by Heide Goody
“I’ve carried much heavier in my time,” said Christopher.
“Really?” Em gathered up the few remaining items.
“Oh, aye. As I’m sure you know, I once carried the infant Christ across a raging river.”
“Is that so?”
The Virgin Mother had relaxed considerably since finding her spare cigarettes and lighter in the campervan.
“Right heavy he were,” said Christopher. “His weight bore down on me more and more with every step.”
“He was a skinny whelp,” said Em.
“Not in my recollection, but he was as bonny as the sun itself. Radiant and beautiful.”
“Really?” said Em and then grunted to herself. “Let me show you something.”
She pulled a flat silver box from her inner pocket, flicked a switch on the side and a picture appeared on the grey screen.
“It’s a piece of burned toast,” said Christopher.
“Ah, but look at the burnt bits. There, the eyes, the shape of the jaw…”
Em pressed a button and the image changed.
“A cloud,” said Christopher.
“But if you imagine that these are his legs and this his robe and this…”
“Sorry?”
Another image.
“What is that?” said Christopher.
“A patch of damp I found in a hotel in Warsaw.”
“You made this picture of it?”
“Took it, yes. It’s a camera.”
“Why?”
“Can’t you see?” she said. “The nose, the mouth, the beard. It’s him. It looks just like him.”
Christopher frowned.
“Father Christmas?”
“Jesus! It’s Jesus. My son.”
“Oh, that Jesus,” said Christopher slowly. “Oh, oh, of course. See it now. Obvious.”
Em’s shoulders slumped and she stuffed the picture box camera thing back in her pocket.
“Two thousand years,” she said. “And I don’t even have any proper pictures of him. But a mother knows her son when she sees him. Come on.”
They carried their items to the car.
“You met my boy once – allegedly,” said Em. “You didn’t have to raise the little bugger.”
“Bugger?”
Christopher stopped at the roadside and unloaded his burden into the car boot.
“He was not an easy child,” said Em. “Keys.”
“Front seat. I don’t think you can pass that sort of judgement on Christ,” said Christopher disapprovingly.
“I’m his mum. Of course I bloody can.”
They got in the car. Em started the engine which, with a little patience and some additional willpower from Christopher, spluttered into action.
“Where to?” said Christopher.
“To find Franky-Boy and Girl Wonder,” said Em as she pulled away. “Tell me, have you ever heard of the Infancy Gospel of Thomas?”
“The stories of your time in Egypt after you had to run away from King What’s-His-Name? They’re made up, aren’t they?”
“I wish,” said Em. “Some of the miracles he performed in the early days were harmless enough. Bringing clay birds to life, making a plank expand to fit his father’s wonky table but, generally, he was insufferable as a toddler.”
“I must protest,” said Christopher.
“You weren’t there. Imagine a three year old throwing a tantrum, a three year old with the power of God. If a kid took his toys or accidentally knocked him over, he’d blind them or worse. He turned one boy to dust, like an Egyptian mummy. You think it’s hard getting a three year old to give up his nu-nu, you try getting him to restore sight or bring someone back to life.”
“I simply can’t believe our Lord would be such a mardy little tyke.”
“He was a child. I think the worst was when he learned how to turn breastmilk into wine. I was drunk for a week before I worked out what he was doing. He was tough one to raise, all right.”
“Let’s try here,” said Christopher, pointing at a driveway and a sign shaped like a boar’s head.
Em swung into the driveway at speed.
“Yeah, that boy was wilful. Like his dad.”
“Which dad?” said Christopher.
“Ha! Both. Bloody men.”
A robed figure staggered into their headlights, waving his arms frantically.
“Watch out!” yelled Christopher.
Em wrenched the wheel to the right to avoid St Francis. Unfortunately, there was a house in the way.
Joan looked up at the thunderous rumble from the house above that set the hooks on their chains swinging. The lights flickered. The Haarstek Crusher stuttered and then ground on.
“What the—” exclaimed Martijn.
Joan turned to go and investigate.
“No!” yelled Martijn. “You’re not going anywhere.”
Joan was sure that she should stay to continue to offer her apologies for trespass to Martijn, but that violent roar spoke to her of destruction and possible threat to life. She couldn’t ignore such things. She ran up the stairs, Martijn close on her heels.
As she neared the top, she heard the sharp squeak of the troll toy, perhaps beneath Martijn’s booted feet.
“Oh,” said Martijn, his voice rising in genuine surprise. “Oh… oh…”
With the passenger door blocked by fallen brickwork, Christopher had to climb over the driver’s seat to get out. The front end of the Volvo was at one with the wall of the house, rubble, steel and plastic strewn around.
Em stood in the muddy driveway over the fallen figure of Francis.
“We hit him?” said Christopher.
“We didn’t,” said Em. “I did.”
There was a crunch of brickwork and Joan clambered out through the remains of the house door.
“What happened?” she called.
“This bearded tit,” spat Em, pointing a finger at Francis, “seems intent on destroying every vehicle I get into.”
Francis scrambled to his feet, wide-eyed.
