Clovenhoof 03 Godsquad

by Heide Goody

  “Well, by Joan’s account, Simon prayed to God.”

  “Prayed?”

  “Absolutely. Our Father, who art in Heaven. All that. And the angels up in Heaven were all mystified as to how there could be a prayer from something without a soul and so Joan was sent on a mission to find out why —” He caught the expression on her face. “Hey,” he said. “This is Joan’s delusion, not mine. Anyways that’s why we’ve got three saints and a wolf in our midst.”

  “Glad to hear that there’s a sensible reason for that,” said Chevrolet.

  “So tell me, Joan, would God approve of the things you’ve been doing?”

  “It’s not really like that,” said Joan.

  “Mmm?”

  “Heaven’s got lots of processes, departments. It’s a complex organisation. He doesn’t get involved in all the day to day administration.”

  “But God is omniscient, no? All-knowing.”

  “The archangels oversee a lot of it. Archangel Gabriel knows I’m here and he knows I’m doing my best.”

  “But would the Archangel Gabriel approve of the things you’ve been doing?”

  Joan thought on the matter.

  “Archangel Gabriel and I don’t always see eye to eye on the way to do things.”

  “Really?”

  “I’m human. He’s not. I have desires, goals, the need to do things. Angels are just the will of the Almighty made flesh.” She smiled. “I think Gabriel would describe me as a blunt instrument, but then, I think that’s why I was selected to head up this mission. Sometimes action is needed.”

  Silberman spoke into her recorder.

  “Mmm. Ah. Interesting observation. Patient clearly has a well-defined moral framework, which she weaves carefully into her world-view. She appears to recognise that her behaviour may fall outside of what’s acceptable within that framework, but is able to reconcile this mismatch by extending the delusion to fit. It is my view that this patient may be capable of even worse violence than we have witnessed thus far if she deems it necessary to further her cause.”

  Joan sighed.

  “Do you think I'm a witch?” she asked.

  “Pardon?”

  “Or possessed by the devil, perhaps. Centuries apart and it’s the same old story.”

  “No, I don't think those things,” said Silberman. “I think you're living in a very powerful fantasy. We can work on that. I'd like to remove your anxiety as an immediate priority, and we can do that with a course of drugs.”

  “Drugs! No!” said Joan in alarm. “Evelyn warned me about people like you. She wrote it down on a bit of paper but I lost it. Are you trying to turn me into a flunkie?”

  “You mean junkie. No, not at all. These drugs are perfectly safe when administered by a professional.”

  “You’re a drug dealer! A pill pusher, a trafficker, the source, a dope dealer, the candy man, a death peddler.”

  “The drugs we offer are medicine.”

  “No,” said Joan. “Look, is there a confession or something that I can sign?”

  “A confession?”

  “You’ve got all these words of mine, stored up in your little gadget, but what do you actually want from me?”

  “We don’t want a confession,” said Silberman. “We’re not the Spanish Inquisition.”

  “There’s always a confession,” said Joan. “Then the punishment, whatever that is. I was burned at the stake.”

  Silberman frowned, paused, unsure how to respond.

  “Mmm. Ah. There’s no punishment here, Joan,” she said in a calm tone.

  “Is that so? Then why do I keep hearing screams from down the corridor then?”

  “Some of the electroconvulsive therapy patients can get agitated, that’s all. We’re not hurting them.”

  “That sounds like punishment to me.”

  “Be reasonable,” said Silberman.

  “No, let’s get it over with. I sign up to whatever it is you think is the truth and you stop asking me all these questions and threatening me with drugs. Is there something like that?”

  “No, there’s nothing like that. We’re just having a chat.”

  “Is that what you tell the electroconvulsive therapy patients?”

  “It doesn’t look like a pwison,” said Francis as he stood with the others in the carefully-manicured gardens of the hospital.

  “It’s a hospital in name,” Em stubbed out a cigarette on a no smoking sign, “but it’s a prison all right. Look at the bars on the windows. None of those patients are out on their own, see?”

