Here is the news:
1. Some people (one person, really, but I dare say others are just being polite) have pointed out a temporal anomaly with respect to le Pen and Hitler. I should go back and fix this today, and I might, but there has been a washing machine crisis and the house smells of old fish tank. This is not a smell I am familiar with, but it was the description given by a friend. Might bale out the foetid water with my housemate's favourite mug. If that doesn't improve my mood, I don't know what will.
1.5. If I don't do it by lunchtime, I will not find time today, because I have guests this afternoon.
2. In news from Analytics: the UK is still the king of the swingers, as far as Mary Sue's readership is concerned. Second place is a battle royal between Japan, USA and plucky little Canada, who has maintained her lead due to a burst on Friday. France has stopped reading, for reasons passing comprehension, but Germany remains reliable. Belgium has indicated that there might be some small interest, and I'm pretty confident of her progress up the charts. I've always really like Belgium. Vietnam visits seldom, but stays a while. Finally, there was an Irish reader, but he or she took one look and left. The numbers involved in all these statistics are tiny.
3. In more news from Analytics: incomers from Google 'leapt' yesterday, so I did some more research. The most common search term getting readers to the site is "Milly Chen", predictably. For "Milly Chen", Mary Sue has a current google number of eleven. I would like to see her on the front page, but what can you do?
4. Gripped by google numbers, I typed in "Cathy Calloway". Mary Sue's google number this time was six, behind the North Carolinan interior decorator. "Rollo Price" sees Mary Sue at 20, after many things to do with a guy who wrote a book called "After Desert Storm." Surprisingly, "Miss Smallbone" threw up a google number of 3. Since Miss Smallbone is a Bond homage, and the web is full of Bond sites, I was both shocked and gratified. There is another Miss Smallbone also. She coaches netball at Sacred Heart College in Western Australia (Always Striving Upward To You Our God).
5. I love the fact of having readers. It is slightly a struggle not to spend too long thinking about Mary Sue, which I literally cannot afford to do.
Saturday, September 8, 2007
Friday, September 7, 2007
Chapter 19: The French are Crazy
‘Mary Sue! Mary Sue!’ I was many fathoms sunk in the deepest fluffy sleep of my adult life. The bed was amazing, but there was a loud background hum, which was weird. I started to drift away again. ‘Mary Sue!’ This time was being shaken, and I opened my crusty eyes, bewildered and disoriented. Opening my eyes didn’t make things any less confusing, because there next to me on the bed was Vanessa Paradis. I closed my eyes again. ‘No, Mary Sue, I am sorry,’ said Vanessa. ‘Zis is important you get up now, for ze jet lag.’ I nodded, as my consciousness finally began to batter at my sleeping-state and remind me of yesterday’s extraordinary events. I opened my eyes again, and forced myself to sit.
‘How long was I sleeping?’ I mumbled.
‘Just nearly four hours,’ said Vanessa. But we land in Los Angeles soon after midnight, so you must not be all bushy eyes and ready for ze new day, no?’
‘When is that?’
‘Three more hours. We ‘ave all had ze little doze. I ‘ave brought zis.’ She pressed a big mug of coffee into my hands. ‘Ze shower is a good one. You would like a snack? I ‘ave already ‘ad bacon sandwiches, but zere are many more. Or if you want company for Danish pastry? Zey are good ones also.’ I nodded, still woozy.
When I stumbled through into the main cabin of Vanessa and Johnny Depp’s private jet, I was feeling surprisingly normal, physically at least. Ewan McGregor was looking at a laptop screen, but when he saw me, he shut it and looked guilty. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Ewan,’ said Johnny. ‘Mary Sue has to know what’s going on.’ He looked at me. ‘It’s nothing you don’t already know, in terms of facts, but obviously the reporters have… Well. It’s probably best you read it yourself.’
I sat down, and opened up the screen. It was a BBC web page with the headline, DAVID TENNANT SWORD MURDER HORROR. The picture was a crazy-faced David Tennant talking to me in the middle of South Square. The BBC had decided not to print the horrifying pictures of his decapitated victim, but subtly assured readers that these were available widely online. The text referred to me as ‘Mr Tennant’s lawyer, who has mysteriously disappeared and who is urgently wanted for questioning by the police.’ I was almost immediately returned to the adrenal panic that had been my default state since David Tennant walked into my office yesterday afternoon and said I was key to the imminent final battle between reincarnating angels and demons that could destroy the world. My hand was over my mouth, probably to stop my heart from jumping out.
‘I’m so sorry, Mary Sue,’ said Ewan McGregor.
‘I have to phone my mum. Where’s my phone, I couldn’t find it?’ Johnny shook his head. ‘It’s not secure,’ he said.
‘But…’
‘The Teacher has spoken to your mom. We have a message from her and your father. They say, “We are sorry we never told you the truth about your birth, we love you.” Your mom also said, “Why did you cut off your beautiful hair, you look like a convict.”’
‘Can I send them an email?’
Johnny shook his head again. ‘They will be being watched, everything they do, all their email, phones, the lot. And your friends. We have secure lines ourselves, but if the demons know any friends are in contact with you, those friends will be in deadly danger.’
I looked back at the screen, and noticed a link on the side of the page to the day’s other stories. One in particular leapt out at me: FRENCH CEASE PAYMENT FOR NORTH SEA GAS. I clicked on the story. Ever since Le Pen’s shock Front National victory in the Presidential elections, France had been behaving erratically. Borders had been closed, and quarrels picked with all and sundry. Like most Britons, I said I found this horrifying, but there was a lot of schadenfreude. It was funny to watch self-satisfied French liberals go into paroxysms of embarrassment as the populist President played up to his people’s basest instincts. It was clearly going to come to a sticky end, which would teach the smug French a lesson. That’s what we all thought, back then. Vanessa noticed what I was reading, and in a tiny voice she said, ‘Oui, it has started.’
David Tennant, in our hurried chat at the police station, told me not to trust the French, and that le Pen was a demon. ‘What’s really going on?’ I asked. ‘What are the French trying to do?’
‘It is not ze French,’ said Vanessa Paradis, defensively. ‘It is ze demons.’
‘Sorry.’
Johnny Depp said, ‘We’re not sure. Have you read the article?’ I shook my head. ‘Well, two weeks ago France cut itself off from Russian gas because le Pen argued with Putin over whose pet dog would win a fight, even though le Pen has a poodle and Putin has, well, basically a wolf.’ I nodded. This had seemed very funny on Have I Got News For You. Johnny carried on, ‘Le Pen said it was insupportable that Asiatic nations held power over France, so Europe must go nuclear, blah, blah, blah. And now, when France actually NEEDS North Sea gas for the first time, le Pen suddenly says that Britain has been stealing from France for decades, via the EU subsidy, and he says France will take its reparations in free gas.’
‘That’s crazy!’ I said.
‘It’s absolutely crazy,’ agreed Johnny. ‘We think he must want an economic crisis, which he’s going to get. He’s already started to blame Russia and the UK for France’s problems. We’ve seen this before.’
