214. Winner, Winner, Chicken Dinner

It was a relief to see the girls still alive and seemingly unhurt. Of course, they could be set on fire at any moment, but then you couldn’t expect everything to go your way. I certainly couldn’t.

We were hidden behind trees on a rise overlooking the village which consisted of at least a couple of dozen buildings. It was quite a pretty setting for burning people to death. People had gathered around the three stakes to which Jenny, Claire and Flossie were bound. There were thirty or forty people sat on the grass like they were at a summer festival, relaxed, at the back, trying to work out if it was Iggy Pop or the Red Hot Chilli Peppers on the main stage.

And then there were the armed guards. Their clothes were more formal, matching in colour and style. They had weapons, although it was hard to tell if they were well-used and stained with dried blood, or made from old tin pots beaten into the approximate shape of the real thing.

Even though they had weapons, they didn’t seem aggressive or menacing. They strolled around talking to people as kids ran around and animals roamed freely. Chickens and pigs. A few goats, a couple of dogs.

The whole thing didn’t really reek of terror and madness, which made it all the more spooky. The idyllic village that turns out to be full of nutters who burn people alive was nothing movies hadn’t already warned me about. The Wicker Man had prepared me for the horrors hidden behind bucolic facades. I’d seen the remake with Nicolas Cage, I knew what true horror looked like.

“What’s the plan?” asked Maurice. “Snipe them?”

“If I can keep the high ground, I should be able to pick them off,” said Dudley, his voice thin and high-pitched as ever, but filled with unexpected confidence.

They were both taking it very seriously, assessing the situation, considering the options. There was no sense of panic or doubt. Here was a situation where behaving like little boys who were out of their depth would serve no purpose.

“What the fuck is wrong with you guys?” I said. “We can’t just go barging in there and hope for the best. Look how many of them there are. Don’t let the kids and animals fool you, they’re waiting for us and they’re ready to use violent means. Look at those torches they’ve got ready. As soon as we attack, they can grab one and woof!”

“Oh no,” said Dudley, “you don’t think they’d set one of the dogs on fire?”

“No,” I said calmly. “I mean they can set fire to one of those pyres they’ve built around the girls’ feet. Do you really want to risk the girls being burned alive?”

“We could do what they did in Speed,” said Maurice.

“The Keanu movie?” I’d seen the film but couldn’t think of how it was relevant to the current situation.

“There’s a bit at the beginning where Dennis Hopper takes one of the SWAT team hostage,” said Maurice, “so Keanu shoots him in the leg.”

“He shoots the bad guy?” asked Dudley.

“No, he shoots the hostage so the bad guy can’t leave with him. If they think threatening the girls will make us do what they want, we could shoot one of them in the leg. Show them they can’t bully us.”

It was hard to know exactly where to begin. “They’re tied to large wooden poles driven into the ground, ready to be set on fire. How will shooting them in the leg help?” I turned to Dudley. “If you do have to shoot one, shoot Claire.”

“Hey, why Claire?” said Maurice.

“Will do,” said Dudley, the man you could count on.

“Our first priority is to prevent them lighting those fires,” I said, which really shouldn’t have needed stating, but better safe than sorry.

“You can heal them,” said Maurice.

“I’m not so great with burns,” I said. Jenny’s scar wasn’t from flames, but it was still scar tissue that I couldn’t do anything about.

“I don’t care,” said Maurice.

“Neither do I,” joined in Dudley.

“That’s very gallant of you,” I said. “But we don’t want to go off half-cocked when we don’t know what the deal is here. Do they look like the kind of people who could sneak into our camp and take the girls away without us noticing?”

It wasn’t like I knew what those kind of people would look like (other than short, female and sporting a tight black bob), but these people did not give me the impression they had a local ninja dojo.

“Then what?” said Maurice. “Just walk up to them and ask for an explanation?”

“Why not?” I said. “They wanted us to kill that guy. I assume they still want him dead. We can probably negotiate with them, maybe find another way to give them what they want. One man’s monster is another man’s slightly annoyed neighbour. Probably just want their lawnmower back.”

This more circumspect approach was eventually met with begrudging acceptance. If I hadn’t nipped their newly found bravado in the bud, it was bound to get us all killed.

