures far better than anything he could find on the black market.

  Someone cleared his throat behind him; Frankie turned, and the shopkeeper stood in the doorway leading to the back room. "Call me George," the man had once said to Frankie, on one of his frequent visits. He was a large man with a ruddy, cheerful face, and big black-rimmed glasses. George smiled at Frankie and watched him with interest. "Looking for anything in particular, sir?"

  Frankie turned round to face him. "Well, I have a lady friend who's rather keen on Virginia Woolf. I wondered if there were any similar writers who she hadn't, er…"

  "Oh, yes. Other member of the Bloomsbury Group, you mean. Well, let me see." George opened the drawer and pulled out an old pair of wire-rimmed reading glasses. He put them on and squeezed his way around the counter into the main part of the shop.

  He stood in front of a bookcase of second-hand Penguins and Frankie moved over to join him. "Let me see," muttered George, "A Passage to India, A Room with a View…I suppose your lady friend will have read all of those?"

  "I think so."

  "You're looking for something modern, but that she probably wouldn't have heard of. How about The Love Song of Albert J Prufrock?"