“They’re killers…” he mumbled. “All the animals… sausages…”
“I know,” said Joan, reassuringly. “They’re meat farmers. Don’t let it get to you.”
“No.” Francis, close to tears, shook his head.
“Can anyone smell anything?” said Christopher.
Em looked at the remains of the kitchen wall and then at Christopher.
“Shit. We’ve ruptured a gas pipe. Come on. Away. Away.”
“What?” said Joan.
“Bad stuff,” said Em. “We need to get some distance.”
Christopher helped the incoherently upset Francis down the driveway, while Em rescued all she could from the car boot.
“Was there anyone else in the house?”
“Martijn was in the cellar,” said Joan. “I think I upset him. Where’s Ida, Francis?”
Francis flung his hand in the general direction of the gardens.
“Perhaps it is best if we left now,” agreed Joan.
A large coach — ideal for long crusades, thought Christopher – rumbled past as they reached the road. There was no other traffic visible on the road, no other signs of life in the darkness.
“Great,” muttered Em. “Stranded in Belgium. The stuff of nightmares.”
“We need transport,” said Christopher.
“Well, obviously.”
Christopher looked down the road, concentrated for a second and coughed. There was a bang from the coach, a blaze of red lights and the vehicle came to a halt, with a noise like a sack of cement falling onto a set of bagpipes.
“Let’s catch ourselves a lift,” he said.
They hurried down the road to the coach. The driver, a portly fellow with a loose tie around his neck looked under the vehicle.
“Hello,” said Joan.
The driver scratched his head.
“Could swear we’d had a blow out but they’re all sound.”
“Probably just a stone
bouncing off the underside,” suggested Christopher.
“Probably just a stone bouncing off the underside,” Joan relayed to the driver.
“If you say so,” he said, confused.
“Sir,” said Joan, “our vehicle has crashed some distance back and we’re without transport.”
“Is everyone all right?” said the driver, looking at Francis.
“All the little animals…” whimpered Francis.
“He’ll be fine,” said Em. “Could you possibly give us a lift?”
The driver took a noisy intake of breath.
“Ooh, that would be against company policy.”
“Colin!” snapped a woman’s voice from aboard the coach. “Don’t you dare leave those people out there in this Godforsaken country!”
The driver gave them the look of a man who had been subject to such stern treatment for a very long time and waved them onto the bus. The coach appeared to be full of old women, some asleep in their seat but most of them intent on the new passengers.
A sharp-faced and beady-eyed woman gestured to spaces beside her.
“Plenty of seats here,” she said. “Sit down before that fool Colin changes his mind.”
Christopher dumped Francis into a seat and tried to squeeze into the cramped space beside him. In the end, he admitted defeat and sat down with his legs in the aisle.
“Thank you,” said Joan. “I’m Joan. This is Em.”
“And your overwrought friend?”
“Franky-Boy is bit sensitive,” said Em. “He’s also a dick.”
The sharp-faced woman smiled.
“I’m Agnes. Don’t you worry, Em. We in the Aberdaron Women’s Institute are very good at keeping our men in line. Now, I gather you’ve had something of an eventful evening.”
Ida Couckuyt tottered up the garden to the house, weeping in pain and distress. The attack by the ferrets had been bad enough. But then the boars had turned on her and she had barely got away with her life. There were deep cuts to her arms and the ache of a hundred trotter stamps on her back and she could still hear them out there, cavorting and snorting victoriously in their field. And now she was presented with the sight of a car embedded in her kitchen wall and brickwork either fallen or leaning precariously out of position.
“Martijn!”
There was no response. Sniffing back tears, she stumbled inside, looking for her beloved. He had gone down to the cellar to clean the machines and make preparations for their latest ‘guests’. Even in the lightless kitchen, she could see the cellar door was open and she carefully, painfully, made her way down the stairs.
Most of the lights had gone out — perhaps the car crash had tripped some of the circuits — but, as she neared the bottom, she could see something was clearly wrong. From what little light came down the stairs, it was possible to see the Haarstek Crusher and something sticking out of it. Were those things legs? Were those Martijn’s rubber boots?
Ida dashed the tears from her eyes. She couldn’t see clearly. She refused to believe what she was seeing.
Ida sniffed and reached for the light switch.
Christopher looked round to see an enormous explosion of yellow fire unfold in the fields behind them. He turned to tell Joan but it had burned itself out almost instantly and was gone.
“Eventful evening?” said Agnes.
“No,” said Em hurriedly. “Not at all. It’s been quite boring all told.”
Agnes tutted.
“Well, that’s Belgium for you.”
Chapter 4 – Rouen
Francis was suspicious of the bed covering.
It was so flimsy and light that he had assumed he'd need to sleep in his habit and yet so delightfully cosy that he suspected that modern bed coverings might be responsible for a lapse in morals. Loud snoring noises from the next bed told him that Christopher was more than comfortable too. The sun was well up, daylight a golden haze in the gauzy curtains of the hotel room.
“Positively encourages sloth,” said Francis and, with some reluctance, flung the bed covering aside.