‘When?’ Johnny Depp reached past me and clicked another link. This was headlined, MAYOR BORIS ACCUSES GOVERNMENT OF APPEASEMENT. I looked at Johnny, open-mouthed. ‘You’re not saying…?’ Johnny nodded. ‘But le Pen is nothing like Hitler! He’s a joke! France isn’t going to go to war!’ And then another thought struck me. ‘Boris! He’s not, I mean, he can’t be…’
‘Oui,’ said Vanessa. ‘Ze true names of ze man you know as “le Pen” is “Hubris,” one of ze most powerful demons. Ze true name of ze angel “Boris” is “Nemesis.” Always zey have fought, so much zat zere true names have become part of your human language.’
‘So Boris was…’ I couldn’t finish.
‘Yes,’ said Vanessa. ‘It is so obvious I am surprised no one notice already. Boris was Churchill.’
‘How long was I sleeping?’ I mumbled.
‘Just nearly four hours,’ said Vanessa. But we land in Los Angeles soon after midnight, so you must not be all bushy eyes and ready for ze new day, no?’
‘When is that?’
‘Three more hours. We ‘ave all had ze little doze. I ‘ave brought zis.’ She pressed a big mug of coffee into my hands. ‘Ze shower is a good one. You would like a snack? I ‘ave already ‘ad bacon sandwiches, but zere are many more. Or if you want company for Danish pastry? Zey are good ones also.’ I nodded, still woozy.
When I stumbled through into the main cabin of Vanessa and Johnny Depp’s private jet, I was feeling surprisingly normal, physically at least. Ewan McGregor was looking at a laptop screen, but when he saw me, he shut it and looked guilty. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Ewan,’ said Johnny. ‘Mary Sue has to know what’s going on.’ He looked at me. ‘It’s nothing you don’t already know, in terms of facts, but obviously the reporters have… Well. It’s probably best you read it yourself.’
I sat down, and opened up the screen. It was a BBC web page with the headline, DAVID TENNANT SWORD MURDER HORROR. The picture was a crazy-faced David Tennant talking to me in the middle of South Square. The BBC had decided not to print the horrifying pictures of his decapitated victim, but subtly assured readers that these were available widely online. The text referred to me as ‘Mr Tennant’s lawyer, who has mysteriously disappeared and who is urgently wanted for questioning by the police.’ I was almost immediately returned to the adrenal panic that had been my default state since David Tennant walked into my office yesterday afternoon and said I was key to the imminent final battle between reincarnating angels and demons that could destroy the world. My hand was over my mouth, probably to stop my heart from jumping out.
‘I’m so sorry, Mary Sue,’ said Ewan McGregor.
‘I have to phone my mum. Where’s my phone, I couldn’t find it?’ Johnny shook his head. ‘It’s not secure,’ he said.
‘But…’
‘The Teacher has spoken to your mom. We have a message from her and your father. They say, “We are sorry we never told you the truth about your birth, we love you.” Your mom also said, “Why did you cut off your beautiful hair, you look like a convict.”’
‘Can I send them an email?’
Johnny shook his head again. ‘They will be being watched, everything they do, all their email, phones, the lot. And your friends. We have secure lines ourselves, but if the demons know any friends are in contact with you, those friends will be in deadly danger.’
I looked back at the screen, and noticed a link on the side of the page to the day’s other stories. One in particular leapt out at me: FRENCH CEASE PAYMENT FOR NORTH SEA GAS. I clicked on the story. Ever since Le Pen’s shock Front National victory in the Presidential elections, France had been behaving erratically. Borders had been closed, and quarrels picked with all and sundry. Like most Britons, I said I found this horrifying, but there was a lot of schadenfreude. It was funny to watch self-satisfied French liberals go into paroxysms of embarrassment as the populist President played up to his people’s basest instincts. It was clearly going to come to a sticky end, which would teach the smug French a lesson. That’s what we all thought, back then. Vanessa noticed what I was reading, and in a tiny voice she said, ‘Oui, it has started.’
David Tennant, in our hurried chat at the police station, told me not to trust the French, and that le Pen was a demon. ‘What’s really going on?’ I asked. ‘What are the French trying to do?’
‘It is not ze French,’ said Vanessa Paradis, defensively. ‘It is ze demons.’
‘Sorry.’
Johnny Depp said, ‘We’re not sure. Have you read the article?’ I shook my head. ‘Well, two weeks ago France cut itself off from Russian gas because le Pen argued with Putin over whose pet dog would win a fight, even though le Pen has a poodle and Putin has, well, basically a wolf.’ I nodded. This had seemed very funny on Have I Got News For You. Johnny carried on, ‘Le Pen said it was insupportable that Asiatic nations held power over France, so Europe must go nuclear, blah, blah, blah. And now, when France actually NEEDS North Sea gas for the first time, le Pen suddenly says that Britain has been stealing from France for decades, via the EU subsidy, and he says France will take its reparations in free gas.’
‘That’s crazy!’ I said.
‘It’s absolutely crazy,’ agreed Johnny. ‘We think he must want an economic crisis, which he’s going to get. He’s already started to blame Russia and the UK for France’s problems. We’ve seen this before.’
‘When?’ Johnny Depp reached past me and clicked another link. This was headlined, MAYOR BORIS ACCUSES GOVERNMENT OF APPEASEMENT. I looked at Johnny, open-mouthed. ‘You’re not saying…?’ Johnny nodded. ‘But le Pen is nothing like Hitler! He’s a joke! France isn’t going to go to war!’ And then another thought struck me. ‘Boris! He’s not, I mean, he can’t be…’
‘Oui,’ said Vanessa. ‘Ze true names of ze man you know as “le Pen” is “Hubris,” one of ze most powerful demons. Ze true name of ze angel “Boris” is “Nemesis.” Always zey have fought, so much zat zere true names have become part of your human language.’
‘So Boris was…’ I couldn’t finish.
‘Yes,’ said Vanessa. ‘It is so obvious I am surprised no one notice already. Boris was Churchill.’
Thursday, September 6, 2007
Chaper 18: Mile High Club
I sat on little armchair in the toilet of Johnny Depp’s private jet trying to take stock of my life. This morning, I was a moderately successful barrister whose husband had left her on her wedding day, but who was determined to turn over a new leaf. At lunchtime, nothing much had changed. Ten hours later, I was the Chosen One, escaping demons who were chasing me so I would be ready for the Final Battle when I would either defeat the Master – whoever he was – or help him open the Gates of Hell – which everyone agreed sounded like a bad thing. Moreover, glancing at myself in the mirror, I had got through customs on a fake passport which said I was a pornstar, and the make-up-caked face that stared back at me wasn’t my own. I called through the door to ask if I might use the remover and moisturiser that I presumed must belong to Vanessa Paradis.
