The Unhappy Medium 3: Wretched Things: A Supernatural Comedy, page 1
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The Unhappy Medium
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Copyright © T. J. Brown (2024). All rights reserved.
www.theunhappymedium.com
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to real events, people or places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, places or people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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To My Younger Self
When a clown moves into a palace, he doesn’t become a king.
The palace becomes a circus.
– Turkish proverb
Preface
This book was started before the 2022 full scale invasion of Ukraine and is set in the period immediately before that.
Slava Ukraini
Contents
Maps
Preface
Chapter 1: Raki
Chapter 2: Books
Chapter 3: Terrible
Chapter 4: Ruins
Chapter 5: Rise and Fall
Chapter 6: A New Arrival
Chapter 7: On Offa’s Dyke
Chapter 8: Crete
Chapter 9: The Fish
Chapter 10: Awash
Chapter 11: Chania
Chapter 12: A Buyer’s Market
Chapter 13: Samaria
Chapter 14: Hermitage
Chapter 15: Absent Friends
Chapter 16: Overground
Chapter 17: Underground
Chapter 18: Daedalus Woz Here
Chapter 19: Ancient Fires
Chapter 20: Treasury
Chapter 21: Raiders
Chapter 22: Total Legend
Chapter 23: The Centre Of It All
Chapter 24: Bullish
Chapter 25: What We Believe
Chapter 26: All At Sea
Chapter 27: Museum Piece
Chapter 28: Return
Chapter 29: Congestion
Chapter 30: Slow Boat
Chapter 31: A Homecoming
Chapter 32: A Black Sea
Chapter 33: East
Chapter 34: Viktor
Chapter 35: Down
Chapter 36: Heroes
Chapter 37: Ground
Chapter 38: Iskander
Chapter 39: To Kill A City
Chapter 40: Asunder
Chapter 41: Snake
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
* * *
Chapter 1
Raki
The Richardsons had only been the Richardsons for forty-eight hours. Two days earlier, following a breakneck engagement, they had driven away from the registry office in their hired car, tin cans trailing noisily behind them as they headed for Gatwick.
By eight that evening, after touching down at the small airport, a taxi had transported them through a Prussian blue Aegean night to their remote honeymoon villa in the hills.
Too hungover and travel-worn to consummate their marriage, they’d slept like the dead, windows thrown wide to the night, a feast for half the mosquitoes on the island.
The following morning, they’d awoken to resemble cautionary posters from a doctor’s waiting room. A mass of red bumps and bloody pimples, they were forced to squander the first day of their honeymoon searching for remedies in the confusing local pharmacies, the incomprehensible labels almost as irritating as the bites themselves.
As the sun dropped, they’d scratched themselves insane by the pool, getting through two bottles of local wine as the evening passed, before walking down the dusty road to the local taverna. Miserably picking through their souvlaki and chips as the insects ate them alive, they took down another bottle of red before calling it a day.
Then came the raki.
Raki, a distilled spirit of legendary potency, is omnipresent on Greece’s 6,000 islands. Crystal clear and drunk in small shot glasses, it has a kick like a minotaur. Most tourists fall foul of it as an after-dinner digestif, a gratis gift from the taverna designed to lure you back every night for the length of your stay. The problem is that one small glass of raki has a habit of turning a heavy but manageable night of drinking … into a disaster.
As it was for the Richardsons.
The return journey was chaotic. Unable to feel his legs, John Richardson had walked like he was on the moon, twice describing complete circles. At the same time, his bride, the fair Louise, struggled along on all fours, barking like a Chihuahua.
In a terrible state, they had been quite unprepared when a speeding Land Rover appeared without warning down the dusty road. As it passed, John Richardson had caught sight of its passengers, five or more Greek Orthodox monks who had looked back at him sternly as the four-by-four swerved hard around the drunken honeymooners. Horn blaring, it disappeared into the darkness, as suddenly as it had appeared.
Back in the villa the Richardsons staggered to the bedroom, far too intoxicated to secure the doors and windows. Crashing fully dressed onto the bed, they’d both plummeted into the worst of sleep, a wild raki-fuelled spin cycle that had them clinging onto the bedclothes for dear life.
Around 2.40 local time, John Richardson was violently sick. Brushing off a thick coat of mosquitoes, he dashed to the bathroom. Up came his dinner, followed by two of the three bottles of red and a thick jet of local raki. Exhausted, he’d slumped hollow to the alabaster floor, then blacked out, his strobing head balanced on a solitary toilet roll.
Until he woke up.
There were noises.
It wasn’t Louise; he could see her foot on the bed, sandal half-on, down the corridor. Someone, or something, was in the villa with them.
He immediately assumed it was a robbery; John could hear the intruder rummaging through their possessions on the small dining table. A coin rolled. Shaking his head clear, he pulled himself up using the towel rail, then cast an eye around the darkened bathroom for a weapon.
Besides towels and toiletries, there was nothing.
With no better idea, Richardson rolled up a large beach towel until it became a colourful three-foot fluffy truncheon … then edged out to confront the intruder.
