Chapter 9
The big man awoke and tried to look up, but could hardly raise his head. He tried to sit up but couldn’t do that either. He felt as if he’d been stuck to the floor with superglue and after a few seconds he discovered the most astounding reason for this. He jerked his head up violently, yanking out great tufts of yellow hair which stayed painfully stuck to the floor, and looked around him. He was in what appeared to be a derelict warehouse, probably an upper floor judging by the wintry sky he could see creeping past the grimy, shattered windows. The ceilings were high and hung with cobwebs built by spiders who did not seem to mind that most of what they caught was crumbling plaster and dust. They were supported by pillars made from upright steel joists on which the dirty old cream paint was bubbled and flaking, and these in turn stood on a floor of battered old oak on to which he had clearly been glued. Extending out for a foot or two in a rough oval all around his naked body the floor glistened darkly and dully. Thin, nostril-cleaning fumes rose from it. He could not believe it. He roared with rage, tried to wriggle and shake himself but succeeded only in tugging painfully at his skin where it was stuck fast to the oak planks. This had to be the old man’s doing. He threw his head back hard against the floor in a blow that cracked the boards and made his ears sing. He roared again and took some furious satisfaction in making as much hopeless, stupid noise as he could. He roared until the steel pillars rang and the cracked remains of the windows shattered into finer shards. Then, as he threw his head angrily from one side to the other he caught sight of his sledge-hammer leaning against the wall a few feet from him, heaved it up into the air with a word, and sent it hurtling round the great space, beating and clanging on every pillar until the whole building reverberated like a mad gong. Another word and the hammer flew back at him, missed his head by a hand’s-width and punched straight down through the floor, shattering the wood and the plaster below. In the darker space beneath him the hammer spun, and swung round in a slow heavy parabola as bits of plaster fell about it and rattled on the concrete floor below. Then it gathered a violent momentum and hurtled back up through the ceiling, smacking up a stack of startled splinters as it punched through another oak floorboard a hand’s-width from the soles of the big man’s feet. It soared up into the air, hung there for a moment as if its weight had suddenly vanished, then, deftly flicking its short handle up above its head, it drove hard back down through the tloor again – then up again, then down again, punching holes in a splintered ring around its master until, with a long heavy groan, the whole oval section of punctured floor gave way and plunged, twisting, through the air. It shattered itself against the floor below amidst a rain of plaster debris, from which the figure of the big man then emerged, staggering, flapping at the dusty air and coughing. His back, his arms and his legs were still covered with great splintered hunks of oak flooring, but at least he was able to move. He leant the flat of his hands against the wall and violently coughed some of the dast from his lungs. As he turned back, his hammer danced out of the air towards him, then suddenly evaded his grasp and skidded joyfully off across the floor striking sparks from the concrete with its great head, flipped up and parked itself against a nearby pillar at a jaunty angle. In front of him the shape of a large Coca-Cola vending machine loomed through the settling cloud of dust. He regarded it with the gravest suspicion and worry. It stood there with a sort of glazed, blank look to it, and had a note from his father stuck on the front panel saying whatever he was doing, stop it. It was signed “You-know-who”, but this had been crossed out and first the word “Odin” and then in larger letters “Your Father” had been substituted. Odin never ceased to make absolutely clear his view of his son’s intellectual accomplishments. The big man tore the note off and stared at it in anger. A postscript added darkly “Remember Wales. You don’t want to go through all that again.” He screwed the note up and hurled it out of the nearest window, where the wind whipped it up and away. For a moment he thought he heard an odd squeaking noise, but it was probably just the blustering of the wind as it whistled between the nearby derelict buildings. He turned and walked to the window and stared out of it in a belligerent sulk. Glued to the floor. At his age. What the devil was that supposed to mean? “Keep your head down,” was what he guessed. “If you don’t keep it down, I’ll have to keep it down for you.” That was what it meant. “Stick to the ground.” He remembered now the old man saying exactly that to him at the time of all the unpleasantness with the Phantom fighter jet. “Why can’t you just stick to the ground?” he had said. He could imagine the old man in his soft-headed benign malice thinking it very funny to make the lesson so literal. Rage began to rumble menacingly inside him but he pushed it down hard. Very worrying things had recently begun happening when he got angry and he had a bad feeling, looking back at the Coca-Cola vending machine, that another of those very worrying things must have just happened. He stared at it and fretted. He felt ill. He had felt ill a lot of late, and he found it impossible to discharge what were left of his godly duties when he felt he was suffering from a sort of continual low-grade flu. He experienced headaches, dizzy spells, guilt and all the sorts of ailments that were featured so often in television advertisements. He even suffered terrifying blackouts whenever the great rage gripped him. He always