Ye Gods! Read online

  Anyway, Jason picked up the receiver.

  ‘Yes?’ he said. ‘What?’

  There was a silence at the other end of the line, as if whoever it was wasn’t used to being talked to like that. Jason, however, was past caring.

  ‘Well?’ he said.

  ‘Well what?’ It was an elderly, rather querulous voice, high and dry. That, at any rate, was all Jason could deduce from the small sample he had been given - not, frankly, that he was all that bothered.

  ‘Well yourself,’ he said. ‘Who is this, anyway?’

  Another thing about telephones is that every unknown voice on the end of a telephone line always wants to talk to Carol. Is Carol there, they ask. Could I speak to Carol, please? There is either some enormous conspiracy going on, or else Carol is getting a hell of a lot of calls from people wanting to leave an order with the Chinese Takeaway.

  ‘Am I speaking to’ - the voice hesitated, as if it was reading something off a piece of paper - ‘to Jason Derry?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jason.

  ‘Then please replace the receiver - not yet, of course - and walk five hundred yards due west, turn through seventy-five degrees and walk a further two hundred yards due north. Then turn through ninety degrees. Please replace the receiver now.’

  The line went dead, and Jason shrugged. Being a Hero he didn’t know the meaning of fear, just as the average person doesn’t know the meaning of the word foumart.4 The fact that there had been a voice giving him directions might well mean that if he followed the directions he would meet the owner of the voice. The owner of the voice might have some food. If the worst came to the worst, he could always eat him.

  Jason sighed and opened the door of the phone booth. As he did so, the eagle spread its wings and soared away. Jason checked with his compass; the eagle was going due west.

  He paced out five hundred yards - difficult, since the terrain was uneven - made a guess at seventy-five degrees and turned. The eagle banked and set off in the direction he had just decided on. Pretty shrewd guess, huh?

  Hundred and ninety-seven, hundred and ninety-eight, hundredanninetinine, and turn . . .

  Jason opened his eyes and blinked.

  He was looking up at a hillside, far away in the distance. Chained - yes, they were chains - to the rocks was the body of a huge man, lying face downwards. There was a raw scab roughly the size of a steel works, on the small of his back, over which the eagle was standing. The eagle had got bigger too. Very much bigger. There was blood all over its beak, and its eyes were huge yellow globes. Jason may still not have known the meaning of fear, but he would have been prepared to hazard a guess.

  ‘Punctuality,’ said the giant, in a voice like the sea, ‘is the politeness of princes. But not, apparently, Heroes. If you look under the small rock by your left foot, you will find a packet of sandwiches.’

  Jason looked.

  ‘Where?’ he said.

  ‘Under the small rock by your . . .’

  ‘What small rock?’

  ‘The small rock by your . . . Just a moment, please.’

  The giant made an expressive gesture with his left ear, and the eagle hopped over and stood by his head. They whispered together for a moment.

  ‘Did I say two hundred paces north?’ said the giant. ‘I’m sorry. Try going ten paces further.’

  Jason uprooted his legs and advanced.

  ‘Right,’ he said, ‘got the small rock. No sandwiches, though.’

  ‘Ah.’ The giant wiggled his ear again. The eagle hopped forward.

  ‘Is it a squarish brown rock?’ asked the giant.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Jason replied. ‘It’s hard to say with rocks. They all look the . . .’

  ‘Try going back a bit.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Jason, ‘got that. Small, squarish brown rock. Sandwiches. Yes.’

  ‘Oh good,’ said the giant. ‘Now perhaps we can get down to business.’

  ‘Fire away,’ Jason said, with his mouth full.

  ‘Allow me to introduce myself,’ said the giant. ‘My name is . . .’

  ‘There wouldn’t be any mustard, would there?’

  ‘No,’ said the giant.

  ‘Pity.’

  ‘My name,’ said the giant, ‘is . . .’

  ‘Pickle?’

  There was a long silence. Jason guessed that there probably wasn’t any pickle.

  ‘My name,’ said the giant, and then paused, as if waiting for a further interruption. ‘There is,’ he said, ‘no piccalilli. And my name is Prometheus.’

  ‘Prometheus?’

  ‘Prometheus, yes. Nor is there any salt.’

