by Heide Goody
She hoped that Leon was really able to help her out. He'd pulled a face at some of the things she'd asked for but she needed to work with what she knew. She drummed her fingers on the table and reminded herself that she'd need to ask Leon to get some buses to transport her men. Presumably it was possible to mount a siege engine onto the top of a bus? It was such an obvious development. She worked on her sketch to demonstrate what she had in mind.
Absorbed in her work, she barely looked up when the two business men came out from the toilets. There was no sign of Leon. The men spoke to each other as they cleaned something off their hands. They dropped paper towels on the floor, covered with dark smears.
“Hey, don't drop those there!” she called.
They looked up at her in surprise.
“What?” one of them said.
“It's called dropping litter. My friend Evelyn told me that if you tolerate dropping litter then all sorts of other crime will follow.”
“Your friend might have a point,” he said with a smirk. He was tall and gaunt. He folded a small raggy piece of pink cloth and put it into his pocket, but just before he tucked it away Joan caught a glimpse of a design on the cloth, a rose that somewhat resembled a cabbage.
“Oh,” she said.
The two strangers left the bar and Joan jogged out after them. The clank of her jiggling armour made them pause in climbing into their Mercedes.
“Hey, I need to talk to you.”
“No, I don't think you do,” said the taller one. “Pick the litter up yourself if you're that bothered by it.”
She approached the taller one.
“What do I call you?” she asked.
“You don't call us anything. We're going and you're making us late for our next job.”
“I'll call you Lanky,” Joan said, and then turning to the other man who was short and stout, “and you can be Chunky.”
“Just go away,” said Lanky as they opened the doors of the Mercedes.
“Hang on,” said the slightly shorter one. “Why am I called Chunky?”
Joan opened her mouth to explain but Lanky was there first.
“She’s saying you’re chunky, fat-boy,” said Lanky. “I’m the tall, fit one. You’re my chunky sidekick.”
“Chunky?” said Chunky. “And – what? – I’m your sidekick? Since when?”
Lanky shrugged.
“And I’ll have you know that my BMI puts me inside the normal weight range,” said Chunky.
“Sure,” said Lanky. “Normal weight for a chunky sidekick.”
“Please listen,” said Joan, talking fast as she realised that she'd have to speed things up. “I need weapons and men.”
“You said I was your wingman,” said Chunky.
“Wingman. Sidekick. Big difference,” said Lanky.
“There is a big difference,” said Chunky.
“Look,” said Joan, “I've got to storm a naval base and I obviously can't do it on my own. Do you know where to get those things?”
The two men exchanged a glance. It was not a pleasant glance.
Chunky leaned over towards Joan. She wondered why he wore a tight collar and tie when it seemed to make his face flush so red. She had a sudden flashback to a priest at her trial who fastened a clasp at his throat so tightly that it did the same thing. She saw the same unbending arrogance in Chunky's eyes.
“Look, I don't know if you're mad or stupid, or if this is some sort of practical joke, but you're embarrassing us all now.”
“Clear off,” said Lanky. “As my wingman says, you’re embarrassing us all.”
Joan stood her ground, hands on hips.
“I know you can help me,” she said.
“We taking care of her or what?” growled Chunky. “She’s annoyed me.”
“Not here in the street,” said Lanky, glancing around. “Too many people. We need to get out of here.”
He addressed Joan.
“I can see that we're going to have to make our point more clearly, as you're the hard of hearing type. We'll be doing that later on, when we can have some privacy. It might mean that we have to speak plainly. My friend here prefers action to words, as it happens. Now, if you're absolutely certain that you don't just want to go away, get in the car.”
Joan climbed into the car. This pair of unpleasant thugs could be exactly what she needed, if she could persuade them to care about her mission.
Matt spat out the last of the upholstery foam and wriggled through the hole that he'd chewed. He plopped out onto the back seat of his car, coughing to try and clear his mouth and nose of the choking dust that he'd created. His first priority was to get a drink of water from the bar while he tracked down Joan.
He sat up and tried to focus as he blinked the residue from his eyes. He saw a large car parked directly in front of his Fiat, and watched in dismay as Joan climbed inside with two evil-looking suits. He wasn't familiar with Marseille, but he was willing to bet that the people who wore suits in the area around the docks were unlikely to be bankers and lawyers.
He crawled over to the front seat of his car, started the engine and grabbed his radio as the Mercedes pulled away.
Chunky drove them through the narrow streets of the docks. One side of the street was lined with warehouses, the other with wharves, where giant barges were piled high with containers.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“A warehouse location with stunning sea views,” said Lanky. “I'm sure you'll enjoy it. We do some of our finest work there.”
“So is this to do with your next job, or the place where we can have a talk?” she asked. “Because I am in a hurry. Did I mention that?”
“Oh, I think we can manage both,” said Lanky with a sideways smirk at Chunky. “We do like to multi-task.”
Chunky nodded at the rear view mirror.
“We're being followed,” he said.
Joan swivelled round to look out of the back.
“Oh, it's Matt!” she said, recognising the Fiat that looked like a small puppy bouncing after the enormous Mercedes.