In the moonlight, there was just enough luminosity to reveal the outline of a man hunched over his wife’s leather handbag, his torso visible as a shadow, sharp against the stark white walls. Clumsily, the intruder was ransacking Louise’s bag, tipping out her lipstick, pens and face mirror, head way down, oblivious to the Englishman creeping towards him across the kitchen diner.
As one of John Richardson’s hands tightened on his makeshift weapon, the other, wet with perspiration, felt for the switch.
On came the light.
Startled, the intruder spun.
John Richardson, ready for a scrawny, unkempt youth looking for drug money, froze.
Standing in the small kitchen, naked but for a pair of knee-length black cycling shorts, was a man with no head. Actually, observed the horrified honeymooner, that wasn’t strictly accurate. He did have a face … it just wasn’t on his head.
There wasn’t a head.
The face, as startled and alarmed as John Richardson’s, was on his chest. His stark, wide eyes, were just below his clavicle, his ears to the sides of his nipples, his chin … a mere lump above his sternum and his open mouth sat somewhere in the middle.
‘Oh hell!’ said the intruder, holding up the keys of their small red hire car.
John Richardson, instinctively, began swatting at the apparition with the rolled-up beach towel, causing the monster to swat back defensively.
‘Stop it!’ shrieked the headless man. ‘I’m not dangerous, honestly. I just need to borrow your car.’
‘Whassssssssssaaapppeeennniiinnnggg?’ asked a still very drunk voice from the bedroom.
‘Louise! Get the hell out of our villa!’ screamed John Richardson, as he batted the headless man. ‘Get out, quick!’
‘I’m going,’ replied the headless man, taking the keys and dashing at the open sliding windows, pursued by the drunken honeymooner. ‘I’m going!’ Picking the wrong side, the headless man bounced off the toughened glass into John Richardson, sending both of them rearward into the cheap table, snapping off its single leg.
Now wide awake, Louise was staggering down the corridor, beach umbrella at the ready, as the panicked intruder made a second run at the sliding window, this time selecting the open side.
‘He … he …,’ stammered John Richardson, pointing at the departing monstrosity.
‘What was it, darling?’ asked his bride, helping him back up. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Louise!’ replied the wide-eyed groom. ‘He’s got no head!’
‘What?’ asked Louise. ‘What you talking about? You’re still drunk.’
‘No … really,’ blurted her bewildered husband. ‘He’s got no head. And … he’s stolen the car keys. We’ve got to st
John Richardson grabbed the umbrella off his bride, then charged through the French window.
Ready for a fight, he was halfway to the car when something around the size of a pit bull dashed out of the shadows directly before him.
Richardson tripped.
Landing face-first in the gravel, the honeymooner skidded to a dusty halt, umbrella flying. Dazed, Richardson rolled onto his back.
The thing he’d tripped over was instantly on him, landing on his chest, red eyes staring into his own, claws digging into Richardson’s mosquito-ravaged flesh.
It was ghastly, somewhere between humanoid and canine, straight out of a bout of sleep paralysis, its sharp fangs bared as it let out a terrifying hiss. Bad enough already, a porcupine flourish of thick bristles then shot up along its arched spine.
Richardson screamed.
‘Get off him!’ yelled Louise, picking up her husband’s umbrella and swinging it.
With a noisy thwack, the beast, caught by surprise, was off. Enraged, it flipped instantly back onto its feet, ready to lunge back at Mrs Richardson with its fangs and talons fully extended.
‘Leave ’em, boy!’ ordered the headless man, adding a loud whistle. ‘We’ve gotta go!’
The beast looked to its master, then slowly back at the horrified honeymooners, weighing up its next move.
‘Now!’ yelled the headless man, frantically trying to make sense of the jumble of keys.
Reluctantly, the beast backed away, dribble falling from its wicked fangs as it hissed a final defiance before bounding away towards the car.
‘What the f….?’ gasped Louise, seeing both the intruders clearly for the first time.
John followed her eyes to the car.
Now, there were two men.
The second man, however, did have a head. It just wasn’t human. Instead, he had the head of a dog.
Louise, who was something of a dog person, noted with utter bewilderment that he possessed the head of a golden Labrador.
‘Dammit!’ panted the dog man, his tongue lolling over his canines. ‘People!’
‘I’m sorry,’ said the headless man. ‘I tried to be quiet, but they caught me. I’ve got car keys, though, look!’ he declared, jangling the key chain triumphantly. ‘Let’s get out of here!’
The car beeped, and the doors opened.
The headless man threw himself into the driving seat, watched by the shocked couple, hand fumbling for the ignition as the dog man opened the back door. Like a family pet, the clawed nightmare was in the back as the dog man jumped into the passenger seat and slammed the door.
‘I got this!’ said his headless companion, looking for confidence. ‘I got this!’
The car came alive. The engine revved high, then kangarooed across the gravel as the headless man tried to implement what he’d seen on the videos.
What he hadn’t anticipated was the poor visibility. With his head in his chest, the unfortunate man was face to face with the steering wheel, his hands above him as he fought to balance the clutch and the accelerator with his inexperienced feet.