‘Oh la la,’ said Vanessa when I emerged. ‘That is so much better Mary Sue! You look wunnerful! More champagne?’ I took the glass. ‘It is ok we eat now?’ she said. ‘I am ravishing, and it is quite late, no?’ I nodded. She gestured loosely at a linened table hugged by fixed, leather, swivelling chairs. This was definitely better than EasyJet I had booked for an ill-advised surprise weekend in Copenhagen for me and my bastard demon ex-husband Gavin two months ago. I checked with his secretary that Gavin had no work commitments, but he still spent the whole time checking his watch grumpily. At the time I blamed myself for being a cliché and trying to turn my beloved into something he wasn’t. I was so stupid.
By the time I’d eaten smoked trout salad, and half an amazing steak, I was in a much calmer place. Food always does that. Also: two and a half glasses of champagne. The others had kindly done the talking, mostly about inconsequential things and mutual friends. Obviously I was agog, but I tried to play it cool. Early on, giggling about something surprising he’d said about Kiera Knightley, Ewan said, ‘Secrets, of course,’ he said. ‘You know that.’
I nodded emphatically as if to say, ‘Of course, totally, how can you even have thought my texting finger was itching?’
‘I’m sorry,’ he corrected himself, ‘I didn’t mean you couldn’t tell anyone. We’re not trying to replace your friends, it’s just that, until we’ve double-checked… We just don’t know who you can trust.’
‘We hate saying that,’ said Johnny Depp. ‘There’s nothing more important than friends.’ The others mumbled assent. ‘Your best friend’s Jen Duckling, yeah? Sorry, don’t be shocked, we have to know everything about you so we can protect you. We think Jen is what she says, I mean, we’re almost totally sure, but it’s hard. Look, we got it wrong with Gavin, even though we sent… Well. I’m not going to say what we did.’
‘You can’t say that to her!’ spluttered Vanessa Paradis, horrified, breaking away from eating for the first time since the food had arrived. ‘Mon dieu! Men!’ She looked at me, shaking her head. ‘I apologise for Johnny, he is moron almost all ze time.’
‘I didn’t say anything!’ protested Johnny Depp.
‘She is not fool! She can work out from what you say zat we checked out Gavin by sending him succession of beautiful and athletic women to tempt him.’
‘I hadn’t worked that out.’
‘Oh no!’ squealed Vanessa. ‘My apology.’
‘Gavin resisted a selection of beautiful and athletic women?’ I said. It was almost flattering.
‘No, no,’ said Vanessa. ‘He resisted nothing.’
‘Oh,’ I said.
‘We thought he was arsehole, not demon,’ Vanessa clarified. ‘We wanted to tell you, but ze Teacher said you must live ze life absolutely your own, mistakes also, until ze time came.’ She re-attacked her buttered potatoes.
‘Mary Sue,’ Johnny Depp began.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I’m fine.’ I wasn’t, obviously, but one more horror in the day only added a small amount to the overall awfulness of everything. The adrenalin that had kept me going since Gavin was killed swirled out of me like water plunging through a plughole, and the weight of the day hit me like a blanket made of soft lead. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘Is there somewhere I can lie down?’
‘But zere is ice cream coming! Wiz pistachios!’ I shook my head. ‘But of course. Johnny and I have ze room wiz ze children tonight, and over zere, zat one is for you. Ewan can sleep on ze chair.’
‘Oh,’ I said, flustered. ‘That’s wrong. I’m used to travelling coach. One of these chairs will be fine.’
‘It’s a double bed,’ said Ewan McGregor, wolfishly.
‘Oh la la! Do not listen to him!’ said Vanessa. ‘He is incorrigible, and he does not know when he should not be making zese jokes.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Er, no, it’s fine. I’ll be asleep in three seconds anyway. We could top and tail?’
‘Really?’ said Ewan. ‘I think that’s one that even I have never done before. Is it where you…’
‘No!’ I said. ‘It just means that you sleep with your head at the other end to mine, that’s all.’ I looked at his twinkling eyes. ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘You’re joking.’
‘Of course I’ll sleep out here,’ said Ewan. ‘You don’t have to worry about us, Mary Sue. It’s our mission to protect you.’
‘Oh la la,’ said Vanessa when I emerged. ‘That is so much better Mary Sue! You look wunnerful! More champagne?’ I took the glass. ‘It is ok we eat now?’ she said. ‘I am ravishing, and it is quite late, no?’ I nodded. She gestured loosely at a linened table hugged by fixed, leather, swivelling chairs. This was definitely better than EasyJet I had booked for an ill-advised surprise weekend in Copenhagen for me and my bastard demon ex-husband Gavin two months ago. I checked with his secretary that Gavin had no work commitments, but he still spent the whole time checking his watch grumpily. At the time I blamed myself for being a cliché and trying to turn my beloved into something he wasn’t. I was so stupid.
By the time I’d eaten smoked trout salad, and half an amazing steak, I was in a much calmer place. Food always does that. Also: two and a half glasses of champagne. The others had kindly done the talking, mostly about inconsequential things and mutual friends. Obviously I was agog, but I tried to play it cool. Early on, giggling about something surprising he’d said about Kiera Knightley, Ewan said, ‘Secrets, of course,’ he said. ‘You know that.’
I nodded emphatically as if to say, ‘Of course, totally, how can you even have thought my texting finger was itching?’
‘I’m sorry,’ he corrected himself, ‘I didn’t mean you couldn’t tell anyone. We’re not trying to replace your friends, it’s just that, until we’ve double-checked… We just don’t know who you can trust.’
‘We hate saying that,’ said Johnny Depp. ‘There’s nothing more important than friends.’ The others mumbled assent. ‘Your best friend’s Jen Duckling, yeah? Sorry, don’t be shocked, we have to know everything about you so we can protect you. We think Jen is what she says, I mean, we’re almost totally sure, but it’s hard. Look, we got it wrong with Gavin, even though we sent… Well. I’m not going to say what we did.’
‘You can’t say that to her!’ spluttered Vanessa Paradis, horrified, breaking away from eating for the first time since the food had arrived. ‘Mon dieu! Men!’ She looked at me, shaking her head. ‘I apologise for Johnny, he is moron almost all ze time.’
‘I didn’t say anything!’ protested Johnny Depp.
‘She is not fool! She can work out from what you say zat we checked out Gavin by sending him succession of beautiful and athletic women to tempt him.’
‘I hadn’t worked that out.’
‘Oh no!’ squealed Vanessa. ‘My apology.’
‘Gavin resisted a selection of beautiful and athletic women?’ I said. It was almost flattering.
‘No, no,’ said Vanessa. ‘He resisted nothing.’
‘Oh,’ I said.
‘We thought he was arsehole, not demon,’ Vanessa clarified. ‘We wanted to tell you, but ze Teacher said you must live ze life absolutely your own, mistakes also, until ze time came.’ She re-attacked her buttered potatoes.