“Who's Matt?” said Lanky.
“A policeman I know. He's probably not very pleased with me, since I kidnapped him. Not at all sure how he got out of his boot. Oh look.”
Matt flashed his lights. Joan gave him a cheery wave.
“I think he might try to stop me from attacking the naval base,” said Joan, turning back to the front. “I must think of a way to get rid of him. Oh, but not that!”
Lanky was leaning out of the passenger window aiming a gun at Matt's car.
“We don't need to kill anyone!” yelled Joan, leaning over to grab him as he fired a series of shots.
She turned to look at Matt, frantic now that she had dragged him into such a perilous situation. One of his car tyres went suddenly flat. His car skidded wildly on the road. She saw that one tyre was much lower than the other side. The tiny Fiat careened off the roadway, smashed through a metal barrier and tipped over the dockside and out of sight.
“Matt!”
A cloud of seagulls erupt from the point of his disappearance.
“We have to go back!” shouted Joan. “He might be drowning.”
The two men glanced at each other and shook their heads in disbelief. This wasn't lost on Joan.
“Hey, I'm talking to you! Stop the car!”
“That's a great idea,” said Chunky. “Let's sort her out now. I'm sick of her yap.”
He began to pull over to the side of the road.
“Wait,” said Lanky, peering up at the sky. “Is that…?”
“Police helicopter!” spat Chunky, put the car back into gear and accelerated off. “What the hell have you done, bitch?”
Joan looked up at the sky with interest. Matt must have alerted someone before he crashed his car. The helicopter was definitely tracking their progress. She heard a siren from behind. A police car was speeding towards them, gaining fast.
“We should probably stop and explain th
at we haven't done anything wrong,” she said.
“Not with a body in the boot for disposal you stupid bitch,” said Chunky. “Right, I reckon I can lose this one behind.” He stamped on the accelerator.
“Hey, who are you calling a stupid — whoa!”
Joan was flung across the back seat as the car swerved violently to the left into the open bay of a warehouse. The police car that was chasing them overshot and barrelled into a row of parked bikes. Chunky drove through the warehouse and came out of another exit.
“You beasts!” yelled Joan. “Such violence!”
“You wanted to buy men and weapons!” Lanky yelled back at her. “Get some perspective!”
Joan unsheathed her sword but was tossed across the back seat again as Chunky changed direction and entered another warehouse bay, scattering workers who were moving pallets with pump trucks.
Em had answered several prayers and was pleased that she'd been able to provide some comfort to the people in the church. She paused for a moment to listen for the next voice.
— My daughter doesn't even realise there is a worldwide crisis. All she cares about is having the latest game on her console. I despair that the young people are so shallow they will not survive any serious problems.
Em was about to respond when a familiar voice cut in.
— Think back to your own youth. You had different distractions, but you were young, just the same. Your daughter absorbs your values and your wisdom. In time you will see that she can use them to good effect. Let her enjoy her games. Continue to guide her.
Em glanced sideways at Christopher and smiled at him. He smiled back and switched to another voice. Em realised that Francis was also answering prayers.
— I'm all alone. I'm afraid.
— You're not alone. All of Heaven is with you.
— The house is so empty since my son left.
— You have a cat. Go home and stwoke him while you send love to your son.
Em saw the woman smile and get up. She knew that people would hear the answers to their prayers as an inner dialogue, as if they themselves had thought of the answers, but she was surprised that Francis's peculiar speech didn't faze people at all. Francis opened his eyes and she gave him a small nod.
Francis nodded back and then squeezed his eyes shut again. This time he spoke aloud, offering up his own prayer.
“Blessed fwiends in Heaven, please help Joan. We don't know where she is, but we want her to be safe.”
Christopher joined in.
“Joan's the very best of us. Give us a way to help her.”
Em knew that this was right, so she spoke up too.
“We offer Joan our love. Please find a way for us to be reunited with her. She should not be alone on this mission.”
She turned to Christopher.
“Can we do something? Something practical? I mean, can you figure out where she is with your travel-mojo thing?”
Christopher looked doubtful.
“I'm not sure. It's not like a crystal ball.”
“Well what is it like? Can we help?”
Em grasped his hand and indicated that Francis should grasp the other one. She closed her eyes and concentrated.
“Well bugger me,” said Christopher, “it's only working! She's in Marseille.”
“She's in trouble,” breathed Em.
Joan realised that Chunky was making an effort to avoid being seen from the air by staying under cover as much as possible. If he knew his way around the docks, it was possible that it could work. Joan wanted to stop any more harm coming to other people as they tried to escape. There was a very real danger that Chunky was going to run someone over. It wasn't easy to take control when she was being flung across the back seat of the car as Chunky zig-zagged across the warehouse floor, avoiding shelving and fork lift trucks. She righted herself as they plunged towards another open door and yelled at the two men.
“Stop the car! Stop it right now, or you'll feel my sword, so help me!”
“Shut up!” said Chunky and accelerated towards the daylight.
Joan thrust the sword between the seats, grazing his hand and making him snatch it back.
“Ow! What's the matter with you?”