‘You have to guide me,’ he shouted to the dog man. ‘I can’t see where I’m going.’
‘Dammit,’ barked the dog man. ‘You told me you could drive.’
‘I’m doing my best,’ replied the headless man, slamming his foot down.
His best wasn’t nearly good enough.
Unguided, the cheap rental shot across the gravel and into a low wall, screeching along the rough rocks and losing a door. Slammed frantically into reverse, the car barrelled backwards into a fig tree, then forward again, totally out of control, and clipped a low bank, the dog man howling in fear. The little Fiat rolled over on its side and stopped dead, wheels spinning uselessly in the air.
‘Get out!’ ordered the headless man. ‘We’ll have to continue on foot.’
‘Dammit,’ said the dog man, as they extricated themselves from the wreck. ‘Look!’
His outstretched hand was pointing at an oncoming vehicle. It was, John Richardson observed, the very Land Rover that had narrowly missed them by inches earlier that evening. Headlamps blazing, it raced up to the holiday villa, then slammed on the brakes. Dust erupted around it, as the doors burst open.
Terrified, the three oddballs bolted, making a final, desperate bid for freedom.
‘Stop!’ demanded the first of six Greek Orthodox monks, exploding from the Land Rover and waving a Taser above his head. ‘Or I’ll have to use force!’
‘Damn you all!’ barked the dog man, as he was rugby tackled to the ground by a young beardless priest. ‘I deserve to be free!’
The red-eyed creature, meanwhile, was dashing about like a cornered cat, hissing as three monks tried to surround it, net at the ready, its bizarre hackles raised up like knitting needles.
‘Watch him, men,’ ordered the Taser-yielding priest. ‘He has a wicked bite.’
‘It’s not fair!’ wailed the headless man, raising his hands above his chest in surrender. ‘Why can’t we be free?’
‘Is impossible,’ replied an elderly priest. ‘You know that. Come along now, please. You have to go to the new place.’
‘But I don’t want to go!’ the headless man protested, as the monks finally caught his red-eyed companion in their net. ‘It’s cold and it’s wet. This is my home.’
‘What’s happening,’ demanded John Richardson. ‘What are these … things?’
‘You see what you do?’ said the elderly priest to the headless man, pointing at the bewildered honeymooners. ‘You see what your freedom has caused? Now we have an unholy mess to clear up.’
‘Whatever!’ replied the headless man defiantly. Making a last bid for freedom, he bolted, frantically dashing away down the path towards the village.
A Taser caught him, causing the poor thing to stop dead in the road, arms waving pathetically as the voltage sent him into a frenzy.
‘Frrreeeeeedddoooommmm!’
‘Quick, men,’ ordered the old priest, detaching the weapon from its victim. ‘Put him in the back with others.’
‘My God!’ shrieked John Richardson, pulling his wife to him. ‘What just happened here?’
‘Nothing,’ said the priest, walking up to the honeymooners with his finger raised. ‘You see nothing.’
‘But those …. things!’ squealed Louise Richardson, pointing at the car.
‘You no see,’ continued the priest, smiling politely. ‘You see … NOTHING!’
‘We know what we saw,’ insisted John Richardson.
‘With our own eyes,’ added Louise Richardson. ‘Our own eyes. Those … things!’
‘No. NO. NO,’ insisted the priest. ‘You think you saw.’
‘But … but …,’ stammered John Richardson, gaslit to a standstill.
‘All packed up, Father Papadraylou,’ shouted the driver of the Land Rover. ‘We ready to roll.’
The priest smiled politely at the honeymooners, then turned, walking quickly back to the Land Rover. Climbing into the passenger seat, he closed the door, then poked his excessively bearded face back out of the open window, finger held to his lips.
‘How …?’ demanded John Richardson, pointing to the crazed eyes in the back of the Land Rover, ‘do you explain …?
‘RAKI,’ shouted the priest, as they drove away into the darkness. ‘RAKI.
’
Chapter 2
Books
Former man of science and very unhappy medium, Dr Newton Barlow, lay on the bed, looking up at the cracks snaking across the ceiling. The cackling of late drinkers, locked in to evade the licensing laws, drifted up through the oak beams, cementing his insomnia in place.
He was never going to sleep.
Barlow’s mind was a mass of tiny, agitated questions, dashing along his neurones like takeaway deliveries heading nowhere but a headache.
Newton didn’t like the term ‘trauma’ at all. Still, it popped into his head endlessly, waving at him from behind the narratives he’d built to explain the collapse of his noble sensibilities. What other word could define the feeling? That vertigo that came from realising just how plain mad reality actually turned out to be. He ached for the old certainties. He even ached for the old uncertainties. Newton ached for just about everything. The separation he had endured of being ripped from one reality and placed into another had only one word left to sum it up … trauma. Granted, it wasn’t the kind of trauma you might get from five straight days under artillery fire, but having your certainties rear-ended by a universe with all the logic of a travelling circus couldn’t be brushed away as ‘one of those things’ either.
