The Age Of Odin

Forty-Eight

We ran to Bifrost. We were joined en route by Odin, Thor, Frigga, Sif, Vali, Bragi, and a bunch of others. Everyone's faces were pale and etched in the moonlight. They knew. We all knew. This was it. The Gjallarhorn had been blown. Ragnarok had begun.

We converged on Heimdall's guardhouse, and there, in the doorway, we found Asgard's gatekeeper on his knees. The Gjallarhorn rested in his limp hands. Heimdall looked exhausted, as if the effort of blowing the twisty trumpet-like thing had been tremendous — had, in fact, nigh on killed him.

He couldn't speak. Too out of breath. All he could do was point a quivering finger in the direction of Bifrost.

Parked halfway along the bridge was a low-slung stretch limousine. Black, with blacked-out windows, and standing next to it was a woman dressed in a black fur coat over a long black dress. She had on a fur hat that matched the coat, and her knee-high boots were black leather. She also wore large, round sunglasses — black, of course — even though it was night.

She strutted into the aura of the limo's headlamps, swinging her hips like some Russian supermodel. Three-inch boot heels clacked on Bifrost's planks. Her smile was moon-bright and sickle-lean.

Mrs Keener.

"My family," she said to the assembled Aesir and Vanir, holding her arms out as if to embrace them all.

On the Asgard side of the bridge, nobody moved. Nobody so much as twitched.

"What, no greeting? No warm words of welcome? No 'hey, how you been'? I do declare, if this was Wonder Springs they'd be all over me like raccoons on a trashcan by now."

"Loki," said Odin, in a voice like stone.

"Oh no, don't be calling me that," said Mrs Keener. "That's a name I gave up going by years ago. There's only little old Lois Keener here these days. Loving wife, proud mother, not to mention President of the whole goshdarned United States of America."

"Drop this vile pretence," Odin said. "Be who you are, not who you are playing at being. It disgusts me to see you disport yourself in such a false and unbecoming manner."

"Stop being Mrs Keener?" She took a couple more steps forward, so that she was now near the end of the bridge, almost but not quite on Asgardian soil. "And why would I ever want to do such a thing? Adored, respected, feared — I've got it all. The people of Earth are on their knees before me, half a them in worship, the other half cowering. I have power and influence beyond compare. Millions of mortals, maybe even billions, under my thumb. Being that other guy, that Loki you mention, it had its moments, I'll admit. But it ain't nothing next to being Lois Keener. Oh my Lord, the fun I'm having! Why did I never think of doing this before? I've got those Midgardians running around like ticks on a hog, hardly knowing what to do with themselves. I've thrown their strange, cruel little world into chaos, and ain't none of 'em even has an inkling who I really am. I used to enjoy messing with y'all's heads, but this is way, wayyy better. So thank you kindly but I'll stay just how I am for the time being. Why change what's working so well for me?"

"Why are you here?" Thor demanded. He brandished Mjolnir at her.

"Well now, Thor, my old sparring partner and patsy. Thor, god of blunder. You surely do like to get straight to the point, dontcha? I'm just making a quick stopover on route to Great Britain. A courtesy call, if you like. No harm in visiting the old folks back home, is there? See how they are, make sure they're how I remember 'em, remind 'em I exist…"

"Oh, we haven't forgotten you exist," Thor growled.

"And I am just so flattered to hear it." Mrs Keener fanned her throat. "A gal does hate to think she hasn't left a mark."

"Have you come to warn us?" said Odin.

"Warn you about what? You already know Ragnarok's a-coming. Maybe I'm mistaken but wasn't that Heimdall tooting on the Gjallarhorn just now? Sure sounded like it to me, and when the Gjallarhorn blows, that's when the fat lady starts singing. And besides, I think I tipped my hand just a few days back when I sent in those soldiers in the tanksuits. Which, by the way, nicely done. Y'all spotted a flaw in the design nobody else had, and you'll be glad to hear we've fixed that and given the tanksuits a major overhaul and an upgrade, so there'll be no more chinks in the armour."

"Then to gloat. Is that it? Is that why you're here?"