  Jason chewed thoughtfully. ‘I’ve heard of you,’ he said. ‘I think.’

  ‘Have you really?’ said the giant. ‘I’m so thrilled. Now . . .’

  ‘My dad,’ Jason said, ‘says you’re a traitor to your class and you sold us all down the river. My dad says . . .’

  ‘No doubt he does,’ said the giant. ‘That’s just the sort of thing I would expect your father to say. What of it?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Jason replied. ‘Which river?’

  ‘I expect he was speaking metaphorically,’ said the giant. ‘I think he was simply trying to express his disapproval of me. You should be able to gather from what you can see that your father disapproves of me.’

  ‘The chains and the eagle and everything?’

  ‘Well,’ said the giant, ‘it could be that I’m sunbathing and the chains are here to prevent me getting blown away by a freak gust of wind, but that wouldn’t really explain away the eagle, now would it? Yes, your father has a pretty low opinion of me, all things considered. And I,’ added the giant proudly, ‘have an even lower opinion of him. And what do you think of that?’

  ‘How do you mean?’ Jason said, chewing.

  ‘Let me put it another way,’ said the giant. ‘On the one hand, you owe your father filial respect, love and obedience. On the other hand, I happen to know the whereabouts of a packet of chocolate biscuits and a can of diet Pepsi. The decision, of course, must rest with you. Only you can . . .’

  ‘Where?’ said Jason quickly.

  ‘Hidden,’ replied the giant. ‘Now, if you will do me a little favour, I’m sure the eagle will be happy to . . .’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jason. ‘Hurry up, will you, I’m starving.’

  The giant raised his head petulantly. ‘Not so fast, young man,’ he said. ‘First, you will have to listen to a certain amount of tedious explanation.’

  ‘All right,’ Jason said, ‘but make it quick, because . . .’

  ‘In the beginning,’ said the giant slowly, ‘was the Word . . .’

  ‘What do you mean,’ said Diana angrily, ‘you’ve lost him?’

  ‘Just that,’ Apollo replied. ‘One minute he was there, standing about looking hungry, the next minute he was gone.’

  Diana made an exasperated noise and turned to Demeter.

  ‘Dee,’ she said, ‘you tell me. It’s no use trying to get any sense out of Pol when he’s in one of his moods. What’s been happening?’

  Demeter shrugged. ‘He’s absolutely right,’ she said. ‘He just sort of walked out of sight. Bing,’ she added.

  Diana frowned and turned to Minerva, who was leaning on her spear-shaft looking sage. Pure habit.

  ‘But that’s impossible,’ she said. ‘Heroes can’t just disappear. Perhaps he’s gone down a hole or something.’

  ‘I thought of that,’ said Apollo, ignoring the fact that he was apparently too idiotic to be audible. ‘So I tried the infra-red scanner. Nothing. Look.’

  He flicked a free-floating switch and the Earth suddenly looked as if it was bathed in blood.

  ‘Satisfied?’ said Apollo. ‘Nothing. Nor has he borrowed a Cloak of Invisibility, wandered into another dimension or disguised himself in a false beard and a raincoat. He’s just gone. Phut!’

  Diana set her lips in a thin line. Bing she could just about handle, but phut! was something else. ‘Don’t b
e so feeble, Pol,’ she said. ‘Send a messenger or something.’

  Apollo grinned at her. ‘I did,’ he said. ‘I’ve had Sleep, Death, Thought, Time and Indigestion flying backwards and forwards over the Caucasus for the last twenty minutes. Nothing. Except,’ he added, ‘a bloody great big chit for mileage allowance, which someone isn’t going to be too pleased about . . .’

  Diana sagged slightly. ‘Perhaps they didn’t look properly ,’ she ventured. Minerva gave her a look.

  ‘All right,’ said Minerva, ‘but he must be somewhere. Everyone always is. Have you spoken to his driver?’

  ‘George,’ said Apollo, ‘is at this very moment trying to convince thirty-two very irritable Thessalian Centaurs that his master has just had to pop back for a pair of winged sandals and will be along in a minute. He’s as baffled as the rest of us.’

  Minerva bit her lip. On her right shoulder, her owl shifted from leg to leg nervously.