The sword had become lodged in the steering column, and Joan saw, moments later that this might have been a mistake. Chunky tugged at the steering wheel, needing to make a sharp left turn as he came out of the warehouse, but the sword had locked it in place. The car would not turn from its path and Joan saw the open water ahead rushing at them with relentless inevitability.
The car sped over the edge. Joan felt a moment of utter, sickening weightlessness and then the car hit the water, hard. Joan’s face bounced painfully off Lanky’s seat and, when she opened her eyes, the windscreen was smashed and the car rapidly filled with water.
Lanky had already slipped off his seatbelt and was dragging an unconscious Chunky out into water.
“Wait for me!” Joan called from the back seat but Lanky didn’t even look back.
She gasped at the cold water rising up her legs.
“This is not good,” she said and struggled forward between the front seats, removing her sword from the steering column as she passed, and squeezed through the ruined windscreen onto the bonnet of the car. The front of the car rose up, tilting dangerously as the rear end sank.
She looked round. She was ten yards from the shore and wearing full plate armour.
“I’m going to sink like a stone,” she said to herself and reached for one of the many leather straps holding her armour in place.
“What do you mean she's in the water with her armour on?” hissed Em. “She'll drown! We have to help her!”
“Shhh, keep your voice down, and keep praying really, really hard. We need to lend a guiding hand. We can do this!”
“What are we pwaying for, Cwistopher?”
“A miracle for Joan. We can do this. Come on!”
Joan slipped from the bonnet and plunged into the water. She clawed up to the roof of the car, but it was going under fast and taking her with it. The weight of the armour was too much for the grip she had on the roof and she started to slide. A strange buzzing noise came from behind but she wasn't able to see what was making it. She poured every ounce of strength into clinging to the car by sheer will power, but she wasn't going to make it. An arm appeared under her shoulder and hoisted her backwards. There was another quick burst of the buzzing noise and she sped backwards, away from the suction of the sinking car. This was unexpected. There was some sort of tiny platform in her peripheral vision, so she hoisted her foot onto it and heaved herself out of the water.
“Woah, steady!” came a voice. “It's only a jet ski, let's not tip it over.”
“Matt! You’re not dead!”
She managed to turn herself, as water cascaded from the various joints of her armour, and she shifted her centre of balance. Matt gunned the engine and they shot forward. Joan gave a whoop of delight at the novel mode of transport. As they slowed down by a metal ladder at the dockside, she noticed the pungent smell. He was plastered from head to toe in foul-smelling effluent. He smelled like a dung pile that had been coated with a liberal helping of rotten eggs and topped off with a skunk.
“Did you fall in a midden heap?” she asked.
“Rubbish barge,” nodded Matt. “It was a miracle.”
“You smell bad.”
“What was that? Sorry? Thank you for rescuing me from almost certain death? You're very welcome, Joan.”
Joan pulled herself up the metal ladder, labouring to lift her waterlogged limbs.
“What about the men in that car?” she asked.
“I think the police have already got them.”
Joan mounted the dockside as more police appeared in cars and vans.
“Does this mean you've decided to help me? Can we go to Toulon now?” Joan asked.
Matt gave her a look. It was part disbelief, part admiration. He pulled out a pair of handcuffs an
d held them up.
“You’re ever the optimist, Joan,” he said.
Chapter 9 – Marseille and Toulon
Given his recent ordeal, Matt had decided to push his luck with expenses. He’d booked himself into a luxurious hotel with views across Marseille’s harbour and a bedroom so large that, unlike every other hotel he’d ever stayed in, it took more than three steps to cross from one side to the other. In fact, he had to walk through the bedroom and into the adjoining sitting room to get to the phone. True luxury.
“Hello, reception? I wonder if you can help me,” he said. “I can't seem to find the Bible in this room.”
“The Bible, monsieur?”
“Yes, there's normally one in a drawer somewhere. I think the Gideons put them there.”
“Ah, you're British, monsieur? I'm afraid that isn't the case here in France.”
“Really?” said Matt. “I'm sure it's their mission or something. The Gideons. A Bible everywhere, even where you least expect it.”
“We don't have the same practices in France. We'd have to consider whether our guests might also want to read the Qur’an or the Torah. We cannot favour any one religion over another. It is written in our constitution.”
“Gosh. I hadn't realised it was so fraught with difficulties, running a hotel. Policies to implement, political scandals to avoid. Sorry to have bothered you.”
“Would you like me to have a Bible sent to your room?” asked the receptionist.
“Yes, I would,” said Matt, surprised, and then, “As a matter of interest, if I asked for the Qur’an or the Torah, would you also have those to hand?”
“No monsieur, we do not, although we do have a copy of The Satanic Verses that was left by a previous guest.”
Matt hung up the phone, having been reminded once again of the gulf in understanding that existed between the British and the French.
He spent the next few minutes attempting to use the fancy coffee machine behind the sitting room bar before realising that half the buttons he was pressing were for the room’s air-conditioning. Even when he had overcome this error, he still struggled to get it off the espresso setting. The Bible arrived as he ran the machine for the fifth time to get a decent volume of coffee into his mug.