Oddjobs 5: The Long Bad Friday

by Heide Goody

  “Kathy Kaur,” he said.

  “What?”

  He furtively pointed down to the stage area. Prudence looked across at the various people.

  “Dr Kathy Kaur,” said Steve, as though clarification was needed.

  Prudence had never met Kathy Kaur, not directly. The woman had been present at her birth, but there’d hardly been time for formal introductions.

  “You think she’ll recognise me?” said Prudence.

  “You’ve grown a bit since then,” said Steve.

  * * *

  Morag felt as though she was holding her breath all the way from the boardroom to the lift to the taxi still waiting on Great Charles Street. She did not speak. She did not make any movement beyond the strictly necessary. Only when she was in the back seat of the taxi next to Omar did she release the metaphorical breath and look at the professor.

  “Yes,” he said simply.

  Chad twisted in the front passenger seat to face them as the taxi pulled away. “I think that went well.”

  “Well?” Morag laughed despite herself. “We walked in there with nothing, promised the CEO the Moon on a stick, and walked out again with our lives. That was nothing short of a fucking miracle, mate.”

  Omar nodded readily. “It is the beginnings of negotiations. They are prepared to accept human survival as a prerequisite for future business.”

  It was what they wanted. It was hardly a cheery thought. Human existence continuing at the whim of the psychotic children of a monster god. And Morag could easily picture the day when some Mammonite investor decided the way to increase the value of an individual human soul would be to destroy as many of the others as possible.

  The taxi had swung round onto the A38 dual carriageway and was gently weaving between the wrecked vehicles, collapsed buildings, and general carnage that dotted the way ahead. Morag did not see another human being anywhere.

  “Where to now?” she said.

  “We talk,” said the driver. “Liq glun-a-siscu.”

  Kaxeos’s zombie taxi drivers never spoke. Their minds were not their own. If this one was speaking then it was Yo Kaxeos speaking through him.

  “San-shu chuman’n Yo Kaxeos,” said Omar. “I wondered when you might speak to us.”

  “Prah ley espli’ch. Murrei do’papli a-shren,” said the taxi driver and Omar chuckled drily.

  “What’s that?” said Chad. “My Venislarn isn’t as good as…”

  “Basically,” said Morag, “he wanted to see if we would get out of the Mammonite building alive. He would talk to us if we did.”

  “That was a … that was a test?”

  “I’m surprised we passed, dear chap,” said Omar. For a man who had been nursing a mortal wound all night, the prospect of sudden death had brought out his whimsical side. “So, Lord Kaxeos. One takes it you have a stake in what follows? Demands even?”

  The taxi driver began a long litany in Venislarn.

  “I might need to write this down,” said Omar.

  Chad immediately had a phone in his hand. “Chad in notetaking mode.”

  The taxi driver’s waxy pink burned jaw moved as he spoke his god’s words. Omar rapidly translated and Chad swiped his phone screen to jot them down. Morag watched the dying world drift by their window.

  When the list of demands was done, Chad sighed mightily.

  “You okay?” said Morag.

  “I just realised,” he said, cradling his phone, “I had eight thousand Instagram followers. All gone now. Like tears in rain.”

  “Uh-huh. So, what’s the gist of Kaxeos’s requirements?”

  “In short, freedom,” said Omar. “What else does a chained god want?”

  “Dhye pehaesh qan khurid!” said the taxi driver, somewhat petulantly.

  “Paraphrasing, of course, my lord,” said Omar. “Perhaps Lord Kaxeos does not crave the same systemic order as the Mammonites, but he hopes to retain a rational post-apocalyptic world in which to enjoy the same powers as he has now.”

  “He wants to keep running taxis and selling curry.”

  “Not specifically – figuratively. And humans are definitely valued as mobile processors.”

  “Wow. Brains on legs. I can’t tell if that’s a compliment or not.”

  “And although his children, the Winds of Kaxeos, are by their nature destructive, Lord Kaxeos does admire our facility for construction.”

  Morag nodded. The taxi took a roundabout and drove past a burning fire station towards Eastside and the canals. “So, skilled workers are welcome in the new world.”

  “Oh, definitely.”