‘Mary Sue,’ Johnny Depp began.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I’m fine.’ I wasn’t, obviously, but one more horror in the day only added a small amount to the overall awfulness of everything. The adrenalin that had kept me going since Gavin was killed swirled out of me like water plunging through a plughole, and the weight of the day hit me like a blanket made of soft lead. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘Is there somewhere I can lie down?’
‘But zere is ice cream coming! Wiz pistachios!’ I shook my head. ‘But of course. Johnny and I have ze room wiz ze children tonight, and over zere, zat one is for you. Ewan can sleep on ze chair.’
‘Oh,’ I said, flustered. ‘That’s wrong. I’m used to travelling coach. One of these chairs will be fine.’
‘It’s a double bed,’ said Ewan McGregor, wolfishly.
‘Oh la la! Do not listen to him!’ said Vanessa. ‘He is incorrigible, and he does not know when he should not be making zese jokes.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Er, no, it’s fine. I’ll be asleep in three seconds anyway. We could top and tail?’
‘Really?’ said Ewan. ‘I think that’s one that even I have never done before. Is it where you…’
‘No!’ I said. ‘It just means that you sleep with your head at the other end to mine, that’s all.’ I looked at his twinkling eyes. ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘You’re joking.’
‘Of course I’ll sleep out here,’ said Ewan. ‘You don’t have to worry about us, Mary Sue. It’s our mission to protect you.’
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Chapter 17: Pornstars Get Upgrades
‘What the hell is this?’ I said, genuinely angry. ‘This is all a joke to you?’ I was waving my fake passport at the red-headed woman, the passport which said I was a pornstar.
‘But…’ said the woman.’
‘Do you think it makes me feel empowered?’ I said. ‘Do you think it’s my secret dream to be a pole dancer because being leered at is a sign of being a strong woman in control of her own sexuality?’
‘Mary Sue…’
‘You know, of course, that almost every woman in porn is grossly exploited, and that glamorising the superstars legitimises the bottom-feeding bastards enslaving the crack-addled junkies.’
‘Of course I…’
‘And you realise that making sex a legitimate industry helps the arseholes enslaving thousands of girls who’ve been sold by their parents or escaped repressive dictatorships only to find themselves in brothels where…’
‘Stop it, Mary Sue!’ snapped the red head. ‘Yes, I know.’
‘Then, presumably you won’t mind when I tell you to…’
‘Shut up, Mary Sue. I get that you’re excited to have the chance to be angry about something you understand, after everything that’s happened, but we don’t have time for your high horses, I’m really sorry. We’ve got to get you out of the country right now, this is a special flight, and believe me, that passport is going to make you a lot less conspicuous than one saying you’re a barrister. And also, security will remember all the wrong things about you. This is stuff we know about, and you don't,’ she added harshly, handing over a make-up box. ‘We’ve got twenty minutes. Go to town.’ I tried to snatch the box, but I felt sheepish. What had that been about? Ginger-girl was obviously right – I’d gone into rant mode because I’d been pushed around ever since I’d met David Tennant and he’d cut off my husband’s head. I had a chance to vent, and I’d taken it. I am the most predictable person in the world.
I looked into the make-up box. It was full of things I had never been able to afford, by which I meant things that were so expensive I refused to buy them. It transpired that they genuinely were better than the things I had at home. We were approaching Luton airport by the time I’d finished. In a weird way, I felt protected, like you do at a fancy dress party where your costume armours you against your normal shyness. Maybe it’s what pornstars do? Maybe they pretend that the pornstar person is a different person to them. Maybe that’s how they pretend to be in control of what’s happening to them, or pretend not to care? Or maybe they’re just addled. I looked at my lap, and I said, ‘But my clothes?’
‘Bag behind you. Change now – now one can see in.’
The bag contained a little t-shirt with a Rolling Stones-style mouth-and-tongue twisted so it was licking my breast, a pair of high heels with Perspex and fur, which made my jeans suddenly look as if they might have cost a thousand pounds, and a wig very like my hair looked before I hacked it off, but with golden highlights and a slight curl. ‘Wait,’ I said, struggling into the shirt, ‘Surely I’m not allowed to wear a wig? Not going through customs?’
‘Also, you’re not allowed to go through with a fake passport.’
‘Oh, yes.’ I thought the wig would look preposterous, like every wig I’ve ever seen a man wear, but it didn’t. Maybe we only notice the preposterous wigs, and that’s why we all think wigs are preposterous? I looked like, well, I don’t really know what pornstars look like, but I didn’t look like the me who went to work this morning.
When we got to Luton airport, the redhead gave me a quick look, nodded and handed me a pair of huge shades that covered most of my face. ‘When they speak, say nothing. Just look bored.’ We turned into a drive marked service vehicles only, and up to a chi-chi aluminium and glass terminalette. Everything was there – a customs man, a passport control, an x-ray machine and the world’s smallest Starbuck’s concession – but on a dinky scale, and with a lot more deference. Ginger did everything for me, while I stood six feet away, trying to look haughty and feeling stupid.
There was a screech of wheels from outside, and a skidding sound. I was terrified, but I think I kept the fear behind my panda glasses as I ‘boredly’ turned my mask to the main doors of the terminalette. Ewan McGregor was setting a huge black motorbike on its stand. He rushed in, glanced breathlessly at Ginger and theatrically mopped his brow. ‘Whew,’ he said. ‘I thought I’d be too late. The Teacher only called me an hour ago.’ Then he turned to me and said, ‘Are you all right, Mary Sue?’ I nodded. ‘Come on then.’
Ewan McGergor’s bag preceded mine through the X-Ray machine, and he handed over his passport. When it came to my turn, the man apologised that I would have to take off my glasses. I did so, but I could have been a Cyclops for all he’d have noticed. From the moment he read my passport, his eyes never got above my breasts (‘How tiny they are!’ he must have been wondering. ‘Is that her thing?’) and, in tiny glances, my mouth. It was creepy, but I could see that my job was no surprise to him, and there was no chance he’d remember what I looked like. Ewan McGregor was practically pulling me out of the door when he suddenly swivelled. ‘Harold,’ he called to the man on the X-Ray machine, and tossed him a set of keys. ‘I know you’ve always loved that bike. Treat her well.’ The man’s face lit up, and I noticed that the red-haired woman was quietly leaving.
‘Aren’t you coming with us?’ I called.
‘I’ll see you later,’ she replied. ‘If we’re lucky. Stay strong, Mary Sue.’
I’d ever been to Luton airport – I always imagined it was a crappy one, and maybe it is for normal passengers, but the bit where all the film stars keep their private jets is very nice. Fifty yards walk in the hazy twilight and we were climbing the stairs of an unbelievably cool-looking plane, and Johnny Depp was at the door ushering us in, saying, ‘Thank God you’re safe, Mary Sue, let me take your things, not a minute to waste, you are ok aren’t you, Vanessa’s dying to meet you, but she’s just getting the kids to sleep, hi Ewan.’
The engines were already roaring as I climbed in, and the moment Johnny Depp closed the door, the plane started to move. ‘Champagne?’ said Ewan McGregor. ‘You look as if you need it.’
