by Heide Goody
He paged through, trying to find Revelation as he sipped the potent brew.
“Right at the bloody back,” he grumbled, having drained the cup by the time he found it.
He read through several pages of what he thought was rather excitable prose before he reached the trumpets that Joan had mentioned.
He'd watched the news that morning with the sound muted. The progress of the toxic smoke cloud which was now covering parts of Greece and Turkey, the panic across the entire Middle East. He shook his head at the idea that these scenes of impending disaster could really be connected to the bonkers religious text he was reading, but he could see why Joan was drawn to the idea.
“So, the sixth trumpet is next, eh, Joan?” he said and read.
Release the four angels who are bound at the great river Euphrates.
Matt wondered briefly whether he should call down to reception for an atlas as well, but decided he couldn't face the conversation. The Euphrates was somewhere in the Middle East, he was certain of that.
“Wow. And these four angels are to kill a third of mankind?”
Matt looked up from the Bible and saw again the firepower that was being moved into the Middle East from all over the world, and an uneasiness stole over him.
The heads of the horses were like lions' heads, and fire and smoke and sulphur issued from their mouths. — “Trippy stuff,” said Matt — For the power of the horses is in their mouths and in their tails; their tails are like serpents with heads, and by means of them they wound.
Matt sat back and pondered how wild-eyed conspiracy theorists could conjure up all sorts of ideas about those horses being helicopter gunships, rocket launchers or drones. He wasn't sure that any of them sounded like a barrel of laughs, given that there was going to be a rather specific number of them.
What was it? Twice ten thousand times ten thousand. How many was that? He used his fingers to tot up the zeroes. That totalled two hundred million.
There was a knock at the door. Matt really hoped that they hadn't rustled up The Satanic Verses for him. He stood and looked through the peephole. A woman in military uniform stood there. He assumed she wasn’t a stripper so was probably the real deal.
Matt did a mental check that he was dressed, his flies were done up and he wasn’t wearing odd socks before opening the door.
“Yes?”
“Good morning, Officer Rose,” the Frenchwoman said in English, walking directly into the room.
“Er, good morning.”
“I know you weren't expecting me,” she said, “I am Major Adelaide Chevrolet.”
Matt did a double-take.
“Major Chevrolet? Well, I certainly never expected to meet you in person. I’d like to thank you for all your help in tracking Mary Van Jochem.”
“I'll need you to get your things and come with me,” said Major Chevrolet.
“Come with you? Does your department have offices in Marseille?”
“Not far from here.”
“I’m not sure I ever got which government agency you worked for. Just a phone number and voice on the end of the line and all that.”
“DPSD,” said Major Chevrolet simply.
Matt, who was still standing at the door, with his hand on the handle, raised his eyebrows.
“Direction de la Protection et de la Sécurité de la Défense?” he said.
“Well done,” she said. “When you English say it, it usually sounds like such a mouthful.”
“Why does military intelligence want to speak to me?” he asked.
She looked at him archly. Whether it was the severe bun her hair was drawn up into or the knowing look in her eye, but Matt felt he was back at school and under scrutiny from the headmistress.
“Sorry, am I not allowed to ask?” he said.
“Come with me and we’ll talk.”
“You know, the entire time I've been in France I've had very little involvement or interest from local agencies.”
“That is about to change,” said Major Chevrolet. “You will find that I am very interested in you.”
Joan sat on her bed and watched the clock, wondering how on earth she was going to fulfil her mission. Everything depended on convincing those in power that the threats she described were real, and so far she’d been completely unsuccessful.
Joan had been put into a hospital room with pale green walls. The room was comfortable but utterly secure. Joan had tested the exits and found them all to be invulnerable to an attack with a plastic spoon, which was all she was equipped with. Nurses came in at regular intervals and she eyed them with suspicion. They were perky and pleasant, but they were her captors nonetheless. Fighting off the attentions of the guards had been a constant challenge back when she was imprisoned at Rouen. Five hundred and eighty years later and her only complaint beyond the fact of her incarceration was the pink cotton gown that she’d been dressed in. Not only was it pink — which was bad enough — but it covered only the front of her body, leaving her feeling exposed, vulnerable and bloody cold when she rose from the bed.
The door opened without warning and Doctor Silberman walked in. Silberman had been present when Joan was admitted to the hospital, kicking and howling with frustration. She wasn’t sure what kind of doctor she was, but Joan did know that she was someone who could administer something to render her powerless so she decided to proceed with caution.
“Good morning Joan. Mmm. Ah. How are you feeling today?”
“My health is fine, if that’s what you’re asking,” said Joan. “Please say that I'm not to be subjected to the poisoned arrow again.”
Silberman had a small device that she held in her hand. She pressed a button and raised it to her face.
“Patient is more docile today and she seems coherent. Makes reference to the sedatives used to calm her yesterday, but in archaic phrasing that is consistent with her fantasy.”
“Why are you talking to that thing?” said Joan.
“There is an undertone of aggression,” Silberman said to the device, then she lowered it.