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘obviously he’s out there somewhere, but . . .’

  ‘Look,’ said Apollo, ‘didn’t I just . . .?’

  ‘Let me finish, will you? But,’ Minerva went on, ‘all reasonable and diligent enquiries . . .’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘. . . have failed to reveal exactly where,’ Minerva said. ‘We are gods, and nothing can be hidden from us. Except,’ she went on, ‘by other gods.’

  There was a short pause.

  ‘Oh,’ Demeter said, ‘I see what you’re driving at. You think one of us . . .’

  Minerva breathed in in the manner she usually reserved for her male relatives. ‘No, dear,’ she said, ‘Not one of us here now, because none of us, not even Pol, would be so very childish. One of us gods, on the other hand, as opposed to the mortals or the Tooth Fairy, yes. That, I would suggest, narrows the field down a bit, wouldn’t you think?’

  Demeter blinked. ‘Does it?’ she asked.

  Minerva smiled terribly. ‘Apollo, dear,’ she said, ‘why don’t you take Demeter away and find her something to grow? I’m sure we needn’t detain her further, and perhaps we’d all get on that bit faster if . . .’

  ‘Oh do shut up, Min,’ Demeter said. ‘And get to the point, if you’ve got one.’

  ‘Very well, then,’ Minerva said. ‘What I’m trying to suggest to you is this. A Hero has disappeared. He must be out there somewhere. Therefore a god must have hidden him. Now, don’t you think that points rather at Someone in Particular?’

  Even Demeter couldn’t fail to catch her drift. The poet Homer describes Jupiter as He Whose Delight Is In Thunder, but poets have to be polite. His fellow gods prefer to describe him as He Whose Delight Is In Being Bloody Difficult.

  ‘He wouldn’t,’ Diana said, ‘would he? I mean, why?’

  Minerva smiled. ‘Bonus points,’ she said.

  ‘Bonus points?’

  ‘Precisely,’ Minerva replied. ‘Typical underhand cheating. ’

  Gods, it should be explained, have no objection to overhand cheating, which they prefer to call Fate. Overhand cheating consists of wiping out whole cities with the plague or flattening your opponent’s best Hero with a thunderbolt. Anything that is devious, however, or smacks of low cunning, they regard with great distaste, largely because it’s usually too clever for them to follow.

  ‘What he’s done,’ Minerva went on, ‘is to magic this Jason away for three or four moves, and then he’ll pop him back in when we least expect it. Then one of us’ll be left with a headless dragon or a defeated army and absolutely nothing at all we can do about it. Well, I for one . . .’

  ‘I’m not so sure,’ said Apollo.

  Minerva turned and looked at him. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘if you have an alternative explanation, I’m sure we’d all be only too pleased . . .’

  ‘No,’ Apollo confessed, ‘I haven’t. I just don’t think . . .’

  ‘I know,’ Minerva interrupted. ‘You never have, either. Now then, I suggest that we send Mercury, with the Lamp of Truth and the Celestial Trufflehound. That ought to have him out of it in no time.’

  Just then, a shining portal opened in the wall of the sun and all the gods rose instinctively to their feet. They always do. Partly this is because all gods, despite their incessant bickering and backbiting, have an innate respect for the Father of Gods and Men. The fact that He tends to throw those who don’t off the battlements also has something to do with it.

  ‘Right,’ said Jupiter, taking his place on the golden throne that none but he ever dared sit in, ‘who’s the smartass?’

  ‘Right,’ said Jason, ‘fine. Now, about those cakes . . .’

  Prometheus sighed. ‘And so,’ he said, ‘what do you think?’

  ‘Think?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Prometheus. ‘About the morality of it?’

  ‘Morality?’ Jason’s brow furrowed, and he considered long and hard. ‘Dunno,’ he said at last.

  ‘You don’t know,’ Prometheus repeated. ‘I see. I must say that I find that tremendously encouraging.’

  ‘It’s not something I think about a lot,’ said Jason, ‘morality.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Not,’ he went on, ‘in my line of work. I’m more, you know, blue-collar. Mine not to reason why, that sort of thing.’

  ‘You’re more,’ said the Titan slowly, ‘a sort of hired thug?’