used to have such a wonderful time getting angry. Great gusts of marvellous anger would hurl him through life. He felt huge. He felt flooded with power and light and energy. He had always been provided with such wonderful things to get angry about – immense acts of provocation or betrayal, people hiding the AtIantic ocean in his helmet, dropping continents on him or getting drunk and pretending to be trees. Stuff you could really work up a rage about and hit things. In short he had felt good about being a Thunder God. Now suddeniy it was headaches, nervous tension, nameless anxieties and guilt. These were new experiences for a god, and not pleasant ones. “You look ridiculous!” The voice screeched out and affected Thor like fingernails scratched across a blackboard lodged in the back of his brain. It was a mean voice, a spiteful, jeering voice, a cheap white nylon shirt of a voice, a shiny-trousered pencil moustache of a voice, a voice, in short, which Thor did not like. He reacted very badly to it at the best of times, and was particularly provoked to have to hear it while standing naked in the middle of a decrepit warehouse with large sections of an oak floor still stuck to his back. He spun round angrily. He wanted to be able to turn round calmly and with crushing dignity, but no such strategy ever worked with this creature, and since he, Thor, would only end up feeling humiliated and ridiculous whatever postune he adopted, he might as well go with one he felt comfortable with. “Toe Rag!” he roared, yanked his hammer spinning into the air and hurled it with immense, stunning force at the small creature who was squatting complacently in the shadows on top of a small heap of rubble, leaning forward a little. Toe Rag caught the hammer and placed it neatly on top of the pile of Thor’s clothes that lay next to him. He grinned, and allowed a stray shaft of sunlight to glitter on one of his teeth. These things don’t happen by accident. Toe Rag had spent some time while Thor was unconscious working out how long it would take him to recover, then industriously moving the pile of rubble to exactly this spot, checking the height and then calculating the exact angle at which to lean. As a provocateur he regarded himself as a professional. “Did you do this to me?” roared Thor. “Did you – ” Thor searched for any way of saying “glue me to the floor” that didn’t sound like “glue me to floor”, but eventually the pause got too long and he had to give up. “- glue me to the floor?” he demanded at last. He wished he hadn’t asked such a stupid question. “Don’t even answer that!” he added angrily and wished he hadn’t said that either. He stamped his foot and shook the foundations of the building a little just to make the point. He wasn’t certain what the point was, but he felt that it had to be made. Some dust settled gently around him. Toe Rag watched him with his dancing, glittering eyes. “I merely carry out the instructions given to me by your father,” he said in a grotesque parody of obsequiousness. “It seems to me,” said Thor, “that the instructions my father has been giving since you entered his service have been very odd. I think you have some kind of evil grip on him. I don’t know what kind of evil grip it is, but it’s definitely a grip, and it’s definitely…” synonyms failed him “…evil,” he concluded. Toe Rag reacted like an iguana to whom someone had just complained about the wine. “Me?” he protested. “How can I possibly have a grip on your father? Odin is the greatest of the Gods of Asgard, and I am his devoted servant in all things. Odin says, `Do this,’ and I do it. Odin says, `Go there,’ and I go there. Odin says, `Go and get my big stupid son out of hospital before he causes any more trouble, and then, I don’t know, glue him to the floor or something,’ and I do exactly as he asks. I am merely the most humble of functionaries. However small or menial the task, Odin’s bidding is what I am there to perform.” Thor was not sufficiently subtle a student of human nature or, for that matter, divine or goblin nature, to be able to argue that this was in fact a very powerful grip to hold over anybody, particularly a fallible and pampered old god. He just knew that it was all wrong. “Well then,” he shouted, “take this message back to my father, Odin. Tell him that I, Thor, the God of Thunder, demand to meet him. And not in his damned hospital either! I’m not going to hang about reading magazines and looking at fruit while he has his bed changed! Tell him that Thor, the God of Thunder, will meet Odin, the Father of the Gods of Asgard, tonight, at the Challenging Hour in the Halls of Asgard!” “Again?” said Toe Rag, with a sly glance sideways at the Coca-Cola vending machine. “Er, yes,” said Thor. “Yes!” he repeated in a rage. “Again!” Toe Rag made a tiny sigh, such as one who felt resigned to carrying out the bidding of a temperamental simpleton might make, and said, “Well, I’ll tell him. I don’t suppose he will be best pleased.” “It is no matter of yours whether he is pleased or not!” shouted Thor, disturbing the foundations of the building once more. “This is between my father and myself! You may think yourself very clever, Toe Rag, and you may think that I am not – ” Toe Rag arched an eyebrow. He had prepared for this moment. He stayed silent and merely let the stray beatn of sunlight glint on his dancing eyes. It was a silence of the most profound eloquence. “I may not know what you’to up to, Toe Rag, I may not know a lot of things, but I do know one thing. I know that I am Thor, the God of Thunder, and that I will not be made a fool of by a goblin!” “Well,” said Toe Rag with a light grin, “when you know two things I expect you’ll be twice as clever. Remember to put your clothes on before you go out.” He gestured casually at the pile beside him and departed.