"Oh Odin, my old-time blood brother, my bosom buddy as was, would I do something so cheap and vulgar as gloat? A respectable Southern lady like myself? You wound me. I wanted to see y'all's faces one last time, is all. Fix 'em in my memory again. A quick refresher course, so to speak. So's I know once more who I'm about to destroy and why. And there you are, all lined up like crows on a picket fence. Thor Odinson, brainless as ever. Frigga — starting to look like the years are catching up with you, girlfriend. There's wonderful thangs they can do about that in Midgard. I can give you the names of ten cosmetic surgeons'd happily get to work on those laughter lines and those pouchy eyes of yours. And Sif… Well, you never were much to write home about, were you, honey? Pretty enough, loyal, empty-headed. Not the sort to set the world alight. Unlike me. Oh, and there, if my eyes don't deceive me, is Freya Njorthasdottir. Still hanging out with this bunch a sorry losers? The Aesir are beneath you as mud is beneath an eagle. Why wallow when you can soar?"

She'd neatly insulted almost everybody present, and no one seemed prepared to retaliate in any way, other than Thor, who confined himself to grumbling bad words about her under his breath. I couldn't understand why they were taking it so meekly. It was as if Loki had some hold over them and they were reluctant to antagonise him/her.

I, on the other hand, was carrying a perfectly good rifle.

And, I thought, I wasn't going to get a better chance than this.

I shot the bolt, chambered a round, raised the rifle, took aim, squeezed the trigger. All in the space of a couple of seconds. Why fuck around?

The bullet hit Mrs Keener dead in the centre of her body mass, passing straight through and ricocheting off the bodywork of the limousine. The range couldn't have been more than twenty metres. It would have been embarrassing to have missed at such close quarters.

She went down as though poleaxed. I considered putting a second bullet in her sprawled-flat body but decided not to waste the ammunition. She was dead. It was that simple. I felt a hiccup of weird excitement.

Holy fucking shit! I've just assassinated a President of the United States!

Put me up there with John Wilkes Booth and Lee Harvey Oswald. Gideon Jason Coxall, only the third ever member of history's most exclusive club.

Although, unlike the other two, each of whom had robbed the world of a much-loved leader, I'd done humanity a huge favour. It was like that thing about if you could go back in time and kill Hitler before the war, would you? Question answered. I would.

The reaction from the Norse gods was not at all what I was expecting. I'd thought they'd be pleased. I'd done their dirty work for them. Loki was gone. Ragnarok, therefore, would have to be called off. Hooray, surely? Happy finish. No more bloodshed. Yes?

Apparently not.

"Gid," said Odin. Kind of sighing.

"What?"

He looked resigned. Pitying. So did everybody else. "There are certain… protocols at work here. Formalities to be observed."

"But I just shot Loki. I mean, he's toast." I gesticulated at the corpse on the bridge. "He's out of the picture. That's a good thing, right? The bad guy's down and out. It's Bond killing Blofeld halfway through the film. There'll be no big confrontation now. The henchmen will all surrender. We won't have to blow up the volcano headquarters."

"Would that it were that straightforward."

I was finding this hard to believe. "He came — she came — and started nancying about in front of us. I had a gun. What else was I to do? Seemed a no-brainer to me. Still does. Would've been literally, if I'd gone for a head shot. And now it's all over. Isn't it? Ragnarok's off. Yes? No? It's off and we can all go home and eat choccy biccies and watch Loose Women in our pyjamas."

"We, Gid," said Odin, "are gods, but we are also creatures of myth. Of saga. Of story. How can I best explain it? Some things are just meant to be. Ragnarok has long been foretold. Its arrival is assured. From the moment of Balder's murder, events have unfolded more or less along a foreordained path. There have been detours, divergences, but always the basic course has remained the same, and cannot be altered. Believe me, if I'd thought killing Loki would change anything, I'd have done it ages ago. But I could not. It would not have been in accordance with the destiny that the Norns have laid out for us, the sequence of events that we are all part of."

"So you're saying — "

"What he's saying," said a loud, unfamiliar voice from the bridge, "is close, but no cigar."