‘But…’ said the woman.’
‘Do you think it makes me feel empowered?’ I said. ‘Do you think it’s my secret dream to be a pole dancer because being leered at is a sign of being a strong woman in control of her own sexuality?’
‘Mary Sue…’
‘You know, of course, that almost every woman in porn is grossly exploited, and that glamorising the superstars legitimises the bottom-feeding bastards enslaving the crack-addled junkies.’
‘Of course I…’
‘And you realise that making sex a legitimate industry helps the arseholes enslaving thousands of girls who’ve been sold by their parents or escaped repressive dictatorships only to find themselves in brothels where…’
‘Stop it, Mary Sue!’ snapped the red head. ‘Yes, I know.’
‘Then, presumably you won’t mind when I tell you to…’
‘Shut up, Mary Sue. I get that you’re excited to have the chance to be angry about something you understand, after everything that’s happened, but we don’t have time for your high horses, I’m really sorry. We’ve got to get you out of the country right now, this is a special flight, and believe me, that passport is going to make you a lot less conspicuous than one saying you’re a barrister. And also, security will remember all the wrong things about you. This is stuff we know about, and you don't,’ she added harshly, handing over a make-up box. ‘We’ve got twenty minutes. Go to town.’ I tried to snatch the box, but I felt sheepish. What had that been about? Ginger-girl was obviously right – I’d gone into rant mode because I’d been pushed around ever since I’d met David Tennant and he’d cut off my husband’s head. I had a chance to vent, and I’d taken it. I am the most predictable person in the world.
I looked into the make-up box. It was full of things I had never been able to afford, by which I meant things that were so expensive I refused to buy them. It transpired that they genuinely were better than the things I had at home. We were approaching Luton airport by the time I’d finished. In a weird way, I felt protected, like you do at a fancy dress party where your costume armours you against your normal shyness. Maybe it’s what pornstars do? Maybe they pretend that the pornstar person is a different person to them. Maybe that’s how they pretend to be in control of what’s happening to them, or pretend not to care? Or maybe they’re just addled. I looked at my lap, and I said, ‘But my clothes?’
‘Bag behind you. Change now – now one can see in.’
The bag contained a little t-shirt with a Rolling Stones-style mouth-and-tongue twisted so it was licking my breast, a pair of high heels with Perspex and fur, which made my jeans suddenly look as if they might have cost a thousand pounds, and a wig very like my hair looked before I hacked it off, but with golden highlights and a slight curl. ‘Wait,’ I said, struggling into the shirt, ‘Surely I’m not allowed to wear a wig? Not going through customs?’
‘Also, you’re not allowed to go through with a fake passport.’
‘Oh, yes.’ I thought the wig would look preposterous, like every wig I’ve ever seen a man wear, but it didn’t. Maybe we only notice the preposterous wigs, and that’s why we all think wigs are preposterous? I looked like, well, I don’t really know what pornstars look like, but I didn’t look like the me who went to work this morning.
When we got to Luton airport, the redhead gave me a quick look, nodded and handed me a pair of huge shades that covered most of my face. ‘When they speak, say nothing. Just look bored.’ We turned into a drive marked service vehicles only, and up to a chi-chi aluminium and glass terminalette. Everything was there – a customs man, a passport control, an x-ray machine and the world’s smallest Starbuck’s concession – but on a dinky scale, and with a lot more deference. Ginger did everything for me, while I stood six feet away, trying to look haughty and feeling stupid.
There was a screech of wheels from outside, and a skidding sound. I was terrified, but I think I kept the fear behind my panda glasses as I ‘boredly’ turned my mask to the main doors of the terminalette. Ewan McGregor was setting a huge black motorbike on its stand. He rushed in, glanced breathlessly at Ginger and theatrically mopped his brow. ‘Whew,’ he said. ‘I thought I’d be too late. The Teacher only called me an hour ago.’ Then he turned to me and said, ‘Are you all right, Mary Sue?’ I nodded. ‘Come on then.’
Ewan McGergor’s bag preceded mine through the X-Ray machine, and he handed over his passport. When it came to my turn, the man apologised that I would have to take off my glasses. I did so, but I could have been a Cyclops for all he’d have noticed. From the moment he read my passport, his eyes never got above my breasts (‘How tiny they are!’ he must have been wondering. ‘Is that her thing?’) and, in tiny glances, my mouth. It was creepy, but I could see that my job was no surprise to him, and there was no chance he’d remember what I looked like. Ewan McGregor was practically pulling me out of the door when he suddenly swivelled. ‘Harold,’ he called to the man on the X-Ray machine, and tossed him a set of keys. ‘I know you’ve always loved that bike. Treat her well.’ The man’s face lit up, and I noticed that the red-haired woman was quietly leaving.
‘Aren’t you coming with us?’ I called.
‘I’ll see you later,’ she replied. ‘If we’re lucky. Stay strong, Mary Sue.’
I’d ever been to Luton airport – I always imagined it was a crappy one, and maybe it is for normal passengers, but the bit where all the film stars keep their private jets is very nice. Fifty yards walk in the hazy twilight and we were climbing the stairs of an unbelievably cool-looking plane, and Johnny Depp was at the door ushering us in, saying, ‘Thank God you’re safe, Mary Sue, let me take your things, not a minute to waste, you are ok aren’t you, Vanessa’s dying to meet you, but she’s just getting the kids to sleep, hi Ewan.’
The engines were already roaring as I climbed in, and the moment Johnny Depp closed the door, the plane started to move. ‘Champagne?’ said Ewan McGregor. ‘You look as if you need it.’
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Chapter 16: I Get a New Job I Hate
‘Quick, quick, Mary Sue’ said the woman. ‘We’ve got a plane to catch.’
‘Er,’ I said, clambering into the car. ‘Okay.’ My head was spinning which was fair enough, I think we can agree, since I’d just realised that my father was a reincarnating demon who had been Sir Lancelot and was now David Tennant, and who was now on the side of the angels. The moment my feet left the pavement, before I had even closed the door, the Golf whizzed from the kerb, tyres squealing.
The woman, a small red-head with a snub-nose, squirmed to look over her shoulder, making sure the police hadn’t realised we’d snuck away. ‘I think we’ve done it,’ she said, beaming at me.
‘There was only one cop car, right?’
‘I think so.’
There was a pause, and then the redhead said suddenly, almost embarrassed, ‘You were with the Teacher, weren’t you? He was in your flat?’ I said nothing about Miss Smallbone, because her identity was a secret from everyone except me and David Tennant. ‘Good,’ said the redhead. ‘I understand. It’s good you don’t say.’ She looked at me sceptically, and added, ‘You don’t look like a Chosen One.’
We zipped North out of West Hampstead and towards Finchley. I presumed we were heading to the A1 until we swerved down a side road. ‘Car change,’ she said. ‘Security.’ We switched into a smart black BMW with tinted windows, my pathetic luggage on the back seat, and resumed our journey in earnest. I started crying. When the redhead realised, her whole face changed, not sympathetically. ‘Stop it, Mary Sue,’ she said. ‘We haven’t got time.’