  They crunched along the gravel path, Marseille’s busy heart beating on the far side of the hospital’s high walls seemed a world away. Francis had recruited a pigeon for the mission, and he held it on his arm, making delicate cooing noises as he went.

  “Can’t see Joan at any of the windows,” said Christopher. “I’ll find her when I get inside.”

  “Then you find a window and welease Hercules so that he can tell us you’re weady,” said Francis, handing the pigeon over to Christopher, who tucked him into his robe. “Hercules?”

  “It’s his name,” said Francis. “Popular name in the pigeon fwaternity.”

  “Then we set off the fire alarm and hustle Joan out of here in the confusion. It’s a simple plan,” said Christopher. “What could go wrong?”

  Em eyed him over the top of her sunglasses.

  “A plan that relies on the co-operation of wildlife, and a big clumsy saint not treading on someone’s foot? You’re right, it’s foolproof. Go on, do your invisible thing. Quick as you can.”

  Christopher walked in through reception, taking a moment to observe the security system. At this point in the hospital, it was possible to get out just by pressing the button for the door. He had a feeling that some parts would be more secure than others, but he was quite prepared to steal a pass or a key as he needed to. Slipping unnoticed by staff and visitors alike, he passed through a staff only door and into the stairwell. He took the stairs to the top floor, deciding that he would start there and work down. He puffed his way up four flights of stairs.

  “Are you a patient here?”

  Christopher stopped and stared as the hospital orderly came down the stairs.

  “I think I’d better help you back to your room,” said the big man, looking directly at him.

  Christopher looked back but there was only the wall behind him. The two of them were alone.

  “Hello?” ventured Christopher.

  “Hello,” said the orderly.

  “You’re not talking to me, are you?” said Christopher

  “Of course I am. What ward are you on? I’m guessing you’re on Bonaparte, as you’re dressed in your own things. Is that right?”

  “You can’t see me! Get out of here!” said Christopher.

  “I can see you,” said the orderly. “But that’s okay. Don’t feel threatened by me. I’m here to help you.”

  “Hang on. Time out,” said Christopher, making a T of his hands. “You can see me?”

  “I can. Your robes are really impressive by the way.”

  Christopher couldn’t help himself.

  “Know who I am?” he asked, twirling slightly to give a profile view.

  “There’s this Titian painting hanging in Louvre,” said the orderly. “Do you know the one?”

  “I certainly do,” grinned the former patron saint of travel.

  “So, is your name Christopher?” asked the orderly.

  “Got it in one.”

  “I mean, the Titian’s nice but there’s a much more impressive icon of you in the corner of my local church.”

  “Which church?”

  “The Church of St Hermogéne on Avenue Clôt Bey.”

  Christopher nodded.

  “I know Hermogenes. Nice guy. Plays a mean game of chess. – Wait! You’re Russian Orthodox!”

  “That’s right,” said the orderly warily. “I was brought up in Belarus. Have you got a problem with that?”

&nb
sp; Christopher slapped his hand to his forehead.

  “They didn’t delete me in the Russian Orthodox church!”

  “Delete you?”

  “It was only the Western Church that deleted me. Unbelievable! You’ve made my day, mate!”

  “Good,” said the orderly. “Now, make mine and let’s go find your room.”

  “I tell you, there’s a couple of archangels who’ll wish they’d never sent me to the Non-Specific prayer assessment unit by the time I’m finished with them. All these years and I was still a valid saint to… How many orthodox Christians are there?”

  “Oh, about two hundred million, I think.”

  Christopher gritted his teeth and shook his fist at the ceiling. “Just you wait, Gabriel!”

  “Getting back to my original question,” said the orderly patiently but firmly, “which ward are you supposed to be on?”

  “Oh, I was just going back. This one up here,” said Christopher, pointing up the stairs.

  “I very much doubt that,” said the orderly.