After a little more discussion about what to do in various scenarios (my go-to suggestion was to shoot Claire, although it was only accepted as an option in two cases), we walked into the village.

A couple of dogs spotted us first and came running up, wagging tales and generally being very friendly. People turned and stood up, murmuring and muttering as they got out of our way, forming crowds on either side of us, and a clear path to the green. If they’d thrown rice and confetti it could have been a victory parade. But all they threw were suspicious looks.

The guards rushed to grab torches and raised their swords. They took up position beside the bonfires-in-waiting under the girls, ready to stick the torches into the kindling.

The girls themselves looked very calm. They didn’t say anything, didn’t call out or give any indication we were walking into a trap. They could have been drugged or under some kind of mind control. Or they could have been delirious from being staked out in the sun all day.

As we got closer, they didn’t seem all that delirious. Claire in particular was glaring at me, although that could have been her resting face. I was tempted to give the signal to shoot her immediately, just in case.

A small, plump man in a grey shirt and fur-lined green cloak emerged from the crowd. He had a large chain hanging around his neck, flashing yellow in time with his steps as it caught the sun. Four men dressed in dark leathers and carrying spears formed an escort around him. All five had determined looks on their faces, like they were trying to play it cool but really wanted to find somewhere private where they could quietly shit themselves.

I stopped in front of them, Maurice and Dudley either side of me doing their best to look dangerous, although Maurice’s glowering made him look mildly constipated, and Dudley looked like he wasn’t sure if he’d left the gas on.

“I am Mayor Nelbum,” said the man with the gold chain. His voice was tense and he spoke quickly. “Have you killed the man in Wizard’s Tower?”

“Yes,” I said. “Can we have our girls back now?”

“You have not killed him,” said the mayor in an accusing tone. “You lie.”

I didn’t know if he was guessing or knew somehow, but you can’t blame a fella for trying. You can, however, set his girlfriend on fire.

“Of course we haven’t killed him, you twit!” I said, deciding to go on the mildly offensive. “Do you think we’d just go murder someone because a bunch of hicks tell us to? We went to the tower and saw him, he seems a perfectly nice old geezer. A bit of a moaner, but that’s just old age for you. Perhaps you’re the people we should be killing.”

The mayor raised an arm and the guards by the girls lowered their torches so they were closer to the piles of wood.

“And what good will that do?” I said, starting to get annoyed. “Once you kill them, that’s your leverage gone. Then we definitely will kill you.”

“Don’t test me,” said the mayor. “You can watch them die one at a time, or you can do as we ask.”

It was a decent threat. Watching people you cared about suffer isn’t easy. Caring, in general, was a terrible thing. Made you very susceptible to blackmail and extortion. And you were expected to get gifts for every birthday and anniversary, which could be a minefield. Very little upside, as far as I could see.

“If you harm any of them in any way, we will burn down this village and everyone in it.” I could make big threats too.

The mayor didn’t seem overly concerned. “You expect us to hand over all three girls, just like that?”

“I might be okay with two out of three.” You have to be open to a little negotiation, even with terrorists.

“Just do what he says,” said Claire.

“Hey!” I shouted over the mayor. “I’m trying to arrange your release.”

“Two out of three?” said Jenny.

“It’s called negotiating.”

“They need our help,” said Claire.

“They aren’t bad people,” said Flossie. “They love animals.”

Wonderful. Heckled by my own side.

“Mayor Nelbum, if I could offer you some advice, next time you kidnap a bunch of women, you might consider gagging them.”

“You will kill the man in Wizard’s Tower. Or we will kill your friends.”

With friends like these...

“And why do you want him dead? He didn’t seem much of a threat.”

“He is not what he seems. He is a monster. When the sun sets, he roams the land, spreading chaos and destruction.”

“Is he a werewolf?” asked Maurice.

“No,” said the mayor.

“A vampire? Some kind of nocturnal beast?” Maurice continued naming various creatures of the night, and Mayor Nelbum responded negatively to each.

“Can’t you just tell us what he turns into?” I said, getting tired of playing twenty hundred questions.

“No one knows. The monster is invisible.”

