Clovenhoof 03 Godsquad Page 6

  He saw a dark shape in the water that he couldn't make out. He stepped over to the telescope that had been the most exciting birthday gift he'd received in years. There was always something to look at with its powerful lens. He focussed the telescope at the shape, maybe a hundred and fifty yards out from the edge. It appeared to be a dog, a huge one at that. He followed its progress until it emerged at the small beach. It trotted out of the water and gave itself a vigorous shake. Wim gasped as he saw it on land.

  “Wolf.”

  His hand hovered over the phone. Should he call Clara? But did he really want to give her any more to worry about? He pushed the phone back onto the side table and watched the wolf run purposefully onwards. Moments later it was out of his sight.

  The three saints walked through narrow streets hung with striped rainbow bunting until they came to a railing overlooking an expanse of water. Christopher spotted several boats moored at the side. They had many seats, and curved glass roofs. Useful for a small crusade where you could get there by water and you wanted a really good view, perhaps.

  “Is this a river?” asked Francis.

  Joan gazed at the still water. “It’s a canal.”

  “I've taken many a prayer from people travelling on canals,” said Christopher. “Mostly they pray for an inn to be close by.”

  The buildings were much taller round here, shoulder to shoulder in a chaotic and colourful jumble. There were indeed inns, shops and other businesses housed within them.

  “Where did the rat say we'd find Mary?” said Joan to Francis.

  “He didn't know exactly where she went,” said Francis, reddening slightly. “Only that she came to the centre. We'd better look awound.”

  “What about a drink first?” said Christopher. “We can start our search in an inn, perhaps?”

  “We won't find the Blessed Mother in an inn, I'm sure.”

  “The Holy Mother frequented inns at least once in her life,” Christopher countered.

  “The stables, you mean,” said Francis.

  “Fine,” said Christopher. “Let’s go into an inn and ask if we can poke around their stables.”

  “No,” said Joan. “There's a coffeehouse over there. That’s much more our scene. It's not as if we want beer, is it?”

  “Oh no, course not,” said Christopher and his shoulders sagged as he followed his teenage commander into the coffeehouse.

  “These people don't look very alert for people who've been drinking coffee,” said Joan, as they passed a roomful of young men lolling on sofas. “In fact they look as if they're half asleep, which can't be easy for that man with the butterfly wings.”

  “Or those ones with the mermaid tails,” said Francis. “Did you notice they have scales all over their faces? Nobody seems to find this sort of thing wemarkable.”

  “Evelyn says that we should be tolerant of people whose appearance is different to our own. She must have been trying to tell us how many modern people are afflicted with this sort of abnormality. Just pretend we didn't see it. That's what people do, apparently.”

  “So I can’t see that man with green hair?”

  “No.”

  “Nor the one with lumps of metal stuck in his face?”

  “Who?”

  They settled at a table.

  They ordered some drinks from the polite coffeehouse wench, and Christopher ordered a large piece of square cake that was displayed under a glass dome. He had to ask Joan to order it for him; his two self-obsessed companions had still failed to notice what was happening to him.

  “We'll need to find somewhere to sleep.”

  “Quite,” said Francis. “It might take us a while to find Mawy.”

  “Of course, an inn would have beds,” muttered Christopher. “But, no, we have to come to a coffeehouse…”

  The wench brought their order over.

  “We didn’t have coffee in my day.”

  “Nor mine,” said Joan. “But all the cool people drink coffee in the movies.”

  Francis sipped at his black coffee and pulled a tight-lipped face.

  “Wefweshingly… bitter,” he said, shuddering. “And yet…”

  He sipped it again.

  “There’s something inexpwessably… Mmmm.”

  He drained the cup.

  “Good?” said Joan, who had ordered a skinny frappuccino, principally because she could.

  “I’m uncertain,” said Francis. “I will need to consume two or thwee more to form an opinion.”

  Christopher was ignoring his coffee but scoffing down the cake.