  ‘Exactly,’ Jason said. ‘The way I see it is, somebody somewhere knows what’s going on, so who am I to make difficulties?’

  ‘Well now,’ said Prometheus, ‘I know what’s going on, and I’m prepared to pay in hard confectionery. What about it?’

  Jason frowned. ‘What,’ he said, ‘me take orders from you instead of him?’

  ‘Very neatly put. Yes.’

  ‘I don’t think he’d like it,’ Jason said. ‘And, well, you know what happens to people who . . .’

  Prometheus laughed and rattled his chains until the mountains shook. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I have a pretty shrewd idea. A pity. Well, I’m sorry to have troubled you. The biscuits are three paces east under the roots of a thornbush. The eagle will show you.’

  Great, Jason said to himself as he tore open the packet and put tooth to chocolate. Great . . .

  Not you again. Go away.

  Sure . . .

  I said go away, will you? I really don’t need this right now.

  Exactly . . .

  All right then, out with it. What are you getting at?

  Nothing . . .

  Good, because if you haven’t got anything to say, you can just push off and leave me in . . .

  In . . .

  Slowly, Jason got up, finished his mouthful, and turned to face the giant.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said.

  The giant turned his head - imagine Hounslow suddenly picking itself up and rolling over on one side and stared at Jason, who saw the two round blue eyes for the first time. He swallowed and choked on a crumb.

  ‘Yes?’ he said softly.

  ‘Well,’ Jason said, ‘I don’t suppose there’s anything I could do without him actually knowing, is there?’

  Prometheus laughed. ‘As it happens,’ he said, ‘there is.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  Although it was now over five years since Sergeant Smith had had his funny experience, he still hadn’t recovered from it, and his superiors at the Axe Cross police station had long since decided that being a desk sergeant was all he was fit for now. As they saw it, when batty old ladies came in claiming to have seen flying saucers, they would at least be sure of a sympathetic audience.

  Anyone less likely than the sergeant to be a dreamer of dreams it is hard to imagine. A long, hard youth spent watching fights outside chip shops and arresting the more seriously injured participants should have cauterised his powers of imagination many years ago; but the fact remained that he claimed to have seen Something, and ever since he had been as unshakable in his story as an interviewing officer telling the court that during interrogation the defendant had repeatedly got up and b
anged his head violently against the leg of the table.

  It had happened, Sergeant Smith insisted, on a Thursday, about a quarter past eleven at night, bang in the middle of Pool Street, just opposite the bus shelter. This guy had appeared out of nowhere, wearing a sort of bronze body-warmer and a short skirt, screaming blue murder and carrying what the sergeant, a man of limited vocabulary, could only describe as a bloody great sword. Naturally, the sergeant had immediately taken up a position behind the bus shelter for the purposes of more efficient surveillance, and from there he had a clear view of the man running down Pool Street as far as the Co-op, stopping dead in his tracks and being confronted with some kind of very big reptile, which he proceeded to attack. During the course of the struggle, what the sergeant stubbornly maintained was a bloody great hand materialised out of thin air, grabbed the man and the strange beast, lifted them up in the air and deposited them both in the carpark of the Bunch of Grapes; whereupon the tarmac of the carpark turned bright pink and started to glow eerily. As the combatants touched down, big black letters appeared on the surface of the carpark, spelling out the legend TRIPLE DEED SCORE.

  Then the man had cut off the reptile’s head, and the sergeant fainted.

  Subsequent investigation of the scene of the alleged incident revealed nothing but three sets of car keys and a half-eaten doner kebab, and the only other person who claimed to have seen anything unusual had been a regular customer of the Bunch of Grapes, who saw unusual things as a matter of course. The fact that when, a year or so later, a new landlord from up north somewhere took over the Grapes he changed the name of the place to the George and Dragon was dismissed as sheer coincidence.

  It so happened that Sergeant Smith was for once not dwelling on this incident when a woman walked into the police station and asked to report a missing person.

  ‘I wouldn’t have troubled you,’ she said, looking over her shoulder, ‘but my, er, husband’s a bit of a worrier.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ said the sergeant, and reached for the book. ‘So who’s gone missing, then?’