Tom Fool (The Unhappy Medium #2)

by T.J. Brown

Even in an environment bursting with such extremes of human nature, there was something about Oliver Wragg that just plain unsettled.

Most mornings now started with a furrowed brow and a very, very strong coffee.

‘Ah!’ said Newton, jumping on the titbit. ‘So what you’re saying then is that you carry your personal belief system with you to Purgatory?’ ‘Essentially,’ said Alex. ‘So it can get a bit morose up there – everyone is disappointed by what they find. People expect their afterlife to be just like it was advertised, but there they are with exactly the same uncertainty and doubt they had when they were alive. It’s even worse for the atheists.’ ‘Why?’ said Newton, defensively. ‘Well, for starters,’ answered Alex, ‘they turn up expecting not to have turned up at all. An afterlife was the last thing they expected. And of course, the believers just can’t resist rubbing their noses in it. Poor old Christopher Hitchens; the stick he got from the last fifteen popes, you can’t imagine.’

For the more than two million people who visit the National Portrait Gallery every year, this is part of the attraction. There’s something oddly comforting about gazing into the eyes of a national hero and convincing yourself he was probably a complete fraud. A mediocre plumber from the West Midlands can approach Montgomery of Alamein and, unburdened by historical knowledge, write him off as a loser, the kind of boy at school who always ended up hanging from a coat hook upside-down.

Suddenly, Viv realised that this “headless horseman” was not, in fact, headless at all; his head was unmistakably upon his shoulders topped with a three-cornered hat, Dick Turpin style. No, it was the poor horse that was headless.

Newton and Viv slowly lifted their phones to their mouths and spoke the same four words. ‘I’ll call you back.’

Unlike her boyfriend, Vivienne didn’t require the combined weight of human knowledge to tell her what she already knew instinctively – the world is utterly ridiculous. Not only that, but all the people you meet are ridiculous, including – if one is being honest – oneself.

Britain – or more accurately England, for the Welsh and the Scots, had better things to think about – was outraged.

As excited as an Englishman can be without attracting disapproval, Woodward agreed to mount an expedition.

‘Bloody good job you can’t be dead and incontinent at the same time,’ said Alex.

‘I thought my labs at Cavendish were lacking in charm, but this looks like it’s been interior-designed by a Dalek.’

‘Only a complete and utter moron could gain political power and remain unaware of the reality of climate change. Politicians have access to the finest scientific minds the world can offer. Doesn’t it strike you as peculiar that any of them would be inclined to doubt something so fundamentally obvious?’

That’s just our small part of the broader consortium. If this rolls out satisfactorily, then the same thing will be repeated in North America, Russia, China and so on. Terribly exciting, don‘t you think?’ ‘There is a word,’ mused Newton, ‘that’s not it.’

‘Oh yes,’ she confirmed, gleefully, ‘he’s totally under our control. Poor man thinks he’s in charge, but he’s only spouting the garbage we put in his ghastly orange head. He’s not one of us, of course, that would be ridiculous; he’s far too absurd to be included in the consortium. Ha! Even the Illuminati won’t touch him, and they’ll take anyone!’

‘Oh, I’m no fan of people,’ corrected Newton. ‘Ghastly things. But I don’t dislike people because they are irredeemable; it’s the frustration of how close we seem to get to being “worth it” that gets me. It’s what we could do – but don’t. That’s not your angle though, is it? You hate people simply because they’re not you.’

I took your wife just to hurt you; you do know that?‘ ‘Have you met my wife?’ said Newton. ‘That’s like stealing someone’s tapeworm.’

Eric the Greek was besieged in his office by the entire back catalogue of British notables. At one stage, John Lennon and Elgar had thrown a large lump of alabaster through the window, then chanted something angry in C minor from the balcony below. Eventually, organised by George Orwell, a petition demanding immediate action had been pushed under the door and Eric, because he was pathetic in a crisis, had burst into tears.