  “’m starving,” he mumbled.

  “It’s strange,” said Joan. “These mortal bodies can feel hunger. I don’t remember the last time I felt hunger.”

  Francis paused mid-sip. “Oh, I do. The turnip blight of 1223. There wasn’t a single root vegetable to be found in all Italy.”

  “Is that all?” said Joan. “In the June of 1429 on the roads to Riems, my armies had to march for five days without so much as a crumb of bread to eat. It was only when we reached Troyes and found Brother Richard’s crop of beans that—”

  “Five days? That’s nothing,” said Francis. “In 1199, volcanic eruptions caused crop failure across the land…”

  The two of them fell to good natured argument over which of them had endured the greatest hardship, Francis becoming more animated after waving the wench over to bring further coffee. It was a conversation in which Christopher couldn’t participate. If he so much as mentioned any of the trials or deprivations he had suffered, the others would simply point out that his own memories – realistic though they might have been – were the alleged invention of early church fathers.

  The cake Christopher had eaten sat pleasantly in his belly – that felt real! – and he could feel a warm contentment expand through his muscles, clearing out the troubles of his mind like a broom sweeping through a cluttered room. Clarity of thought. That was what he needed.

  “Historically inaccurate, am I, eh?” he said, at least he thought he’d said it.

  With clarity came lethargy and a sense that he was drifting away from himself. For the first time, Christopher could grasp that being technically imaginary was not enough and that it might be preferable to disappear from reality entirely…

  A hand slapped him on the knee. Christopher sat up with a start.

  “Dozed off for a while there, fwiend,” said Francis.

  “Where’s Joan?” said Christopher, dazedly rubbing his eyes.

  “She’s gone to pay the barkeep. Maybe, if we’re lucky, they know where Mawy is.”

  At the counter, Joan put a gold florin down and the wench shook her head and said something to her. Joan picked up the florin and bit down on it, to demonstrate that it was real gold, but the woman shook her head again.

  Christopher giggled, although wasn’t at all sure why.

  “Think I need another cake,” he said.

  A woman approached Joan, said something and put a hand on her arm. She handed some coins to the man at the counter and followed Joan back to the table.

  “Hey, everybody, this is Brandy,” said Joan. “She helped me out with the local coinage just now.”

  Christopher mumbled hello, wondering how Brandy's hair could be so outlandishly tall. There was her face, which was brightly painted, but then her coppery hair was piled up like a tall cottage loaf, with no visible means of support. He fought the overwhelming urge to give it an exploratory prod.

  “Joan tells me you need a place to stay for the night,” said Brandy, smiling widely.

  “We do, we do,” said Christopher.

  “Brandy has a friend who rents out rooms.”

  “Weally?” said Francis. “That’s wonderful.”

  Outside the coffeeshop, Christopher suffered a moment's giddiness. He decided it was just as well they would soon have somewhere to rest. It had been a long day. However, something caught his eye, something that couldn't be ignored.

  “Heeeyy,” he said. “
You know what you two are going to need?”

  “What?” said Joan.

  “You need to know how to ride a bicycle. This place has loads of them.”

  Christopher wheeled one away from a nearby rack.

  “Looks a bit dangerous to me.” Joan rocked one back and forth, seeing how it wobbled.

  “How does it work?” asked Francis.

  “Are you sure you know how to ride one?”

  “The place is not too far,” said Brandy. “We can easily walk. Follow me.”

  Brandy walked ahead.

  “Do I know how to ride a bicycle?” crowed Christopher. “Do I ever! Patron saint of bloody bicycles, me!”

  Christopher swung his leg over the crossbar and spent some time searching for the pedals.

  “Watch and learn,” he said.

  He launched forward, whooping and cheering as he managed to move the bicycle. He wobbled for a few feet and then moved more smoothly.

  “Look at me!” he called as he turned back to wave at the others. “I told you I could ride —”

  There was a lurching sensation and he looked forward again, just in time to see the front wheel go over the side into the canal.

