No Fury Like That

by Lisa de Nikolits

  “I am very sorry,” I say and I am. “That’s so unfair. Did your friend not take the drugs too?”

  “No. He said he had taken stuff before we met up and that he didn’t need to but he said he’d score some for me. Five people died that night. But lots of people took it, not just the five of us who died.”

  “Have you met any of the others here, who died that night?”

  Samia shakes her head. “I don’t know. I don’t know who they were. There were thousands of people there that night. I was so stupid. Why didn’t I say no, like I had so many times before? It’s not like my friend cared if I did or didn’t do the drugs; he always asked me. It was like he was being polite, in case I wanted some. And I probably ruined his life too.”

  “Are we here because we’re supposed to make amends?” I ask.

  Agnes pours sugar onto the table and dips her finger into the pile and licks it clean. “Who the fuck knows?”

  “But you’re an Introducer, you should know.”

  “Introducers just show newbies around. We don’t have any inside info or anything.”

  I sigh. “How do we move on?”

  “Ask Cedar. I bet he’ll say something like, ‘I encourage you to open yourself to the realm of simply being here now, and try not to be distracted by what’s to come.’” She mimics him so perfectly that we burst out laughing.

  “Here’s another question,” I ask. “How do I get myself to bounce to where I want to go? My default is the Makeup Room. How do I change that?”

  They shake their heads. “My default is the Rest Room,” Isabelle says. “And I am sure it lets me stay longer than four hours.”

  “Mine is the Reading Room,” Samia says.

  “I get the Introducer’s Lounge,” Agnes chips in. “It’s a pretty cool place, so I guess I do get to have some extra privileges. When you feel you’re going to bounce, try to picture the room you’d like to be in,” she advises me.

  “Which is about to happen,” I say. “Rest Room, Rest Room, Rest Room!”

  And astoundingly, it works.

  18. TIME ALONE TO THINK

  I LIE IN THE SOOTHING DARKNESS of the Rest Room, and I think about recent events. I am not tired and I wish Intruiga would wander by and relax me, soothe me. I am wound up by the story of Tracey’s mother’s murder and I am still freaked out by seeing Agnes’s Viewing, and I feel terrible for Samia and Agnes, both of whom have brought such sadness to their families’ lives. I am ambivalent about Tracey though—how much of what she had said was true?

  And I think about Grace and the weird way she has of fading that no one even comments on. Does it have to do with her freakish looks, because she is so full of plastic and fillers? And I wonder about Isabelle—how did she die? And how had Grace died?

  I wonder about the six of us, and I ask myself why we have formed the bond that we have. Is there some common denominator that links us together or is it just random? We are a strange, odd mix of people. And why do I even care about them? Since when do I care about anybody except myself? I should be looking out for number one, figuring out how to get out of here, meanwhile, I am obsessed with everyone else’s issues.

  I lie in the darkness, feeling increasingly restless. Eventually I get up and tiptoe out.

  I stand in the hallway, and I don’t know what to do with myself. I resolve to ask Cedar for a pack of cigarettes. I need something to calm my nerves.

  A long hot bath, that’s what I need. A long hot bath. But baths are nowhere to be found unless they too are hidden within the elusive club of privileges.

  Ablution Block, with its showers and utilitarian fixtures, will have to do, if only I can find it.

  I open a door and find a room filled with intense chess players, none of whom look up.

  I find a Yoga Room, with people in all manner of twisted poses: handstands, pretzels, odd squatting frog poses, or whatever they are called. The yogis glance up and freeze me with their collective icy glares and I back out, thinking they’re not very zen.

  Once again, I find the knitting ladies and I recoil from the wave of their boisterous welcome. “Come in, come in! Beginners welcome!”

  “No!” I shout and they look at me somewhat puzzled, taken aback by my rudeness.

  “I’m looking for the Ablution Block,” I say, certain that I look wild-eyed and crazy. “I can’t find any of these bloody rooms like the rest of you can.”