He padded through to the lavatorium and gazed round at the collection of porcelain that sparkled before him. He turned the taps on and off in the wash basin, certain that he had the measure of that one. There was another basin, lower down, presumably for feet. He tested the flush on the toilet with a knowing nod. Em had explained about chamberpots as she saw Francis discreetly pick up an ice bucket on the way to the rooms last night. So, that just left the puzzle of the partitioned area to the left. He approached it cautiously.
It was equipped with controls and levers similar to the automobiles that he'd seen, and he really didn't want to crash this one. He opened the door and pushed a button. He was horrified to discover that water cascaded from above.
“Oh, Heavens,” he squeaked. “I’ve broken it.”
As his hands dithered over the controls, he realised that the water washing over them was warm. Could this strange booth actually be intended for ablutions? Francis pulled his hand back and then moved it forward into the warm water.
“That is nice.”
He wondered what would happen if he stepped inside.
Christopher woke to a curious noise. An anguished howling accompanied by a splashing sound emanated from the bathroom. He rolled his bulk out of the sagging bed and pressed his ear against the closed door of the bathroom. The noise was definitely coming from inside; Francis appeared to be in some distress. Christopher shouldered the door open.
“What's up, Francis? Oh.”
Francis was completely naked amongst the steam behind the glass partition. He was massaging some sort of foam into his tonsure, and had his eyes closed as he continued to make the appalling noise.
“Hop, little wa—a—a—bbits, who have such playful ha—a—a—bits!”
“What on earth are you doing?” yelled Christopher. “It's soaking wet in there! Have you taken leave of your senses?”
He opened the door to haul Francis out.
“No, no!” moaned Francis. “It's some sort of washing cupboard, and it's utterly divine! Try for yourself.”
“What? Get wet all over?” Christopher, pulled a face. “Only time I ever did that was when I helped the infant Christ cross a river. Did I ever tell you about that?”
“You might have done. This is for washing. You have washed before, haven’t you?”
“It wasn’t all that popular a concept in my day.”
“Well this water is delightful,” said Francis. “Twy it.”
Christopher wondered if Francis was delirious after getting so wet, but he put his arm into the spray and it found that it really didn't feel so bad. Moments later he was luxuriating under the stream of water, turning around and letting it warm his shoulders.
“Mm, I see what you mean!” he said.
“Twy the bubbles, twy them!” exclaimed Francis, who was now wrapped in a fluffy white garment.
Christopher was soon awash with slippery, fragrant bubbles. He peered at the shower head.
“This is a fair impressive contrivance. Where does all the water come from?”
“No idea,” said Francis. “There must be someone in the ceiling, pouring it through or something.”
Christopher peered upward at the showerhead and the air vent in the ceiling above. He couldn’t see anyone and, he remembered, they couldn’t see him either. But that didn’t mean that he should appear ungrateful.
“Thanking you, shower flunkies,” he called.
“Indeed, thank you,” agreed Francis, adding, “It must be a peculiar job for a serving man to spend his days pouwing water over the unclothed guests of this hostel.”
“Who says it’s a man up there?” said Christopher with a grin. “If only you could see me, girls! You’ve no idea what you’re missing.”
Francis suddenly paled and hurried back into the bedroom.
Christopher emerged into the room, eventually, in a waft of steam.
“Any more of those spare habits?�
�� he asked Francis.
He picked up the bathrobe that Francis handed to him and wrapped it round his barrel chest with a grin.
“We fell on our feet here, Francis,” he said. “Meal last night, transport to help us on our way and now this! If we can find some breakfast from somewhere, I'll be a very happy man.”
“It says here that bweakfast is served on the first floor,” said Francis, holding a little card.
Christopher's eyes lit up.
“Then what are we waiting for?” he said, rubbing his hands together in anticipation.
“Weggie,” said Francis to the rat curled up on the pillow. “Stay there and daddy will bwing you back a cwoissant.”
The Wolf of Gubbio sniffed around the dented campervan. A morning mist clung to the furrows of the muddy field. He picked up the scent of his master, leading off towards some nearby buildings. He trotted across the fields to see a great deal of activity. Several people wearing fluorescent jackets were picking over the ruins of a house. Smoke drifted languorously from the rubble. A man led a nervous alpaca round to a horse box. The alpaca eyed the wolf and strained backwards. The wolf ignored it and ran to the rear of the house where his master had definitely lingered for a while amongst the interesting animal scents.
A pair of humans were conversing over something that they held in a plastic bag.
“We had a call from her father,” said a tall man with a moustache. “He received a call from her mobile phone at this location. We’re waiting for the DNA results, but we think we're dealing with human remains in some meat products that have been found. We've got Laila's bank card and passport in this rucksack. There are others.”
The other human, who, the wolf noted with interest, had a dog biscuit in his pocket, took the plastic bag and looked at its contents.
“How many?”
“Lots.”
“Where's the phone now?” asked the biscuit-man. “I don't see it with Laila's belongings.”
“It’s not here,” said the tall man. “We have traced the phone to Rouen.”
“Rouen? Interesting. Perhaps – What the hell is that?”
“What?” said the moustachioed one.
“There! Is that a wolf?”
But the wolf was already bounding away to the south west on the trail of his master.