  Joan followed Brandy through dark and crowded streets, glancing at Christopher who trailed soggily behind. Francis kept his distance, complaining about the smell, which Joan decided was somewhere between a stagnant pond and an overflowing cess pit.

  The area they were in seemed to be home to the poorer people of Amsterdam. Joan noticed several women whose clothing was so worn and flimsy, it was possible to see right through it. Some of the houses were lit by presumably cheaper, red electric candles.

  “Here's your place for the night, luvvies,” said Brandy.

  Joan looked up at the narrow building. It looked shabbier than some of the other buildings in the city, there were large chunks of masonry missing from the front, and it was no longer possible to tell what colour it might once have been painted. However, wasn't it entirely appropriate that three saints should dwell among the poorer people?

  “The owner’s a friend of mine,” continued Brandy, “and he'll be very happy to take your, ah, unusual coins as payment.”

  Joan smiled.

  “That is good news. We've got lots of those coins.”

  “Lots?”

  “Absolutely, and I'd hate to think that they were useless.”

  “Not useless at all. We can certainly help you there, luvvie.”

  Brandy led the way up the stairs, past closed doors and muffled voices, right to the top of the building to an attic room.

  “I'll go and have words with the owner,” said Brandy. “Make yourselves comfy!”

  Brandy shut the door and they looked round the tiny space.

  “Look at this!” said Joan, running a finger across a grimy dressing table. “Dust! I'd almost forgotten what it looked like. You don’t get dust in Heaven. Not proper dust.”

  “No,” said Francis, regarding the floor. “Not so many cockwoaches, either.”

  “Aren’t they all God’s creatures?” asked Christopher.

  “Even God makes exceptions,” said Francis.

  Joan picked up the corner of a bedspread.

  “I'm sure it will be comfortable enough for our needs. We –urgh!”

  “What?” said Christopher.

  “Bed bug,” said Francis with warm recognition. “A gwossly maligned cweature in my view.”

  “I'm all for humble lodgings, but I won't be sharing them with parasites,” said Joan firmly, shaking out the sheets. She paused for a moment. “Wait a second, why are there only two beds here? Do we have another room?”

  Christopher coughed lightly.

  “You really haven't noticed, have you?” he asked.

  “Noticed what?” Joan asked.

  “The man with the never-ending Laszlo on the boat refused to talk to me.”

  “So?”

  “No one noticed me jumping out of the back of the lorry.”

  “Because of my embawwassing but effective distwaction,” said Francis.

  “Really? What about the fact that Joan’s friend with the car thought you were called Francis—and—Christopher?”

  “I truly don’t understand what point you’re making,” said Joan.

  “Fine. Let me be blunt,” said Christopher. “People here can't see me.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “They don't notice me, whatever I do.”

  “That can’t be true,” said Joan.

  “I fell in the bloody canal right in front of crowds of people, for crying out loud! Don't you think that someone might have said something? No. They all act as if I'm not here.”

  “You can't be the centre of attention all the time you know,” said Joan. “I think you're overreacting a bit just because people have been talking to me and not listening to you.”

  “Because most of the time you only talk about one thing,” said Francis.

  “I don’t.”

  “You do. ‘Did you know, I cawwied the baby Chwist acwoss a waging wiver. Ooh, aye, dead ‘ard it were.’”

  “Was that seriously meant to be an impression of me? Now you're just being mean. You need to open your eyes.”

  “No,” said Joan. “You need to think straight. What you’re saying doesn’t make sense. Why can’t they see you?”

  Christopher sighed angrily.

  “Because I don't exist on earth. I never existed on earth. Francis, don’t tell me you haven’t noticed?”

  “To be honest, I've been distwacted, thinking about the poor wolf,” said Francis.

  Joan rolled her eyes and counted to ten. She'd asked for this. She wanted to get out and do something. She was the leader, but they'd been on earth for less than a day and the other two were so wrapped up in their own problems that it seemed as though they had forgotten their mission.