  “Pao-shibbu mape rashad Thorani,” said the taxi driver.

  “And he wants our help defeating Yoth Thorani?” said Morag.

  “Tree goddess and a fire god might be natural enemies,” said Omar.

  “Me’ah adn-bhul pabbe-grru shaska!” growled the driver.

  Morag blinked. “Did I hear that right? ‘Nut-fucker’?”

  Omar lowered his voice. “I think there’s some bad blood there.”

  Carcosa

  Jeffney led Rod around a few short turns until they came down to a body of water. Canal, river or lake, Rod couldn’t tell. The water rippled, but there was no flow to it. A dozen yards from the bank, thick mist sat on the water, piled high like ground level storm clouds, fading from white to silver to the black of night. The path at the water’s edge was narrow: a stubby lip between city wall and the water. Rod followed the broken little man along the path. Jeffney moved without care for other people, dodging between them where he could, bouncing off them when he couldn’t.

  The path widened and Rod saw boats moored along the side. A good number of them were abandoned things, rotting, sinking or sunk. Long rowboats were tied up beside steam-driven paddle boats and untidy sail ships. Bigger boats were positioned further out, along precarious and twisted jetties. There were the shapes of tall vessels, intermittently visible in the mist. Most leaned at angles that did not suggest seaworthiness.

  There was movement around a few of the boats on the quayside. Cargo crates were being unloaded and stacked, unstacked and reloaded. Carts moved. Ropes were coiled. Sailors strolled. The impression of industry was unmistakeable but, as with the workers of the city, Rod failed to see any end result. It was simply habit.

  Jeffney tugged him further on.

  They passed a man clutching a single toilet roll to his chest. He looked blissfully pleased with his possession.

  “Was that toilet paper?” said Rod. Jeffney ignored him.

  Moments later they came across a masked man squatting on stone steps beside a waterside gateway. He had a plastic rectangular box with dials on it resting on his drawn up knees.

  “That’s an Etch-A-Sketch,” said Rod.

  The man drew his knees up further, wrapping his arms protectively around the old toy.

  “I used to have one of them as a kid,” said Rod.

  “It is mine now,” hissed the man behind his mask.

  Rod shook his head and allowed Jeffney to pull him on.

  As they neared a long sail-less barge, Rod saw other locals clutching various consumer goods and items of tat. More toilet rolls, individual biro pens, soap, toothpaste. One woman cradled a vegetable spiralizer. A man explored a plastic egg filled with silly putty. Several couples carried contraptions of metal tubing and plastic joints: exercise equipment or DIY aids straight off teleshopping channels.

  Rod saw a fat man conducting trade at the far end of the long vessel. Although Rod did not recognise him personally, a connection clicked in his mind. “The Black Barge.”

  Jeffney nodded in pathetic and eager agreement.

  The Black Barge was not actually black, but Rod guessed people preferred alliteration over accuracy. The narrowboat was grey and windowless. The hull and cabin were formed around a long ribcage, surrounded by some hard, uneven material. To Rod’s eye, it looked like a mummified whale corpse, dried and emaciated. Now he understood how Jeffney Ray had come her
e. The young man had got himself into debt with a number of Venislarn, back in Brum. When he’d disappeared some months ago, it was assumed he had died or run off. Instead, Rod could see someone had called in his debts, and Jeffney – poor stupid bugger – was paying for them.

  The bargemaster was a lardy, barrel-chested man. He wore a long sleeveless leather coat and not much else. As he bartered and bargained with the Carcosan folk on the jetty, he mopped his sweating brow with a dark rag. Rod had not met him before, but he’d heard Nina mention him. Rod grasped for a name. Something Scandinavian or Eastern European. Bjorn or Ivan or—

  “Sven!” he called.

  The bargemaster looked his way and nodded, one businessman to another, before turning back to his customers. Intense haggling took place, resulting in the exchange of an occult-looking Carcosan book for two disposable cigarette lighters.

  Sven held a squeezy tube out to Rod. “For you,” he said. “Latest thing. Keep teeth white and minty fresh.”

  “I don’t need toothpaste,” said Rod.