“So you’ve never seen it?” I asked, a creeping feeling this was all in their imaginations.

“It is the wind on the night air,” said someone from the crowd that had closed in to form a circle around us.

“The chill in your bones,” said another.

“The ice in your veins,” threw in a third.

“Have you considered just putting on a jacket and a scarf?” I asked. “Sounds like this monster is vulnerable to woollen goods and knitwear.”

“Stop being a dick and listen to them,” said Claire. “Their children are being killed every night.”

I didn’t see how this information changed anything. They weren’t my children.

“I’m not going to kill some bloke because the wind is killing their kids. You can’t stick a sword in pneumonia. Even if this guy is responsible, how the hell are we supposed to get to him? He’s locked up safe and sound in his tower.”

“Wait for him,” said Mayor Nelbum. “Wait here, and tonight you will see for yourself.”

How we’d see an invisible monster, I wasn’t sure, but waiting around did have that lack of action feel to it I liked so much. Still, it would end up in us facing some kind of monster, which had that dying in screaming agony feel I was less fond of.

“Why can’t you kill him yourself? You’ve got all these armed men ready to lay down their lives, right guys?”

The armed men didn’t seem inclined to agree.

“It must be you. The priestess told us you would come. She brought us these women to ensure your cooperation. She named you as Colin, the Master of Sacrifice. You will deliver us from the monster, as foretold to the priestess by the One True God.”

Now we were getting somewhere.

“This priestess, where is she?”

“She will be here tonight.”

I wasn’t too enamoured with the Master of Sacrifice title. A bit ambiguous as to who was being sacrificed, if you asked me. But there did seem to be quite a lot going on here, and perhaps it would be worth trying to figure out what. Not like we had any big plans.

“Do you have anything to eat while we wait?” I asked him.

Mayor Nelbum nodded at some of the people gathered behind us, and they rushed off. A little of the tension surrounding our pow-wow lessened, and there was a sense that no one was going to have to die. Not until later.

Then the tension went back up as we waited for the food to arrive and didn’t have anything to say to each other. It’s all very well being in a standoff with weapons drawn, you can make use of all your facial muscles to keep the conversation going without having to say anything. But anyone who’s been to a barbecue where you don’t know many people, exchanging raised eyebrows while you wait for the sausages to brown, knows what true tension is.

“So,” said Maurice, making the valiant attempt to cross the uncrossable divide, “can we let the girls down now?”

“They must remain where they are,” said Mayor Nelbum..

“But they must be hungry,” Maurice continued, emboldened by love and also the dark looks Claire was sending his way.

“We will feed them. The One True God accepts only the healthiest sacrifices. You need not concern yourself with their well-being. They will be hale and hearty right up until the end.”

I guess that was sort of a positive.

The food arrived about twenty minutes later. Tables were brought out first and set up with everyone pitching in. It was like a street party with less bunting and more human sacrifices.

Benches were lined up alongside the table and trays of food were set out. Vegetables, meat and fruit. All boiled. Even the fruit.

We had a table to ourselves in the middle of everything, boxed in on all sides. The Mayor indicated to one of his people to hand me a pot of boiled chicken (I want to say) that looked white and uninteresting.

“You may serve your masters,” he said to me.

At first I thought he just assumed I was the servant of the group because, well, it was me. I was hardly going to be the one giving the orders. He probably thought I did most of the talking because my masters were above talking to peasants.

When I took a moment to look at my two masters, though, it was clear no one would assume they were in charge, either. It was the clothing. They had the colourful, well-made garb they’d got from Laney, and I was in my usual comfortable but grimy duds. It was sort of nice to know there was an actual reason I was being looked down on. Progress.

“Actually,” said Dudley, always eager to step back, “he isn’t —”

“Master, please,” I interrupted. “Let’s accept their hospitality which they’ve clearly spent minutes preparing.” If they wanted to think someone else was the chief assassination target, who was I to argue?

I put the pot on the table and we sat down. Everyone else had taken their seats with the Mayor at the head of the longest table. They were tucking in with the least eager faces I’ve ever seen at a banquet.