  “Why?”

  “Because that’s the roof.”

  “Anyhoo, it seems that the reason Simon got religion is that Mary has replaced its operating manual with the Book of Revelation,” said Matt.

  “Why would she even do that?”

  “She’s a strange one. Probably thought it was funny. And Joan thinks that Simon is trying to make Revelation come true. She says that he's been announcing the trumpets —”

  “She’s doing what now?” said Chevrolet.

  “Trumpets. Um.” He pulled up the hotel Bible from beside him and opened it to the ear-marked page. “The Book of Revelation is mostly written in this kind of poetic end-of-the-world language. Apparently, it might all just be coded messages to early churches about the dangers of the anti-Christian Roman Empire – I did some research — but, among all the apocalyptic nonsense, is this description of seven trumpets that will be blown by angels, each supposedly heralding the next stage of the end of the world.”

  “Right. Trumpets.”

  “And Simon has been announcing these trumpets by tapping into electronic devices and speaking through them.”

  Chevrolet made a disbelieving puff through her lips.

  “Sounds far-fetched.”

  “Yes it does,” said Matt, “except... except it's possible that I might have heard one of them.”

  Chevrolet gave him a cynical frown.

  “You will need to explain that statement. In a minute.”

  They had only just pulled off the autoroute, but they were already drawing up to a heavily guarded gatehouse. Four lanes of tarmac, fences, gates and raised gatehouses of riveted iron painted a white that hurt the eyes in the bright Mediterranean sunshine. A short row of cars, vans and service vehicles were being searched but a guard in blue with a sub-machinegun slung at his side beckoned Chevrolet forward.

  “Are sailors still called sailors even when they’re not on a boat?” said Matt, looking at the guard.

  “What?” said Chevrolet.

  “Nothing. Sorry.”

  The guard – possibly sailor, maybe soldier – bowed down to see Chevrolet’s face and, clearly recognising her, waved her through.

  “Would I be right in thinking that it's not normally this intense?” Matt gazed back at the guards as they drove through.

  “We’ve had a few too many unexplained incidents of late.” She laughed suddenly. “Do you know what is inexplicable?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Milou’s pregnant.”

  “Who?”

  “Our pet dog. That damnable wolf thing has made my little Milou pregnant. We had her spayed years ago but the vet has confirmed it.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “Yes, hold onto that thought. Oh, and a word of warning.”

  “Yes?”

  “You should only call them boats if you want to get punched in the face by naval personnel.”

  “Hmmm?”

  She gestured across the wide yards to where, between administrative buildings, stores and barracks, huge grey shapes could be seen on the water.

  “They’re called ships, Officer Rose. Ships.”

  Christopher was dragging the unconscious orderly along a corridor, looking for a place to hide him when a door opened and a nurse came out. She stared for a moment, and Christopher imagined that her brain was trying to process the fact that an unconscious man had, apparently, been sliding effortlessly along the floor on his back, feet first. The nurse recovered quickly and backed into the room she'd just left. Christopher shrugged and decided he might as well leave the orderly and get on with his search unencumbered.

  He checked out every door as he worked his way along the corridor. He was only vaguely aware of voices behind him.

  “Look, I told you!”

  “No, you said he was moving along like a snake. Perhaps you need a bit of a sit down while I see to him.”

  Christopher came to some wards and found he couldn't see inside from the corridor. The doors led off from a nurses' station, and had some sort of lock on them. The nurse behind the desk had a pass hanging from her left hip. On the desk in front of her was a stack of papers that she was working through. Christopher hitched himself over the front of the desk opposite her and flicked one of the papers onto the floor down to her right. The nurse leaned to the side to retrieve it, bringing her hip into Christopher's reach. He plucked the pass off and retreated carefully. He stepped up to the first door and peered through the viewing pane.

  “How about I tell you that I’m not really Joan of Arc? I don’t know what I was thinking, saying all that stuff. I feel much better now I’ve had a chance to sit and think. My real name is Evelyn Steed. You can look me up, I’m from Birmingham, England.”