  “No. You have good teeth. For discerning customer though…” He opened an age-worn chest on the deck and removed an orange and yellow boxy toy. He flicked it on and pressed a button. There was an electronic trill.

  “Spell ‘cat’,” said a robotic American voice.

  “I never had one of those,” said Rod.

  “It is very good,” said Sven. “Home computer. All the rage with cool kids.”

  “It’s a Speak & Spell,” said Rod. “Think it’s older than me.”

  “Still good,” said Sven. “You got enchantments to sell? I take all magic items, any condition. Not taking children though. Slump in market.” He saw Rod’s lack of interest in the Speak & Spell. “I have other items. All mod con. You want NutriBullet? You want cotton buds? Very delicate. The best.”

  Rod showed him his consular mission ID. Sven squinted to read it.

  “This isn’t Birmingham,” he said. “Also, only joking about children.”

  “You are buying them?”

  Sven forced a laugh. “I don’t trade in children. Not here. Not Birmingham.”

  “You going back to Birmingham soon?”

  Sven tilted his head. “Final visit. Fire sale. Everything must go, huh?”

  The mists ebbed and shifted on the water.

  “Have you got room for a passenger?”

  “Paying passenger?”

  Rod dug out his wallet. He looked for banknotes and produced a ten and a five. Sven blew out noisily in contempt.

  “You do contactless?” said Rod.

  “Pound worthless soon enough,” said Sven.

  Rod put his money away. He pointed at the wire and cord Jeffney held. “Paracord, monofilament, fishing line.”

  Sven inspected it. Jeffney flinched in reflex as the bargemaster moved.

  “Is good,” agreed Sven. He tested the tension of the wire between his thumbs. “This will get you halfway there.”

  “What’s halfway?” said Rod.

  Sven laughed heartily. “Nothing at all.”

  “Great, and the other half?”

  Rod went through his pockets and his belongings. His tobacco tin, containing wax-headed matches, sewing kit, superglue and water-purifying tablets, drew some interest but not enough. He showed Sven his phone.

  “I don’t get good coverage,” said the bargemaster. Rod had zero bars, which wasn’t a surprise.

  Rod stripped off his jacket, hoping the guy could be tempted with clothing. Sven immediately eyed Rod’s pistol in its shoulder holster.

  “Glock 21,” said Sven. “Fires point four-five auto round. Thirteen round magazine. Very reliable.”

  Rod was loath to part with his pistol. He wouldn’t want to admit to feeling lost or naked without it, but back on Earth there was something approximating a war going on. He needed a weapon.

  “I live on barge, what use do I have for handgun?” said Sven. He waved Rod’s jacket away too.

  As Rod shrugged his jacket back on, the pack of tissues Maurice had given him fell onto the jetty.

  “What that?” said Sven.

  Rod picked them up. “Napkins,” he said, unenthusiastically.

  “Mint in box?” said Sven and, when Rod frowned, asked, “Have they been opened?”

  “No. Still sealed.”

  Sven nodded slowly, his chins undulating. “Collector’s item?”

  “Er, sure.”

  Sven held out his hand and Rod handed them over. The bargemaster held them reverently for a moment before giving them a tender squeeze, as though testing fruit for ripeness. “This will do. Passage to Birmingham. We leave soon.”

  “Ta muchly.”

  Sven returned his attention to the customers he had been neglecting on the jetty.

  “This is redundant effort,” said the King in Crimson, putting an unwanted hand on Rod’s shoulder. “You go back and for what? Your world is drowning in torrents of blood and fire.”

  “You don’t have to stay with me,” said Rod. “You don’t have to talk. I’m going home to do what I can. You can do whatever pleases you.” He stepped aboard the Black Barge, past Sven, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “I’m not paying for him, by the way.”

  “Who?” said the bargemaster.

  Rod looked back at the King in Crimson and then at Sven. Sven shrugged.

  Birmingham - 05:34am

  Daganau Vei, or The Waters, was a samakha shanty town in crisis. Considering its position, leaning over the Warwick and Birmingham Canal, it was surprising how much of it was currently on fire. Morag was sure the warped and soggy plywood was so sodden it should have been practically fireproof. But one side of the canal was completely ablaze, plumes of steamy smoke pouring from crappy apartment windows, and dark alleys which led into warrens of impossible geography.