I used my spoon, attached to me for all time by a chain, to taste a little of the sauce the chicken was in. The sauce was thin and watery, mainly because it was water. I picked up a drumstick (these are all guesses; could have been a horn for all I know) and took a bite. Bland as fuck. And I’m English, so I know a thing or two about bland food.

“Do you have any salt?” I asked.

There was a gasp. Which either meant their chef was a Gordon Ramsay type who was easily offended if you accused him of seasoning the meat poorly, or these people took high blood pressure very seriously.

“Salt is the evil that consumes the human soul,” said the mayor.

He seemed to be overstating it a bit, but I guess that’s one way to get people to cut back on their sodium intake.

Maurice and Dudley tried the chicken, chewing slowly, because you had no choice.

“It’s very well boiled,” said Maurice.

“Thank you,” said the Mayor. He nodded at the woman sitting beside him who beamed with pride. A smattering of applause ran up and down the tables.

It was like eating rubber. I was hungry, but my appetite quickly deserted me.

“I’ve got an idea,” I said. “Why don’t we turn this into a cookout?”

Both Maurice and Dudley gave me a look that suggested this was not a good idea. I ignored them and went over to the girls propped on top of their soon to be funeral pyres.

“We just need a wood fire. Oh, look. Here’s the perfect thing.”

“Don’t you dare,” said Claire.

“Calm down, I’m not going to light it with you on top of it. Would ruin the taste.” I gathered up some of the wood.

The guards were still standing by and had their torches ready to ignite all three bonfires, but allowed me to take what I wanted. I hardly made a dent in the large piles they’d collected.

“Did you miss me?” asked Jenny as I selected a few choice branches from her stack.

“Meh,” I said. “Nice to have a little breathing room.”

“He freaked out when he woke and you weren’t there,” said Maurice.

“I did not freak out. I calmly looked around for you. I assumed you’d gone for a shit. When you didn’t come back, I just assumed it was a really big shit.”

I took an armful of wood and went back to the table. I made a small pyramid of twigs and branches and then lit it with my hand.

There were screams and a rush to get away, which is hard when you’re sitting on a bench with your knees all jammed together.

“Remain calm!” shouted Mayor Nelbum. “The savages were sent here by the One True God.” He was only a small man but he had a bellowing voice. The panic stricken villagers stopped trying to dive into the nearest bush and up any available tree, and looked around nervously.

I had my fire going, orange flames licking the length of the wood. Please don’t blame me for perverse thoughts in your mind. It’s your mind, you sicko.

I took a large piece of chicken and skewered it on a stick. It was bleached white after what I would imagine was several days simmering in a pot. The skinny white body was definitely a bird of some kind, but chicken seemed less likely now.

“Hey, Claire,” I said, “looks just like you.” I waved the stick about with the bird impaled on it. “Oh no, save me Maurice.” I stuck it in the fire where it began browning nicely.

The condescending look on her face evaporated into a scowl.

There was more muttering and whimpering from the villagers. Their expressions ranged from fear to disgust.

“Why are you doing that?” asked the Mayor, holding a hand over his face like he was trying to not be blinded by some cursed light.

“This?” I thrust the chicken in the fire and turned it over. “I’m just getting it nice and crispy.”

“To burn the skin is to disrespect the flesh. The One True God forbids it.”

I pointed at the girls tied to the stake, ready for roasting. “What do you think’s going to happen to them if you light them up?”

“That’s different,” said the Mayor. “They are for the One True God’s table.”

Same old religion wherever you go. One rule for them, one rule for us.

“Well, if he disapproves, I’m sure he’ll send me a sign.” I looked up expectantly. Nothing happened. “Looks like he’s fine with it.”

We continued eating. Ours was finger licking good, theirs like ash in their mouths. More meat was brought out. More vegetables. I baked some potatoes (or some tuber type of plant) and drew oohs and ahs from the crowd as I passed them around. Technically speaking, the skins were a little burnt, but they didn’t seem as horrified by this desecration. I was winning them over with my potato strategy (although some would say all my strategies were potato strategies). They’d never seen anything as soft and fluffy as my potatoes. Once I showed them my mash with chives, they would be mine!