“Mmm. Ah. This ‘thing’ — I assume you recognise it as a dictaphone — is simply for me to record my impressions of our conversation, Joan. My assistant will write it up afterwards. Now, there’s a lot for us to talk about today. Where shall we start?”
“Where’s my armour and my sword?” asked Joan. “Let’s start there.”
“It’s all perfectly safe,” said Silberman. “You needn’t worry about that.”
“Fine, but where is it, exactly? I want to know.”
Silberman regarded Joan for a moment and spoke into the dictaphone recorder again.
“Patient is fixated on her weapons and their exact location. Fantasies of escape, perhaps? Of violence?”
Joan scowled at her.
“The English laughed at me back in the day, saying I could never escape from their tower. They even told me at my trial that it would be heresy to try to escape. They were idiots. I am a warrior and my cause is righteous. I won’t be held captive.”
“You should know that this facility is quite secure,” Silberman said to her. “There is no possible way for you to get out of here, so put those silly ideas from your mind. We don’t want to go down the tiresome avenue of restraints and sedation, do we? Mmm. Ah. We have tranquilisers that could fell a horse in seconds.” In saying this, Silberman’s hand strayed towards her top pocket. Realising what she was doing, she smiled brightly at Joan and put her hand on the table. “Your things are in a secure cupboard at the rear of the nurses’ station, if you must know. But to today’s questions, how about you tell me some more about where you come from? You’ve told some of my colleagues that you lived in Heaven?”
“I don’t want to discuss that,” said Joan. “It’s not going to help us here. There are much more immediate things that need our attention. Aren’t you interested to know about the end of the world?”
“In time. In time. But won’t you please tell me some more about where you come fr
om? I can’t help thinking that there are people who care about you, Joan. People who are missing you right now.”
Joan humphed, picturing her buffoonish companions, the animal nut, the invisible hulk and the most selfish woman in the world. She wondered where they were and wished she really didn’t care.
“Where are your family?” said Dr Silberman. “Your fingerprints aren’t on record anywhere. Nobody’s reported you missing. What do your parents think about all this?”
Joan rolled her eyes.
“You’re asking the same things they asked at my trial. You have no imagination as an interrogator. Seriously, this stuff is old.”
Joan used her hand as a puppet interrogator, and rolled her eyes, looking bored at its unimaginative questions.
“Why did you go off to war without telling your parents?” the hand asked. “Because God told me to, okay? They forgave me afterwards and anyway, they died centuries ago. You can’t use them against me.”
Silberman steepled her fingers.
“Mmm. Ah. Let’s consider this from another angle. When do you first remember thinking that you were Joan of Arc, reincarnated?”
“I’m not a reincarnation. I’m not Joan born again. I am Joan. I am her. It’s real. We’re not talking about an idea or a belief, this is my life.”
Silberman spoke into her recorder again.
“Very powerful delusional fantasies.”
“I've heard all this before you know, from the English,” said Joan. “They dismissed my visions as fantasies as well. By the way, would you stop doing that? Talking into your thing as if I’m not here? It’s very rude.”
“Interesting. You’re concerned about the etiquette of the interview we’re conducting here, and yet it’s a matter of record that you imprisoned a law enforcement officer in a dangerously confined space and you've been linked with a string of disturbances across France. Does violence seem natural to you, Joan?”
“I am a soldier. Does being rude and patronising seem natural to you?”
“Defensive about previous outbursts of violence,” noted Silberman. “We may want to medicate for the safety of the staff.”
Joan chided herself for indulging in bickering. She couldn't allow them to drug her. That would be a disaster. She'd need to swallow her pride and focus on the mission.
“Look, I'm sorry for being argumentative,” said Joan. “I have no plans to harm you or your staff. Not at all. You really shouldn't worry about that.”
“If that was really the case,” she held out a flimsy plastic dagger, “can you explain why it is that you have secreted a number of plastic spoons in here – Mmm. Ah. — and subsequently modified them into some sort of stabbing weapon?”
Joan pursed her lips and tried hard not to imagine snatching it up and jamming it into Silberman’s jugular.
“So, we're agreed then,” said Em, lighting up. “We're going to infiltrate the hospital where they're holding Joan and bust her out.”
Christopher nodded as he sipped a glass of cold beer. “I know it's urgent, what with the coming apocalypse and all, but can I just say it’s nice to sit and have a strategy meeting here in the sunshine. You know, us three, working as one.”
“Yeah,” said Em. “Cute sentiment, but back to the point…”
“I’m just saying,” said Christopher, gesturing down Liberation Boulevard in front of their café table. “It’s just nice. To stop and smell the roses, savour the moment.”
“He’s wight,” said Francis. “It’s nice.”
“Focus, team,” said Em tersely.
“Okay, so what stwategy do we need to decide The timings, and the twansport? Next steps? Woles and wesponsibilities?”
Em rolled her eyes and blew out a smoke ring.
“No,” said Christopher. “The very first thing that we need to decide is what we're going to call ourselves.”
“We don't need a name,” said Em. “If we operate below the radar, nobody should even know we exist.”
“We know we exist,” said Christopher. “Come on, this a group thing. We’re a collective.”
“Puh-lease.”
“No, it's a good point,” said Francis. “Let's be the Thwee Bears!”