‘But,’ I said, ‘but…’
‘No buts. You’ve had a shock, but this is it now. This is the battle for the end of the world. We can’t afford one mistake. Remember that. One mistake and all this,’ she gestured with her right hand at a particularly unprepossessing row of those big houses that sit inexplicably alongside major roads, ‘this all goes kablooey. Do you understand. You’re a soldier, and people are dying.’
‘I am not a soldier.’
‘Then you’d better learn fast. I’m sorry.’
She was so strict. The other people who had helped me today (can this all have happened in one day – one afternoon, even!) had been so nice. I had a horrible thought. ‘Are you a demon?’ I asked.
‘Get over yourself,’ she said harshly. ‘I picked you up because The Teacher told me it was necessary, and I was glad to, because he says you’re our only hope, but that doesn’t mean I like it.’
‘The other angels are all so…’ I didn’t know how to say it.
‘I’ve heard it all before,’ she said. ‘I’m not here to flatter your ego. It’s our job to fight the demons, and some of us, naming no names, have got soft, and they’ve dropped the ball. They forget this is a war, and there’s no end until the last battle, which is coming, so pardon me if I’m not all chocolate and kittens.’ Her words were harsh, but by the end of this speech, she was sounding brittle. I glanced across at her, but her eyes were fixed in front, and the knuckles on her hands were white.
‘Are you scared?’ I asked.
Her knuckles whitened further. ‘Of course I’m scared,’ she said. ‘This is the end of the world.’
‘But the prophecy?’
‘The prophecy says you might save us. Might. Or you might help the Master open the Gate to Hell.’
‘That really sounds bad,’ I said.
‘Yes, it does,’ she replied. Then she flexed her fingers, and she said, ‘But we’ve been frightened before,’ in a way that made it clear she wanted me to shut up, so I did, and we flitted through cars in the gathering dusk. After a while, I don’t know how long, I heard something from my bag, and I realised it was my phone vibrating. As I reached for it, the redhead said quickly, ‘Whoever it is, don’t answer.’
The caller was a mobile number I didn’t recognise who had called three times in the last twenty minutes. The same number had also sent a text message. ‘Ems,’ it read, ‘Rollo here. Nice manoeuvre to get away from us. I’m with DI Pushkas, who wants me to say you are being silly, and what you are doing is dangerous.’ I wanted to reply to Sergeant Rollo Price and give him a piece of my mind. He had pretended to be my friend so I would weaken and tell him what was going on, but he actually despised me for being a bloodsucking lawyer instead of a judgemental pillar of virtue like him. I hate being angry with people who are annoying simply because they are worthy and right, but I really was furious. His attitude might be virtuous, but it wasn’t kind, and I needed someone to be kind to me right now.
‘Was that Rollo Price?’ said the redhead, face twisting into a look of distaste. ‘Did the Teacher tell you anything about him?’
‘The Teacher said not to trust him.’
‘There you go.’ Before I could ask what she meant, she handed me a brown leather attaché case, and said, ‘Look this over. It’s your new identity.’ In the case were various papers, a huge sheaf of dollars and an American passport. ‘Don’t worry,’ said the redhead. ‘This is just to get you quickly through the checks at Luton.’ I flicked it open. There was a picture of me taken I don’t know when. I was, said the passport, Takumi Swallows, Pornstar.
‘Er,’ I said, clambering into the car. ‘Okay.’ My head was spinning which was fair enough, I think we can agree, since I’d just realised that my father was a reincarnating demon who had been Sir Lancelot and was now David Tennant, and who was now on the side of the angels. The moment my feet left the pavement, before I had even closed the door, the Golf whizzed from the kerb, tyres squealing.
The woman, a small red-head with a snub-nose, squirmed to look over her shoulder, making sure the police hadn’t realised we’d snuck away. ‘I think we’ve done it,’ she said, beaming at me.
‘There was only one cop car, right?’
‘I think so.’
There was a pause, and then the redhead said suddenly, almost embarrassed, ‘You were with the Teacher, weren’t you? He was in your flat?’ I said nothing about Miss Smallbone, because her identity was a secret from everyone except me and David Tennant. ‘Good,’ said the redhead. ‘I understand. It’s good you don’t say.’ She looked at me sceptically, and added, ‘You don’t look like a Chosen One.’
We zipped North out of West Hampstead and towards Finchley. I presumed we were heading to the A1 until we swerved down a side road. ‘Car change,’ she said. ‘Security.’ We switched into a smart black BMW with tinted windows, my pathetic luggage on the back seat, and resumed our journey in earnest. I started crying. When the redhead realised, her whole face changed, not sympathetically. ‘Stop it, Mary Sue,’ she said. ‘We haven’t got time.’
‘But,’ I said, ‘but…’
‘No buts. You’ve had a shock, but this is it now. This is the battle for the end of the world. We can’t afford one mistake. Remember that. One mistake and all this,’ she gestured with her right hand at a particularly unprepossessing row of those big houses that sit inexplicably alongside major roads, ‘this all goes kablooey. Do you understand. You’re a soldier, and people are dying.’
‘I am not a soldier.’
‘Then you’d better learn fast. I’m sorry.’
She was so strict. The other people who had helped me today (can this all have happened in one day – one afternoon, even!) had been so nice. I had a horrible thought. ‘Are you a demon?’ I asked.
‘Get over yourself,’ she said harshly. ‘I picked you up because The Teacher told me it was necessary, and I was glad to, because he says you’re our only hope, but that doesn’t mean I like it.’
‘The other angels are all so…’ I didn’t know how to say it.
‘I’ve heard it all before,’ she said. ‘I’m not here to flatter your ego. It’s our job to fight the demons, and some of us, naming no names, have got soft, and they’ve dropped the ball. They forget this is a war, and there’s no end until the last battle, which is coming, so pardon me if I’m not all chocolate and kittens.’ Her words were harsh, but by the end of this speech, she was sounding brittle. I glanced across at her, but her eyes were fixed in front, and the knuckles on her hands were white.
‘Are you scared?’ I asked.
Her knuckles whitened further. ‘Of course I’m scared,’ she said. ‘This is the end of the world.’
‘But the prophecy?’
‘The prophecy says you might save us. Might. Or you might help the Master open the Gate to Hell.’
‘That really sounds bad,’ I said.
‘Yes, it does,’ she replied. Then she flexed her fingers, and she said, ‘But we’ve been frightened before,’ in a way that made it clear she wanted me to shut up, so I did, and we flitted through cars in the gathering dusk. After a while, I don’t know how long, I heard something from my bag, and I realised it was my phone vibrating. As I reached for it, the redhead said quickly, ‘Whoever it is, don’t answer.’