  “There’s a trick to it, dear,” one of them says, and she gets up and puts her knitting on her chair. “Come on. Ablution Block, you say? Okay, now concentrate hard. Focus on the bottom of the doors, and try to hold the whole corridor in your vision, as if you are looking at one of those trick pictures where you see a vase but there’s also two faces. You with me so far?”

  “Yes,” I say, and I squint slightly, trying not to focus on a particular door.

  “Now, say the words ‘Ablution Block’ quietly in your mind, over and over, and see if a faint light starts to shine from under a door.”

  “Ablution Block, Ablution Block,” I chant quietly, while gazing blankly down the corridor. “Nothing is happening.”

  “Keep trying.”

  “Ablution Block, Ablution Block,” I say. I feel stupid and despairing and I am about to give up when I see a glimmer of light glow for a nano-second under one of the doors. “I saw it! But now it’s gone and I can’t remember which one it was.”

  “Try again.” For an affable old knitting biddy, she is awfully stern.

  I give her a quick glare and I try again. Nothing. I try yet again and this time when the light glows faintly, I don’t lose sight of it, I keep it in my peripheral vision and walk slowly towards it.

  “What’s the bet it’s the wrong door?” I joke and I open it, fully expecting to find the train men or something else but, remarkably, there I am, inside the Ablution Block.

  “Whoa! Cool!” I turn to thank the knitting lady but she has vanished, gone back to her needles, I suppose.

  I however, have erred in my thinking. I should have gone to the Clothes Room and picked up a fresh outfit first. What is the point of getting buffed and clean and getting back into smelly running sweats?

  I stand outside the washroom, not keen to leave, in case I lose it, and I try the Clothes Room trick on the bottom of the doors. But I remember that there are a bunch of hallways, some of which intersect so how can I be sure that I am in the right corridor for the Clothes Room? And, if I leave this hall, how will I find my way back?

  “Attention, please! May I have your attention, please?” The airport announcer speaks loudly through the intercom and I jump.

  “I need to find an Ablution Block,” I tell the disembodied voice. “Do something useful and help me.”

  But the voice just repeats its message, and then there is silence.

  I figure nothing ventured, nothing gained, and I try once more to summon the Clothes Room in the corridor I am in, but there is nary a glimmer.

  I walk down a passage of shiny linoleum and I stop. “Clothes Room, Clothes Room.”

  Nothing.

  I have no idea how long I try to make this work. Eventually I resort to begging.

  “Help me,” I implore, not exactly sure who I am talking to. The god of the Clothes Room? “Help me, please.”

  A light glimmers and I rush towards the door and find myself in the cafeteria. Great. I may as well have a cup of herbal tea and a cookie and then, once fortified, I’ll get back out into the maze again.

  “Looking for some company?”

  My eyes are closed and I am inhaling the sweetness of chamomile with honey and I look up, not happy to be disturbed. The voice is an unfamiliar one, male but it isn’t Cedar’s reassuringly high-pitched nasal whine, this voice is deep and sensual.

  No, this certainly isn’t Cedar. This guy is about twenty-six and he looks like an Arman
i model. My weakness has come calling.

  “Jaimie,” he says grinning, his forelock doing all the casual, cool, floppy things it is supposed to. He holds out his hand.

  I pick up my cookie and take a bite, and he withdraws his hand and sits down.

  “How did you die?” I ask, thinking my rudeness will drive him away but he isn’t deterred.

  “Went water skiing and I drowned. I couldn’t actually swim but I figured it would be okay. Which it wasn’t.”

  He has dimples and a cleft in his chin and the greatest cheekbones I have ever seen.

  “Do you know how to find the Clothes Room?” I ask him and he nods.

  “Yeah, sure. You want me to take you?”

  “Please.” I get up, abandoning my drink and my cookie, silently apologizing to Tracey for wasting her baked goods.