“What?”
“Like in Goldilocks?” said Christopher.
“Yes.”
“Hold on, I'm not sure about that,” said Em. “Which of us is which? I'm not going to be Mama Bear!”
“Well, obviously you are,” said Francis. “I don't mind if Cwistopher wants to be Daddy Bear, after all he is the biggest of us. That leaves me as Baby Bear, but that's fine. Bears are so adowable.”
“What do you mean, obviously?” said Em, outraged. “Why would I choose to be labelled with the 'M' word? I see no reason at all why I shouldn't be Independently Successful She-Bear.”
“Hold your horses,” said Christopher. “I think we can work on these names a bit more. I don't need to be Daddy Bear. Something more fitting like Shadow Bear would be better.”
“Shadow Bear?” said Em in a mocking voice.
“Yeah, you know, 'cos of the invisibility thing.”
“For crying out loud, you might as well be Wonder-Cock Bear,” she said wearily.
“Ooh, ooh, I know,” said Francis. “Let's be the Holy Twinity!”
“Christ in Heaven!” exclaimed Em. “This flaming God squad is pathetic enough without giving it a stupid name.”
“Did anyone else just see that?” asked Christopher, looking across the street.
“What?”
“Dogs, getting off that tram,” said Christopher.
“Well this is Fwance, they do love their — oh,” said Francis.
Dozens of dogs filed off the tram. There were tiny lap dogs scampering gamely alongside spaniels and retrievers. There was even a colossal, shaggy mountain dog, but towering over them all, and last off the tram, was the Wolf of Gubbio.
“Look at that,” exclaimed Francis, clapping his hands with joy. “He's made fwiends.”
Christopher and Em exchanged a glance but then they all turned to watch the spectacle of the dogs trotting down the street. They seemed to be full of purpose, as if they had somewhere important to be.
This is the way, the terrier yipped. Dogs in the city are not allowed to roam freely. When they are caught, they are brought here, and it is thought that a terrible fate awaits them.
Good, the wolf replied. We can rescue our brothers and swell our numbers.
The wolf led them inside, aware now of the intense cloud of despair that hung in the air around the low building they approached. It was a place where many dogs had given up hope.
They entered the reception area, and he heard a human voice react to the intrusion.
“Philippe, it’s Helene on reception. Come round here, will you? You’ll never believe this but a stray dog’s just walked in off the street! Never seen that before. Oh. Hold on Philippe. You might want to call in some help, there’s more of them. Oh. Oh my. Philippe! There’s —”
There was a brief squeal and the sound of a door slamming.
The wolf followed the other dogs through the empty reception area and into a separate building where excited doggy sounds greeted their arrival.
He stepped forward and examined the cages that confined the dogs. They were designed to stop a dog from breaking out, but they were definitely not resistant to a huge and determined wolf breaking in. Even the mountain dog was able to open up a couple, following the wolf’s ruthless example.
The captive dogs rushed out and ran in excited circles, while those dogs of medium rank barked a fast, efficient briefing. Within moments, the dog task force was on the move, doubled in number, under the guidance of the Wolf of Gubbio.
Chevrolet drove at a constant five kilometres an hour above the speed limit, smoothly overtaking cars along the coastal A50 between Marseille and Toulon. Within fifty minutes, they were already near their destination. For whatever reason, the French seemed to have road and traffic management far b
etter sorted than the Brits. Apart from during the mad dash to the coast and the mountains in August, the French had apparently created a road network that was almost entirely traffic-free. It would take an apocalyptic disaster (or a couple of inches of snow on the ground) to similarly reduce the number of cars on British roads.
“So where did you meet her?” asked Chevrolet.
“Amsterdam,” said Matt. “Barely a week ago.”
“What was she doing there?”
“She was looking for Mary van Jochem, same as me. She got a lead. I’m still not sure how. Anyway, I followed her to a bar, and, right enough, Mary was there.”
“So Joan’s travelling companion was with her at that point?” Chevrolet asked.
“Francis? Yes. Although she did keep talking as if there were two people with her. I didn’t twig for ages that she really thought someone else was there. According to Joan’s story, Francis is Saint Francis of Assisi and the invisible man is Saint Christopher.”
“What about the wolf?”
“The wolf wasn’t there at that point,” said Matt. “He turned up later on. He’s actually pretty smart, if a little bit greedy. This was a real wolf, you know. Not just a big dog. I mean… a wolf, you know.”
“Oh, I do,” said Chevrolet. “My family and I had an encounter with a creature on the way back from England last week. We had to cut our holiday short because of this work situation that’s come up and we had just got off the ferry and... it was the strangest thing. This wolf — and, yes, it was a real wolf — ended up in a travel kennel with our little Milou and frightened the life out of us when we opened it up in the car. Unbelievable.” Chevrolet laughed, a single incredulous laugh, and then stopped. “But it’s not relevant here. Back to van Jochem… What exactly did this Joan character say she had done?”
“It was all about military computer systems,” said Matt. “Simon.”
Chevrolet looked at him from the corner of her eye.
“You’re familiar with Simon?” said Matt.
“I am.”