The caller was a mobile number I didn’t recognise who had called three times in the last twenty minutes. The same number had also sent a text message. ‘Ems,’ it read, ‘Rollo here. Nice manoeuvre to get away from us. I’m with DI Pushkas, who wants me to say you are being silly, and what you are doing is dangerous.’ I wanted to reply to Sergeant Rollo Price and give him a piece of my mind. He had pretended to be my friend so I would weaken and tell him what was going on, but he actually despised me for being a bloodsucking lawyer instead of a judgemental pillar of virtue like him. I hate being angry with people who are annoying simply because they are worthy and right, but I really was furious. His attitude might be virtuous, but it wasn’t kind, and I needed someone to be kind to me right now.
‘Was that Rollo Price?’ said the redhead, face twisting into a look of distaste. ‘Did the Teacher tell you anything about him?’
‘The Teacher said not to trust him.’
‘There you go.’ Before I could ask what she meant, she handed me a brown leather attaché case, and said, ‘Look this over. It’s your new identity.’ In the case were various papers, a huge sheaf of dollars and an American passport. ‘Don’t worry,’ said the redhead. ‘This is just to get you quickly through the checks at Luton.’ I flicked it open. There was a picture of me taken I don’t know when. I was, said the passport, Takumi Swallows, Pornstar.
Monday, September 3, 2007
Chapter 15: Oh, My Papa
‘I’m sorry you had to hear that,’ said Miss Smallbone, shaking her head and taking back the directional microphone. I glanced again out of my window at Rollo Price. The former love of my life (unconsummated) was still smirking after his sneaky private revelation that he was only being nice to me so I would confess to him.
On one level, where he was purely a policeman, I could see his point. He had found me talking with David Tennant the moment after David Tennant had murdered my evil demon husband. A competent copper would have to be suspicious, but it had been a horrible day for me, and I needed someone I knew to trust me. ‘I have to call Jen,’ I said.
‘No,’ said Miss Smallbone.
‘She’s my best friend.’
‘No friends. That’s what I’m saying. You can’t trust anybody.’ She was clearly on the edge, and I decided to wait until she left before calling Jen. Miss Smallbone had kept on eye on the television screen, which was still reporting breaking news of the gun battle at Centrepoint which the reporters had no idea was the latest in an aeons-long struggle between good and evil. A red banner across the bottom read, NEWSFLASH: Davina Mccall slain: among bodies found after Centrepoint gunfire. More later. Miss Smallbone turned up the sound, and we listened to a confused reporter trying to make head or tail of the business. ‘Davina was very brave,’ said Miss Smallbone.
‘What happens to her now? How does she get reborn?’
‘As a child again. I will be able to find her quickly, but she is lost for this battle. She is a warrior. Was England’s Freddie Flintoff at Centrepoint?’ I nodded and Miss Smallbone instantly flicked to a cricket match of some kind on Sky Sports, and breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of Freddie being interviewed. He had cuts and bruises all over his face, but he was grinning, ‘Ah’m just a clumsy oaf,’ he said. ‘Cracked my head as Ah was getting out of t’car, tried to regain balance and tripped over t’curb. Ah’m reet t’bowl, don’t worry.’
‘Right,’ said Miss Smallbone. ‘If the enemy did this to Centrepoint, then they’re deadly serious. They’re desperate to get hold of you, and right now. Your house isn’t safe enough, they’ll be on their way. We have to get you out of here.’
‘Don’t I get a choice in this?’
‘No. I’m very sorry. I can make you come if I have to.’ I made for the window where I could shout to Rollo Price, but Miss Smallbone was suddenly in front of me, impossible fast, and holding my hand. ‘Please don’t make me hurt you with my finely honed ninja skills,’ she said, almost pleading. ‘This is hard for us all, I know, but I’m your only hope. You have to believe me.’ She took out a slinky Apple iPhone, even though they hadn’t properly been released yet, and turned her back while she gave a brisk set of instructions. ‘You have ten minutes to pack,’ she said.
‘What do I need?’ I asked.
‘Nothing really. We can provide. But if you want your own things, put them in a bag right now. Pack a swimming costume,’ she added, almost as an afterthought.
She followed me into my room. I was trembling again, which was my default setting for the day.
‘You say my parents aren’t my parents.’ I said.
‘I’m so sorry. This is not how we wanted this to happen.’
I carried on, eyes glistening as I rummaged for my least embarrassing pants. ‘You say my real parents are a demon and an angel.’
‘You are the Chosen One.’
‘What does that even mean?’
Miss Smallbone put her hands in front of her face, not to weep or anything, but to take a deep breath and clear her head. I thought again what an odd shape she was for a superhero, if that’s what she was. But then, I thought, being a little, neat, plump woman must be a perfect disguise. She dropped her hands, ready to speak. ‘The prophecy said that a demon would fall in love with an angel. After seventy million years, it hadn’t happened, and people didn’t believe it. The Master, however, was desperate for the Chosen One so he could open the Gates of Hell, whatever that means.’
‘But we agree it can’t be good.’
‘Absolutely. The Master told his most faithful lieutenant to seduce an angel, and produce a child. This is all happening hundreds of years ago, incidentally. The demon, whose name in that age was Lancelot, seduced the angel Guinevere…’
‘Lancelot and Guinevere?!’
‘Yes, they are your parents.’
‘But…’
‘When Guinevere realised she’d been tricked, she turned on Lancelot, said she would never bear the child, and ran away. She’d fallen in love with him, and angels love forever, so her heart was lost. She disappeared. Lancelot, enraged, brought about the ruin of Arthur’s Knights of the Round Table. But then, miraculously, Lancelot realised that he had been transformed by love, and was truly in thrall to Guinevere. When his fellow demons learnt this, they pursued him mercilessly, and they have killed him cruelly many times, with much torture. For many generations also, he received no help from the angels, for we despised him then and many of us still do. But he usually escaped, and he has spent the lonely centuries seeking his lost love. Eventually, he persuaded several angels that he was sincere, and he joined us, but still, his soul was bent on finding Guinevere.’ She stopped.
‘What happened?’
‘He hasn’t found her yet.’
‘But what about me, then?’
‘I found Guinevere, unchanged and unaged. Guinevere had held her child in suspended animation for many hundred years, stopped her clock, which is a thing we can do, but it makes us stretched and weak, and she was stretched thinner than anyone I have ever seen, and she deathly tired. I persuaded her that the demon was truly remade, and that she must bear the girl at last. She did, and she died. She was reborn a few hours after you. It was I who chose your parents.’ She checked her watch. ‘Are you ready.’
‘Just about. Where is my mother now?’
‘You will know in good time.’
‘And my father?’
‘I don’t think you should…’
RAT-TAT-TAT! There was the sound of live gunfire, for the second time in the day, and my life, and Miss Smallbone rushed to the window. Sergeant Price and his partner looked up once, then charged down the street away from my house and towards the disturbance. Instantly, Miss Smallbone rushed me downstairs. As we emerged from the front door, a plain blue Golf pulled in. I looked round at Miss Smallbone, and I said, ‘It’s David Tennant, isn’t it? David Tennant is my father!’