  I follow Jaimie down the hallway, trying to memorize the route he is taking. First left, second right, first right, third left. Ye gods.

  “Voila!” he says and there we are, in the couture clothing section of Goodwill in Purgatory. “Here,” he says holding up a Dior cocktail dress that my former Earth self would have killed to lay her hands on.

  “I’m looking for comfort,” I say, and I can see he isn’t impressed.

  I find an acid yellow Lululemon ensemble with stylishly tapered track pants and a zippered hoodie.

  “Perfect,” I say and I bound off to the change room.

  When I come out, Jaimie is nowhere to be seen. Which is fine, but now I will have to find the washroom all by my lonesome.

  I try to retrace our route but we came from the cafeteria not the washroom. I am ready to weep. Any why is there never a single soul in these hallways? I never see anybody walking by, never. What is with that? I sink down on my haunches and wait for the bouncing sensation that isn’t quick to arrive, let me tell you. As soon as I get the tingle, I chant Ablution Block, Ablution Block and I manage to emerge in the washroom. I guess I should be proud of myself but instead, I just feel exhausted.

  I turn on the shower and I stand under the hot water and let it run down my scalp and my neck and my back. It feels wonderful. The small bar of soap is remarkably ordinary but it lathers well and the shampoo has a faint smell of roses which must make Agnes happy, remind her of Auntie Miriam. At least I hope that’s a good thing.

  I dry myself and my hair and wait to bounce, thinking I’m finally ready for the Rest Room and when I arrive there, I am well and truly delighted to be back in that safe cave of soft blackness and comforting warmth.

  19. JUNIOR

  WHERE HAVE YOU COME FROM and where are you going? The sign asks. I came from Earth and I’m on my way to Cedar’s office, smartass. Shows how much you know.

  I am not in the mood for Cedar today. I am not in the mood for anything today. I wish I hadn’t given pretty boy Jaimie the brush off because who knows, maybe I could have found a way to have wild sex with him in the privacy of some nameless faceless white room in this limbo land of eternally boring days. Maybe I am horny, but whatever the cause, I feel unsettled and dislocated. Fine, so yesterday was a good day, but days like that were scarce while days like this one go on forever.

  I stand outside the door and glare at the handle. I guess Cedar realizes I am there and I guess he also realizes I am not going to come in because the door swings open and he stands up behind his desk, and smiles. “Julia! Welcome! Nice outfit!”

  I scowl and slouch in like a rebellious teenager, but I think of his generosity the day before and I want to thank him. First, I have to remember to keep my unruly tongue in check.

  “Thank you very much for yesterday,” I say formally, and his smile morphs into a grin.

  “A pleasure,” he says. “How are you today?”

  “Cigarettes. How do I get cigarettes?”

  “Privileges,” is his reply, not that I don’t expect it.

  “Darn. So what do I have to do to graduate and get myself some privileges?”

  “We carry on doing the hard work,” Cedar says. “Shall we continue?”

  I nod and slump deep into the sofa and close my eyes.

  “We’re not going to do breathing today,” Cedar says. “We’re going to try something different. Word association. Are you ready?”

  “Ready as I’ll ever be,” I reply, and I open my eyes and try to look alert.

  “Just say the first thing that pops into your head when I say a word.”

  “Yeah, well Cedar, the first word that usually pops into my head is profane and you know it, so I guess this session is going to be a short one.”

  “You’re a grown woman,” Cedar tells me. “You’ve got the power to control what comes out of your mouth, trust me. Actually, trust yourself.”

  “Work,” he says.

  “Play.”

  “Men.”

  “Power.”

  “Woman.”

  “Beauty.”

  “Love.”

  “Stupid.”

  “Family.”

  “Dead.”

  “Cat.”

  “Friend.”

  “Power.”

  “Necessary.”

  “Greed.”

  “Everywhere.”

  “Legs.”

  “Parted.”

  “Desk.”

  “Sex.”

  “Stairwell.”

  “Affair.”

  “Cufflinks.”