  “Oh, Joan, Joan,” smiled Silberman. “I think you’re really a very smart person and you’re telling me what I want to hear. I don’t think you believe any of that at all, do you?”

  “I really do. Look me up, I can give you all the details you need. I'll even make it easy for you. Pass me the pad and pen and I'll write down everything you need to know about me.”

  Silberman looked amused as she passed Joan the pen and paper. Joan reached for them, but made a fist and flicked it upwards in a sharp backpunch to Silberman's nose. As Silberman’s hands flew up to her face, Joan made a grab for her top pocket. She felt inside, removed the syringe she knew would be there and plunged it into Silberman’s leg, making sure that it emptied as she pressed it down.

  With a final “Mmm” and a long and final “Ah,” Silberman dropped forward in her chair.

  “You were right. It really would fell a horse!” said Joan.

  As she went through Silberman's pockets for her access pass the door opened.

  Christopher saw Joan crouched over the body of a woman.

  “Oh, Christopher. Just one moment, be right with you.”

  Joan picked up a black device from beside the woman’s body and pressed a button on its side.

  “Patient has decided that she's really quite pissed off with the way she's been treated here, so she's decided to leave and save the world instead.”

  She put it down and skipped to the door.

  Christopher realised that the nurse had stepped over to investigate the open door, but as he stood there, holding it open, Joan rushed through and head butted her without warning. The nurse slumped to the floor and Joan made her way to a cupboard.

  “It's around here somewhere, ah yes.”

  Christopher heard the familiar clanking sound of Joan's armour and smiled.

  “I need to release Hercules, you get dressed and I'll be back in a minute,” he said.

  “Couldn't you have gone before you got here?” asked Joan, with a shake of her head.

  “He's been ages,” said Francis to Em, as they sat on a bench in the gardens, looking up at the hospital.

  “He's probably found the ladies' showers or something,” said Em. She deepened her
voice into a fair imitation of Christopher's rustic accent. “Just checking out the birds, won't be long!”

  Christopher was concerned for this bird. He'd taken Hercules out from his robe and expected him to flutter out of the open window but Hercules seemed to be sleeping.

  “Wake up, Hercules, it's showtime!” Christopher hissed, but the bird remained still, its eyes closed.

  Christopher prodded it in its feathery chest and got no reaction. He grasped it in one large hand and banged it on the side of a nearby table, but heard nothing other than a muted thud.

  “Joan, I think Hercules is dead!” he yelled as he rushed from the room.

  Joan was now dressed in her armour, and she gave him a hard look.

  “I hardly think this is the time — oh. Is that Hercules?”

  Christopher held up the stiffening pigeon.

  “It's meant to take a message to Francis, but I must have bashed it or something.”

  “Never mind that, where have you all been?” asked Joan. “It's been days, and now you turn up here with a dead pigeon and no plan. Where are the others right now?”

  “Outside,” they were going to create a diversion so we could get out.”

  “Well, let's just go, we can't wait for them,” said Joan. “Story of my life, don't wait for rescue, it never comes.”

  Em took another look at her watch and decided that it was time to act.

  “Come on, let's go and whip up a storm,” she said to Francis.

  “But we haven't seen Hercules.”

  “Never mind, I think it's time to intervene. Let's go. You start a conversation with the receptionist and I'll find the fire alarm.”

  They walked in, and Francis approached the desk. Em strolled past towards the visitors' toilets, checking the walls for an alarm button, listening to Francis.

  “Hello young lady, could I please ask for a glass of water? I'm vewy thirsty.”

  “Sorry?”

  “It has always been the custom to pwovide wefweshment to a visiting bwother. Beer would make an adequate substitute, of course.”

  Em didn't stop to find out how the receptionist handled Francis's request but pressed on into the toilets. She hadn't seen a fire alarm at all, so she decided to do the next best thing.