It was dark before we knew it and I was tempted to light one of the bonfires myself, just for dramatic effect. Although sitting around a large bonfire at night after a big meal carries the danger of someone pulling out a guitar and trying to start a singalong. Evil can strike at any time, from anywhere, but mostly from a guy in corduroy trousers who wants you to listen to him play Stairway to Heaven.

It had been quite a pleasant way to spend a day, if it hadn’t been for the being burnt alive motif they’d gone for. The girls looked tired but hadn’t complained or tried to get themselves free. We did try to feed them by throwing chicken at their faces, like trying to feed seals with fish, but our efforts weren’t appreciated, especially when we started keeping score.

I cooked some more chicken over an open flame and I could see the villager starting to look at the chargrilled meat like something they might like to try stuffing in their mouths. A little more time and I’d have them dancing around a golden calf, denouncing their One True God as a big fat killjoy.

I didn’t get the chance. There was the sound of a shrill trumpet, possibly a bugle. A flash of light lit up the green and hung in the air over us, and there was a group of women standing in front of the girls.

They were very attractive women, dressed in white togas that only just reached their thighs. They had big hair, brushed out into waves like various incarnations of Charlie’s Angels, and they wore a ton of makeup. They did look quite sexy, like a dance troupe from the 70s about to do a routine to the latest Boney M hit single, but they also had that terrifying aura about them that all heavily-tarted up women carry around.

“I have put everything on display! Don’t look! Why aren’t you looking? My eyes are up here, pervert! Desire me! Don’t touch me!”

Scary stuff. Better to leave the whole confusing mess to people who understand it. I could feel Maurice and Dudley backing away just as I was.

“Sacrilege,” shouted the woman in the middle of the seven of them. She carried a long staff with a very questionable carving at the top. I assumed she was the head priestess. “Flesh has been burnt here. Who is responsible?”

The villager all pointed at me. I showed these people how to cook chicken! Bros before hoes meant nothing here. Nothing.

The priestess nodded and her Farrah Fawcett hair didn’t move at all. I’ve seen helmets with more give.

“We are the virgins of the One True God. No man shall touch us, all shall bow to the One True God.”

I leaned towards Maurice. “I think it’s okay. I think they’re lesbians.”

“You can’t say that,” said Maurice, his eyes darting around guiltily.

“I’m not saying it’s a bad thing, but virgins, no man touching, giant dildo on a stick...”

Maurice looked at the priestess’s staff, mouth agape. “That’s not a dildo. It’s too big.”

“Anything’s a dildo if you’re brave enough,” I said, imparting true wisdom under pressure.

“You fear us,” she said. “You fear the vulva!”

“I do if you call it that,” I said. “Sounds like something I should watch out for when I’m crossing the road.”

“Vulva, vulva,” muttered Dudley, like he was trying to remember an old friend’s nickname at school. “Female urethra?”

“No,” said Maurice, like he was an expert on these matters. “Women have a urethra, too. The vulva’s the bit at the top.”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “You’re thinking of the uvula, you know, that thing that hangs at the back of your throat like a punching bag. Hey, by the way, anyone know what you call the indent in your upper lip just below your nose?”

“The philtrum,” said Claire. “Now shut up.” She tilted her head at the priestess who didn’t look happy.

“Sorry, you were saying something about Volvos? Excellent safety record, not the greatest mileage.”

“You will be tamed and bow down to the One True God.” She ripped off her toga and threw it aside. Her followers did the same.

Maurice and Dudley immediately turned around, refusing to look. I was transfixed.

“Holy shit, don’t they have hedge trimmers where you come from?” I suddenly knew where Boney M had been hiding for the last thirty years.

There was some confusion at this point.

“Bow down!” insisted the priestess.

I looked around. The villagers were all on their knees. There was some pretty impressive bush on display, but hardly worthy of worship.

“Can you put your knickers back on, love?” I asked. “There’s kids present. And they’ve just eaten.”

The naked women couldn’t understand why I wasn’t all weak and powerless under the gaze of their giant muffs, and I couldn’t understand why they thought I would be. I’d seen 70s porn. This was no worse than that.

There was a roar that shattered the still night air.

“Monster!” someone screamed helpfully. And then they rioted.