  “Betrayal.”

  I stop and sit up. “Oh my god. Cedar. I never had a husband, did I? There is no Martin. Martin was a boy at university I should have married but he was nice, much too nice for me. Meanwhile, Junior … Junior … well.”

  Cedar doesn’t say anything; he just looks at me.

  “That short little piece of … excrement. What a … totally ridiculous excuse for a man! Wow, he really hurt me.”

  “Let it come,” Cedar says. “Just let it come.”

  I get up and pace around the room and it does come to me, whether I want it to or not. Yeah, there was me, Ms. ÜberPower, Queen of the castle, happily ruling my roost, when in walks the new chairman of the board—the newest saviour, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and ready to springboard us into the future. Not that we weren’t doing just fine in the present, but everybody’s only really focused on the future. So in he walks, like some manic Duracell bunny, a tiny Adonis who tells us that our present state is doomed but no worries, he’s here to save us.

  He isn’t clear on the details, and he speaks in riddles and vagaries but he does allude to cuts, yep, sorry about that but a couple of people are going to have to go, not immediately of course, but…

  I am not overly worried. In the first place, my group is making money hand over fist, and in the second place, I am fucking him.

  Despite my craving for power, I hadn’t actually planned the latter, but he literally fell into my lap when we met by sheer chance in the stairwell.

  One of the many ways I keep in shape is to skip the elevators and take the stairs, stilettos and all, and there I was, navigating down while he was jogging up.

  Our paths met outside the fire door of Stairwell Exit #8. We both stopped. He looked at me. “Julia Redner.”

  “You gonna fire my ass or what?”

  He laughed. “It’s too fine an ass, but perhaps I should take a more detailed look.”

  I turned around and placed my hands three stairs up and I leaned down, with my legs spread, my buttocks in the air, my skirt stretching tight and my calves pumped in silk stockings.

  “What’s the verdict?” I asked, looking back at him, over my shoulder.

  “Fucking beautiful.” He could hardly talk and I was about to straighten up when he moved in and put his hands on either side of my hips.

  It sounds crazy but the electricity between us was immediate.
r />   Without thinking, I thrust my buttocks back into his groin and he groaned. He lifted my skirt with one hand and he pulled down my panties, and unzipped his trousers with the other.

  Sadly, the man was hung like a chipmunk but I used my hand and came, and despite his lack of size, there was something about him that I got off on. Something? There was actually only one thing. Power. He was the guy, the guy who held our jobs in the palm of his hand.

  We straightened up and looked at each other. “My secretary will call you,” he said, and he bounded up the stairs without looking back.

  His secretary would call me? About what? That hadn’t ended like I had wanted it to, and I, disconcerted, walked back up to my office instead of going down to have that smoke I had been craving.

  I didn’t hear from him or his secretary for two hellishly long nail-biting days. Days in which I was the worst bitch to work for ever, even by own standards.

  I sent the creative director out to get my dry cleaning. I got the art director to vacuum my office. I got the copywriters to go shopping for fresh flowers and then I sent them back because they had bought the wrong ones. I spent double online at night and I came up with an ad campaign that the client called unreservedly genius.

  Just when my staff were ready to kill me and I was about to implode, having checked my emails every two minutes since we parted in the stairwell, my phone rang. I recognized the caller ID—it was the Chipmunk’s secretary. I let it ring for a while and then I picked it up.

  “Junior wants to schedule lunch with you on Monday,” she said.

  Patrick Ralph Davidson-Loach IV. Who liked to be called Junior, as if we all already knew his blue-blooded lineage, it was so imprinted in curves of our brain matter that nothing more was needed, only the utterance “Junior.”

  “I’m sorry but I’m busy that day,” I said.

  “Surely you can reschedule whatever appointment you have?”

  “Absolutely not. It’s a standing appointment with my manicurist. There must be an alternative time that he is free?” I was casual, as if I was taking about a mere mortal instead of a god.