The Valkyrie (10 page)

“I don’t see
why not.”

“Wonderful.”
Dionysius said before asking out of curiosity “Where did they put
the body?”

“Whose?” asked
Apollo.

“Valour’s” said
Dionysius “Such a shame, such a nice body it was too.”

“I don’t know
you creepy necrophiliac. I didn’t want to ask. I am assuming that
they left it where it fell. It will have formed some phenomenon by
now: a stream perhaps, or maybe flowers. It is of no consequence.”
Apollo said to his younger brother.

“What are you
going to do about Glory?” asked Dionysius.

“Indeed, what
to do with Glory.” Apollo said tailing off.

***

Liberty and
Glory came back from the loo completely oblivious to the
conversation they had missed. Even Liberty, with her gift, was
unaware of the gory truth. She looked as elated as Eros’s happily
poisoned arrows made a girl. Glory looked absolutely normal. She
had mastered the art of being as emotional as marble when in agony.
It was a strength that she had developed in childhood and had
served her well against her mother’s emotional tyranny. Her upper
lip never quivered, not once. Dionysius stood up and bowed to the
girls and made his exit. He knew when his brother wanted space.
Glory and Liberty sat back at the table as before, except this time
Liberty wriggled into the crook of Apollo’s arm.

“I’m going to
head off. Dionysius, or any of your other relations for that
matter, isn’t lurking in the car park is he? I’m not in the mood
for any funny business. Liberty, I’m having tea with my mother
tomorrow, I need to prepare myself. It’s going to be like Vietnam
all over again. Oh Apollo, I heard your sister Artemis has shacked
up with a trucker called Trev and they’re playing happy families.
Goddess of chastity my arse.” Glory said.

“Screw you.”
Apollo said cheerfully.

“No screw you
and your sexually dysfunctional fuckwit family.” Glory said and
with that parting shot she upped and left.

“Why are you
still friends with her?” asked Apollo. Damned Glory drove him
crazy.

“God only
knows.” Liberty was a bit embarrassed. It took a lot for Glory’s
behaviour to affect Liberty like that but after everything she had
said to her when they were alone in the toilet, Liberty had been
wondering the very same thing.

“Who?”

“Huh, sorry
what?”

“You said God
only knows.”

“Did I? How
odd. Just the one God? I really must be drunk.”

“So are you
going to marry me or not?”

“Why not.”

“It’ll be
better this way.”

“What way
darling?”

“My way.”
Apollo tucked Liberty further into his broad chest. He kissed her
on the forehead and she sighed deeply satisfied. Out of his pocket
he pulled a fantastical ring and slipped it on to Liberty’s finger.
A mortal girl had gone on stage and was singing Ella Fitzgerald’s
Ev’ry Time We Say Goodbye
. The girl could almost sing well.
Damn, Glory drove him crazy.

Driving in
Cars with Gods

Glory stood
outside The Queen’s Head in the dark, all alone. Not a sodding
black cab in sight. She was devastated by Liberty’s choice. She
couldn’t fathom the cause of such a giant U-turn that was except
for Freya or even Aphrodite having taken a hand in it. Freya had
pulled Liberty aside in Valhalla, but she was too self-involved to
care unless she was getting something out of it and she had most
likely been whinging about some other crap instead. Aphrodite on
the other hand would meddle for the sheer fun of it. Glory would
have to be mindful if she was to save her friend from the jaws of
the two headed beast of love and marriage. She was so very furious
with Apollo. As Glory was envisioning rescue scenarios a sleek red
car pulled up beside her. The window wound down and a familiar
voice beckoned her to get in. Against her better judgement she got
in to the passenger seat.

The car’s
driver was a god with broad shoulders and a stare so intense he
could kill a kitten at twenty paces simply by glancing at it with
intent. He was as classically fine-looking as his half-brothers
Apollo and Dionysius. Ares looked across at Glory, the bewitching
Glory, and both understood and misunderstood her. War and Glory
make perfect sense to each other; there had been many crimes in
history that they were both complicit in. He understood Glory’s
magnificent destructiveness as she did his insatiable lust for cold
blood. What he couldn’t comprehend was why she couldn’t see that
they should be together.

“I don’t think
your girlfriend would like it much if she knew I was sitting in
your front seat” Glory said.