  “How about this?” she said, after taking a deep breath. “Christopher, we'll try and make sure you take more of a proactive role.”

  “Proactive? Is that like active?”

  “Yeah, just more so — make sure you're in the thick of it so people notice you more. Francis, we'll keep a careful eye out for the wolf. I'm not sure we can do much more than that at this stage.”

  Christopher opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by a knock at the door.

  “Little pigs,” sang a deep voice outside the door, “little pigs. Let me come in.”

  The door swung open and a tall, heavy-set man with wavy black hair and huge sideburns stood in the doorway.

  “It’s only me,” he grinned.

  He was flanked by Brandy and an even larger man with crudely inked bone tattoos on his arms and a fearsome scowl on his face.

  “You,” the man continued, “must be Brandy's new friends from out of town. You can call me Wolfie. Cos it’s my name, right?”

  “Watch this, I'll prove that they can't see me. Christopher stepped right up to Wolfie and stuck out his tongue in front of his face.

  “Hello, Mr Wolfie,” said Joan. “Ignore my friend.”

  But Wolfie had not responded in any way.

  “Let’s cut to the chase, little pigs,” said Wolfie. “You have my gold.”

  “Your gold?” said Joan, distracted by the realisation that other people really couldn’t see Christopher.

  “Look!” said Christopher and tugged sharply on Wolfie’s sideburns. Wolfie slapped at his face, with a fleeting look of mild puzzlement.

  “My gold.” Wolfie rubbed his cheek. “Hand it over and there will be no need for huffing and puffing and blowing down of houses.”

  “Good grief,” said Joan. “I can't believe it. They really don't see you. Francis, what do you make of it?”

  “As Chwistopher suggests, it is clearly a phenomenon that welates to his deleted status. Most intewesting,” said Francis.

  “You’re ignoring me. Mad people. Give me the gold right now!” said Wolfie.

  “Yet you can touch and inf
luence the physical world,” continued Joan. “That bicycle really did go into the canal. That tweak just then really did hurt. It's just that nobody sees what happens. Hey, you're showing off now.”

  Christopher was capering around behind Wolfie, pinching the other man's ears. He pulled Brandy's hair as well. His victims exchanged glances and looked in disgust at the room as if the fleas had turned unusually aggressive.

  “Enough of this. Bonio, grab the tin-plated bitch.”

  Wolfie grabbed at Francis. The huge and tattooed Bonio pulled out a four-inch blade from his waistband.

  Joan looked at his knife.

  “Are you kidding?” she asked and she unsheathed her sword, relishing the protracted sch-ting sound that it made. Bonio looked mildly uncomfortable.

  “Hey Joan, you've given him something to think about,” said Christopher, watching with interest. “Do we think he's got a plan?”

  Bonio's plan appeared to amount to snarling. He thrust the knife forward in the direction of Joan's face, while snarling some more. Joan didn't want to kill him so she brought up the flat of her sword to whack the underside of his hand. The knife flew into the air where Christopher caught it.

  Joan then hit Bonio on the side of his head with the flat of the blade and he dropped to the floor, unconscious.

  She turned to see how Francis was getting on. He wasn't as bulky as Wolfie, so he was currently pinned against the wall, while Wolfie thrust his hands into the pocket of Francis's habit. Joan stepped forward to assist, but at that moment Wolfie let out a howl of pain. He drew his hand free and tried to shake loose the rat that hung onto the end of it, but the rodent’s teeth were firmly embedded into his finger.

  “Who'd have thought your ratty friend would be actually useful?” said Christopher.

  Francis took advantage of Wolfie's distraction to bring a brisk knee up into his groin, and then clubbed him with a nearby table lamp. Wolfie joined Bonio on the floor.

  “Watch the girl,” called Christopher. “She's got a, um, what would you call that, Francis? An ornamental cat?”