On one level, where he was purely a policeman, I could see his point. He had found me talking with David Tennant the moment after David Tennant had murdered my evil demon husband. A competent copper would have to be suspicious, but it had been a horrible day for me, and I needed someone I knew to trust me. ‘I have to call Jen,’ I said.
‘No,’ said Miss Smallbone.
‘She’s my best friend.’
‘No friends. That’s what I’m saying. You can’t trust anybody.’ She was clearly on the edge, and I decided to wait until she left before calling Jen. Miss Smallbone had kept on eye on the television screen, which was still reporting breaking news of the gun battle at Centrepoint which the reporters had no idea was the latest in an aeons-long struggle between good and evil. A red banner across the bottom read, NEWSFLASH: Davina Mccall slain: among bodies found after Centrepoint gunfire. More later. Miss Smallbone turned up the sound, and we listened to a confused reporter trying to make head or tail of the business. ‘Davina was very brave,’ said Miss Smallbone.
‘What happens to her now? How does she get reborn?’
‘As a child again. I will be able to find her quickly, but she is lost for this battle. She is a warrior. Was England’s Freddie Flintoff at Centrepoint?’ I nodded and Miss Smallbone instantly flicked to a cricket match of some kind on Sky Sports, and breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of Freddie being interviewed. He had cuts and bruises all over his face, but he was grinning, ‘Ah’m just a clumsy oaf,’ he said. ‘Cracked my head as Ah was getting out of t’car, tried to regain balance and tripped over t’curb. Ah’m reet t’bowl, don’t worry.’
‘Right,’ said Miss Smallbone. ‘If the enemy did this to Centrepoint, then they’re deadly serious. They’re desperate to get hold of you, and right now. Your house isn’t safe enough, they’ll be on their way. We have to get you out of here.’
‘Don’t I get a choice in this?’
‘No. I’m very sorry. I can make you come if I have to.’ I made for the window where I could shout to Rollo Price, but Miss Smallbone was suddenly in front of me, impossible fast, and holding my hand. ‘Please don’t make me hurt you with my finely honed ninja skills,’ she said, almost pleading. ‘This is hard for us all, I know, but I’m your only hope. You have to believe me.’ She took out a slinky Apple iPhone, even though they hadn’t properly been released yet, and turned her back while she gave a brisk set of instructions. ‘You have ten minutes to pack,’ she said.
‘What do I need?’ I asked.
‘Nothing really. We can provide. But if you want your own things, put them in a bag right now. Pack a swimming costume,’ she added, almost as an afterthought.
She followed me into my room. I was trembling again, which was my default setting for the day.
‘You say my parents aren’t my parents.’ I said.
‘I’m so sorry. This is not how we wanted this to happen.’
I carried on, eyes glistening as I rummaged for my least embarrassing pants. ‘You say my real parents are a demon and an angel.’
‘You are the Chosen One.’
‘What does that even mean?’
Miss Smallbone put her hands in front of her face, not to weep or anything, but to take a deep breath and clear her head. I thought again what an odd shape she was for a superhero, if that’s what she was. But then, I thought, being a little, neat, plump woman must be a perfect disguise. She dropped her hands, ready to speak. ‘The prophecy said that a demon would fall in love with an angel. After seventy million years, it hadn’t happened, and people didn’t believe it. The Master, however, was desperate for the Chosen One so he could open the Gates of Hell, whatever that means.’
‘But we agree it can’t be good.’
‘Absolutely. The Master told his most faithful lieutenant to seduce an angel, and produce a child. This is all happening hundreds of years ago, incidentally. The demon, whose name in that age was Lancelot, seduced the angel Guinevere…’
‘Lancelot and Guinevere?!’
‘Yes, they are your parents.’
‘But…’
‘When Guinevere realised she’d been tricked, she turned on Lancelot, said she would never bear the child, and ran away. She’d fallen in love with him, and angels love forever, so her heart was lost. She disappeared. Lancelot, enraged, brought about the ruin of Arthur’s Knights of the Round Table. But then, miraculously, Lancelot realised that he had been transformed by love, and was truly in thrall to Guinevere. When his fellow demons learnt this, they pursued him mercilessly, and they have killed him cruelly many times, with much torture. For many generations also, he received no help from the angels, for we despised him then and many of us still do. But he usually escaped, and he has spent the lonely centuries seeking his lost love. Eventually, he persuaded several angels that he was sincere, and he joined us, but still, his soul was bent on finding Guinevere.’ She stopped.
‘What happened?’
‘He hasn’t found her yet.’
‘But what about me, then?’
‘I found Guinevere, unchanged and unaged. Guinevere had held her child in suspended animation for many hundred years, stopped her clock, which is a thing we can do, but it makes us stretched and weak, and she was stretched thinner than anyone I have ever seen, and she deathly tired. I persuaded her that the demon was truly remade, and that she must bear the girl at last. She did, and she died. She was reborn a few hours after you. It was I who chose your parents.’ She checked her watch. ‘Are you ready.’
‘Just about. Where is my mother now?’
‘You will know in good time.’
‘And my father?’
‘I don’t think you should…’
RAT-TAT-TAT! There was the sound of live gunfire, for the second time in the day, and my life, and Miss Smallbone rushed to the window. Sergeant Price and his partner looked up once, then charged down the street away from my house and towards the disturbance. Instantly, Miss Smallbone rushed me downstairs. As we emerged from the front door, a plain blue Golf pulled in. I looked round at Miss Smallbone, and I said, ‘It’s David Tennant, isn’t it? David Tennant is my father!’
Sunday, September 2, 2007
WEEKEND THREE
Hi. I had a busy week and didn't write chapters on two days, but I rectified that yesterday and today, so I still have my buffer, which will be vital come the end of the month, when I am in New York, which a friend of a friend recently described as The Big Apple That Never Sleeps So Much They Named It Twice, which is about the best thing I have ever heard.
The French character I enjoy so much turns up later this week.
Feedback gives a different flavour to writing - comments on and off blog tell me which things have been more memorable than I expected and which storylines I must remember not to forget, etc. Also, when I read predictions, I sometimes want to change things to confound them, and I sometimes want to gratify expectations, and I can't really explain why I sometimes feel one way and sometimes the other. I am very engimatic. It is part of my charm.
I am not certain how many chapters there will eventually be, because I don't know what will happen to Mary Sue, but I am guessing somewhere in the sixties. In case you care.
The French character I enjoy so much turns up later this week.
Feedback gives a different flavour to writing - comments on and off blog tell me which things have been more memorable than I expected and which storylines I must remember not to forget, etc. Also, when I read predictions, I sometimes want to change things to confound them, and I sometimes want to gratify expectations, and I can't really explain why I sometimes feel one way and sometimes the other. I am very engimatic. It is part of my charm.
I am not certain how many chapters there will eventually be, because I don't know what will happen to Mary Sue, but I am guessing somewhere in the sixties. In case you care.
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