“In all
probability she already knows. She’s also likely to be shagging
some random that she picked up in a bar right about now. I doubt
she cares. Besides she’s married so she hasn’t got a leg to stand
on.” Ares said.

“Why am I in
your car?” she asked, knowing full well that Aphrodite wouldn’t
feel that way.

“There’s a war
coming little sister.”

“Yes I know,
The Second Korean War. Liberty emailed you a report. I was
definitely cc’d on it so you have got it. Have you checked your
junk box?” Glory was trying hard to reign in her sarcasm. Ares
caused anger amongst those in his presence and when Glory was
mildly angry she got shirty.

“No a real war:
a war in the heavens.”

“Is there
really?” Her eyes narrowed as she tried to figure out whether Ares
knew this for sure or if he was tapping her for information.

“Yes, I just
said so. I haven’t disclosed this information to anyone other than
you yet.” Glory always confounded him slightly, he was far more
used to everyone taking everything he said as a command, and that
excited him.

“You’re
certain?”

“Yes I just
bloody said so.”

“That’s news to
me. Is the old man about to get it in the neck? Who’s the
challenger this time?” Glory feigned indifference.

“Well that’s
it, I don’t know. It’s coming though I can feel it. It’s making my
skin itch.”

“How very
candid of you.”

“I trust you.
We exist in a state of co-dependency you and I.” Ares was sure she
felt the same about him; they had an understanding.

“I don’t know
what’s going on. I am in the dark awaiting illumination.” Glory
lied to Ares. She was sure that he was holding something back in
case. Glory had felt them cross the cusp of the new age, just as
Liberty had and Ares now claimed to, but there was no way on earth
that she was going to admit that to anyone.

“You should
have married me when I asked the first time.” Ares looked straight
forward as his car pulled into the Valkyries’ road.

“You can’t call
me little sister, tell me that we’re on the edge of a massive fuck
off war and then casually make a statement of regret over the
mercurial state of our relations.” Ares flinched ever so slightly
at her use of the word mercurial. Hermes had nothing to do with it.
Her blood was rising to her cheeks. Glory was battling with herself
to remain composed and to neither scream nor kiss him.

“What did you
object to most? It wasn’t the incest element was it? Don’t apply
petty human values to us. My parents are full siblings; we only
have the same father or is it not the incest itself but your hate
for our father, as understandable as that is. He is an arsehole
after all. Perhaps it’s that he never recognised you like he did
Apollo, Artemis, Hermes and even fucking Dionysius? Perhaps it’s
because you think you’re better than that, better than them. You
are tremendously angry right now, but not with me. Have a pleasant
time tomorrow at your mother’s.” he said trying to rile her. Daddy
issues made girls interesting, mummy issues made them
enthralling.

“Screw you.”
Glory screamed getting out of the car, slamming the door so hard
that all the car alarms within a one hundred foot radius went
off.

“Marry me?”
yelled Ares who had got out of the car and stood next to his open
door. What a charming show of anger from Glory, he could enjoy
their parries for a little while longer before something needed to
be done. Glory stumbled up the garden path. She fumbled furiously
with her keys and slammed the poor door behind her. She dropped her
things to the floor and pressed her face against the cold wooden
panels. Glory could feel him on the other side of the door waiting
for her to let him in. They’d have angry sex in the hallway,
knocking over the coat stand in the process. He’d pull her hair
hard. She’d feel him for a week afterwards. He’d call her a whore.
She’d leave a bite mark on his shoulder. He’d have a bruise. They’d
have loved it. Glory slid to the floor and sat with her back
pressed to the door as she felt him turn and leave, and then heard
his car pull away. She felt the desperate need to self-destruct but
that was all she felt. Glory found her phone and dialled a
number.

“Thor, come
over.” Glory was no longer able to give Ares what he wanted from
her.