It was Mrs Keener, and she was up on her feet, alive and well and looking, as might be imagined, somewhat narked.

"This coat is Barguzin sable and cost a fucking fortune," she snarled, and she wasn't speaking like a good ol' Georgia gal any more, she was speaking in waspish masculine tones. "And you've put a hole in it and the blood won't come out easily. It's ruined! Who are you anyway?"

"I'm…" was all I managed. Mrs Keener's on-the-spot resurrection had, unusually but understandably, left me at a loss for words.

"No, wait," she said. "I recall Hel telling me that one of Odin's tame monkeys was a bit smarter and feistier than the rest, and I'm guessing you're him. It's Gordon, is it? Gudgeon? Something like that. Well, I suppose I should applaud your initiative, but as Odin's trying so dismally to put into plain English, you can't fight fate. There's a time and a place for me to die, as there is for everyone. It just doesn't happen to be now and here, with me getting shot in the chest between my slightly sagging yet still remarkable breasts. Otherwise do you think I'd be so crass as to turn up at Asgard all on my own, without even so much as a CIA bodyguard to leap into the path of a bullet? Or arrow, or hammer, as the case may be? Typical human thinking. Du-u-umb. Just not realising the scale and scope of what you've stepped into."

I raised the rifle and sighted along the barrel. "I can always stick another one in you if you'd like. You might not die but I'm sure it'll hurt."

"Fire away." Mrs Keener spread her arms, making herself an even easier target. "I can take it. All it'll do is ensure your death will be even more truly horrible. I've marked you out now, mortal, you see. You've just earned yourself a position high up on my shit list, right near the top. You'll live to rue the day you ever laid eyes on me."

"I'm already rueing it, shemale," I retorted. "Now you're using your real voice, you're pretty creepy. Makes my skin crawl even looking at you."

"Whereas when I spoke like this" — she'd resumed her breathy, high-pitched Southern lilt — "you found me kinda attractive, huh? Well, ain't you just the predictable male lunkhead, thinking with those there gonads of yours. They'll be the first things to go when the time comes, by the way. I'm looking forward to having you in my clutches and separating you from them slowly using just my little old fingernails. Wouldn't that be just dandy?"

"It'll be a bigger job than you think."

"You are just the cutest! Takes some kinda guy to boast about the size of his parts when he's being threatened with emasculation." Her smile, false as it was, tightened into a purse-lipped sneer. "I ain't just whistling Dixie here, mister. You shouldn't make the mistake of thinking that. What I say I'm gonna do, I do."

"Still got this rifle, sunshine," I said. "Smack dab between the eyes, and you'll have the mother of all headaches to deal with."

She glared at me through those footballer's wife sunglasses. You couldn't see her eyes but you could sense the fury in them. I'd goaded her good and proper. How to win friends and influence people, the Gid Coxall way.

"Well. That's plenty enough of that," she said. One of the limo's rear doors sprang open, seemingly of its own accord. Mrs Keener bent to climb in. "It's war from here on in. Y'all are gonna suffer and die for what you did to me. The centuries I spent in that cavern, my eyes sizzling and burning and growing back only to sizzle and burn some more. The torture and humiliation you put me through. Payback's a bitch, and that bitch is me. Asgard's end is coming. We've had the Fimbulwinter. Now it's Ragnarok's turn to step out onto the pitcher's mound. Three strikes and you'll be out, all of you. Bottom of the ninth, and there ain't no way you're saving the game by stealing a home run."

The door slammed. The limo revved and reversed rumblingly along Bifrost. At the far end of the bridge it U-turned and tore off down the road, snow spewing from its tyres. We watched its taillights fishtail into the dark, two red eyes shrinking 'til they were gone.

"Baseball metaphor," I said, as the echoes of its engine noise faded. "Anybody here speak baseball? Because I'm drawing a total blank."

The Aesir and Vanir, however, weren't up for a laugh. They turned and wandered away in dribs and drabs. Freya was one of the first to go. As she passed me, she said in a conspiratorial murmur, "Pity. It would have been a good, clean kill."

I winked, but she pretended not to notice.