  Much of the population was gathered on the other bank, including many of the true samakha (who rarely came above surface or out into the open). Morag, Omar and Chad were spotted the instant they appeared at the brick-built steps leading to the canal side. Samakha hissed. A number of the human fish-wives, who had sold themselves to the samakha, advanced towards them.

  “’Bout bloody time you turned up,” one said.

  “We’ve been calling your number for hours,” said another.

  “What’d you call all this then?” said a third, waving her arms at the crazy pre-dawn sky.

  “It’s the end of the world,” said Morag.

  “I know it’s the bloody end of the world,” said the woman. “I wanna know what you’re doing about it!”

  Behind Morag, Omar grunted in pain, struggling on the stairs.

  Morag cast about the crowd for the familiar pair of fish faces she’d recognised earlier. “Fluke! Death Roe! Give the professor a hand, please.”

  They were big lads. Fluke, tall and athletic in a tight black t-shirt worn to show off his biceps, was still a head shorter than the haddock-faced fish-mountain Death Roe.

  “Fasho, miss,” said Fluke and hurried to assist.

  The consular mission might be naturally distrusted and despised by most of the samakha, but the lads of the Waters Crew gang had had their bacon saved by mission staff often enough to owe them a level of respect.

  Down on the crowded towpath, a band of true samakha squatted on crooked limbs beneath an ornate canopy carried on poles by four attendants. The true samakha had the glistening grey skin of bloated sea fish, and rigidly wide mouths that could offer no readable expressions. Servants bathed them constantly with little saucepans filled in a chain from the canal side. The canopy and constant watering suggested they had a persistent fear of being dried in the sun, but sunrise was a good hour or more away and they were in more danger of being barbecued by the conflagration on the other side of the canal.

  The human/samakha chain fetching water from the canal drew Morag’s attention to the water itself: for the locals, a potentially greater cause of concern. The canal was half empty. Dark stains marked the previous
high-water mark on the canal side. Whether the canal had been breached and was draining, or whether the water was simply being boiled away by the fires of judgement day, she couldn’t tell.

  A failing canal and a town on fire was both opportunity and threat for Morag. It meant the samakha had wants and needs that could form the basis of a trading deal. It also meant they were scared and angry and, therefore, dangerous.

  “Skeidl hraim yeg courxean,” she said in greeting as she approached the canopy and the half dozen fish elders within. “Shan-shan prui beddigo fesk.”

  An elder spoke in a throaty bubbling Venislarn. A half-breed fishman immediately began to translate into English, as though the samakha did not respect Morag enough to believe she could understand. Morag was silently grateful; the guttural fish elder had one hell of a thick accent, and she didn’t want to appear impolite by asking him to repeat himself.

  The translator wore a soot-stained kitchen apron and cradled a large green crab in his arms, stroking it soothingly as he spoke. “The time of victory is at hand. Humans are not welcome. Ggh!”

  “String ’em up!” shouted someone.

  “Make them do real-life hangman!” shouted another.

  “All humans will be sacrificed to the great-father Daganau-Pysh!” agreed Hragra.

  “What you chatting about, Hragra?” called one of the human women. “You hate us people all of a sudden?”

  “I’m just translating, ain’t I?”

  “Fuckin’ racist is what it is!”

  Down in the canal a monstrous frilled tentacle rose from the shallow water, dripping with mud, curled into a supple S-shape and then sank again.

  “Looks like your god is running out of water,” Morag noted.

  “Shas va adanei gheyn-ri’n, meh yo,” Omar concurred.

  The elder burbled.

  “Daganau-Pysh is lord of all the waters,” said the translator.

  “Zildrohar Cqulu might disagree with that,” said Morag.

  “Or Yoth-Qahake-Pysh,” said Omar. “She is on her way here now.”

  “Zildrohar Cqulu’s sunken city has already risen.”

  There was an angry splash from the water. The canal seemed more mud than water now. Although Daganau-Pysh had undoubtedly conjured greater depths beneath the canal than its original builders had ever imagined, there was no getting away from the fact that the god was now paddling about in a few feet of silty water.