Victoria daintily placed
her Pret no-carb salad on one of Green Park’s benches. She’d hit it
hard last night with the guys from her team, batting a few falsies
here and there, laughing at unwitticisms. That was, after all, the
reason why Victoria had taken her job as a PA at some outsourcing
consultancy. It wasn’t because she had a natural talent for project
managing some dolt with more breeding than sense. She wanted the
ring and the gnome counties detached house. It was summer and the
ground was unseasonably dry but Victoria didn’t want to sit down
for fear of grass stains on her impeccable, glacially white Zara
skirt. It showed off her tan and made her look rich. Besides one
never knows what picnic relics the ruddy tourists leave about.
Victoria looked across with some disdain at the young woman sharing
her bench. She would have normally avoided her type for fear of
some sort of ‘counter-culture’ cross contagion but the only other
option was sharing with some Mediterranean looking couple swapping
gametes. The girl looked like a sea punk with long blue hair, those
stupid round sunglasses and a sodding Union Jack t-shirt. She was
too far from Camden, Victoria thought.

***

Britannia was
still slumped on the bench she had fallen asleep on the night
before. She’d been out with some of her nympho sea goddess sisters
and they’d been reminiscing about their past glories. Britannia’s
glories were fortunately for most of mankind now past tense and she
could feel herself fading away; either that or it was her hangover:
the Apocalypse, end of day’s hangover. Britannia glanced over at
the girl next to her. They don’t make women like they used to she
thought. Here was some silly little thing whose only concern was
owning silly little things. Where were those good time girls who
would strip naked, cover themselves in wode and burn down
Colchester at the drop of a hat? Why didn’t they make them like
that anymore? In fact she thought that was half her problem. That
and no-one really believed that she existed at all. Britannia
really needed to submit a complaint form to someone higher up about
that one. She had clearly been swindled over the last fifty years.
But hey, fuck it, she was still a bit drunk and quite frankly a
mess. Britannia decided that what she needed was not a pity party
but the pity piss up to end all self-indulgences and this poor
mortal sat on the wrong fucking, fucking uncomfortable, fucking
bench.

***

Victoria had
barely had a nibble on some of the super food, super fun kale that
she had paid a lot of money for, when she became alarmingly aware
of Britannia’s interest in her. Britannia had taken her glasses off
and was looking at her with the strangest eyes. They were almost
golden, but Victoria could have sworn they flashed red, if only for
a moment. Victoria hated those coloured contact lenses: so vulgar.
Britannia sat there, a waiting tempest that’d end up drowning in
her own tea cup storm. Victoria had tried her hardest to operate
resolutely within the Established Londoner’s Code of Social
Interaction as normally applied to commuting – essentially pretend
that everyone else has died quietly and you are the solitary soul
left to bear witness to the ineptness of the District Line. They’re
fooling no one, there’s no such thing as a good service – and yet
the tomblike pale face of Britannia looked upon hers with the same
predatory glee that a savage fan girl would have in mercilessly
pinning down a member of One Direction in a remote public toilet.
Victoria’s last hope was to light a quick ciggy and pull out her
copy of Grazia.

***

Typical,
Britannia thought. The girl smoked. She had a death wish. Nice to
see someone still got the devotees. It really irked her that Hades
was doing so well when she was the one who had put the leg work in.
Well her bloody useless daughter Glory had had a minor hand in it,
not that Britannia would ever publically give her any credit
whatsoever. Britannia was, after all, the one who had insisted that
tobacco would be equally as fun to bring back as potatoes, or
that’s what she was claiming at least. It was a shame how it ended
between her and Hades, but hey Britannia couldn’t help it if she’d
been shagging his little brother too for a while and neither of
them knew about the other.

Britannia
leaned in further towards Victoria “So, carcinogens is that your
thing then?”

“Sorry, erm,
beg your pardon” Victoria was staring intently at Grazia. Her
strategy hadn’t worked one jot and this punk looked like she
desperately needed something from her. She’s going to ask me for a
light, Victoria prayed silently to herself. No one would dare mug a
girl in such a public place at 12:49pm on Thursday lunchtime
right?

“Well you
clearly have a death wish, but darling if you really must then
smoke a cigar. I knew a man once who smoked cigars. Lovely chap,
not sure what ever happened to him.” The poor lamb, Britannia
thought, she did have to go and say ‘beg your pardon’. She was
working class after all. No use buying a Longchamp and hiding those
loose northern vowels if you don’t change your vocabulary.
Britannia had never worked out why her lot were so fascinated with
class. She had thought once that it was the product of her
compulsive need to make others feel inferior and it had somehow
filtered through. Not that any of her finer qualities had made an
impression on her drunken, passive aggressive rabble.