Oddjobs 5: The Long Bad Friday

by Heide Goody

  Narrow columns held up the high ceiling. Near the front, the pillars were worked with stripes of gold spiralling around them. There was a lot of shiny gold, Prudence thought.

  “This will do,” said Vivian. She stopped by one of the long wooden pews lining the cathedral hall. “I’d like you to get that table and bring it over here.”

  Prudence went to a table by the wall. It was covered with little leaflets and a tiered metal thing with tiny candles on it. “Do you want the things on the table?” she asked.

  “No,” said Vivian. “Just the table.”

  Prudence brushed everything off with a swipe of her arm. It was very satisfying in its own way. She dragged the table across the floor to the seats Vivian had chosen. Vivian pushed the pew in front out of the way with her hip and the table was squeezed into the gap.

  “Quite acceptable,” said Vivian.

  She let the book drop to the table and began extracting various pens from her pocket. Prudence watched her. There was a method to what she was doing, a ritual. Prudence suspected Vivian liked pens. Really liked them.

  Vivian opened the book. It was big and its spine creaked as Vivian leafed through its pale yellow pages. There was lots and lots of writing. Vivian eventually stopped, not at an entirely blank page, but one where a gap had been left. She picked up a pen, paused only a moment, and began writing. Prudence watched her until she got bored. This did not take long.

  “What shall I do?” she asked.

  “Do?” said Vivian and gave a tiny sigh. “I don’t need you to do anything at this moment. Just be prepared.” She went back to her writing.

  Prudence huffed and went for a wander. She went up and down the aisles of the church. She counted the columns. She looked at the pictures of the people in the stained glass windows. Most of them were wearing brightly coloured robes. Most of them were men. Most of them had serious looks on their faces. Very few seemed to be having a good time.

  Prudence went to the front of the church and looked at the shiny gold decorations. It occurred to her that gold looked interesting from a distance, but up close, particularly when there was lots of it, it was very boring stuff.

  She went back to Vivian. “Who’s the person with his arms out above that table?”

  Vivian half-looked up from her work. “I am busy.”

  “I know.”

  “I have barely a few thousand words left to write, some key punctuation to insert, and then I’m done.”

  “I know. But I’m bored and I’m asking.”

  Vivian looked across to where Prudence had pointed. “That’s Jesus,” she said. “And the table is an altar.”

  “He doesn’t look very happy.”

  “It’s a statue of him being crucified. Being killed. It’s not surprising he looks unhappy.”

  “Is he in your book?” said Prudence.

  “He is mentioned constantly. Usually when his name is used as a swear word.”

  “I wish my name was a swear word.”

  Vivian riffled through the pages of the book. “Here’s … the last time I wrote about him.” She turned the book round. Prudence read. It was a section of text from a scene that had begun on the previous page.

  * * *

  “There’s a Michael Moorcock story,” said Julie Fiddler, looking at the half-eaten cupcake on the table between them.

  “Sounds like a porn pseudonym,” said Nina.

  Mrs Fiddler wrinkled her nose. The action distracted her from the temptation to pick up and eat the rest of the cake.

  “The main character goes back in time with the hope of meeting the historical Jesus but, discovering only a poor man with learning disabilities, finds himself stepping into the role, repeating Jesus’s parables, faking his miracles. Of course, then we get into the problem of bootstrapping, which is another time-travel no-no.”

  “Wow. You’re a nerd, Mrs Fiddler.” Nina said it with a note of scorn, but she couldn’t help but warm to the woman.

  Mrs Fiddler smiled. “Which is only code for I like things and I’ve taken the time to learn about them. My point is, Nina, I believe most strongly that if you tried to change the past, this past we are seeing, you would only help to cement events into place.”

  “I don’t buy that,” said Nina with a shake of her head. “You’re basically saying there’s no free will, we have no control over our actions.”

  “Do you remember that time you were jealous of Zeinab Imran’s fish display poster and ripped it off the wall?”

  “You have no evidence I did that,” said Nina, which was a lie but one that came easily to her.

  “Such random acts of selfishness are easier to bear if you remember there’s no free will. It wasn’t your fault.”

  “That’s what I’m saying,”

  “What’s written is written,” said Mrs Fiddler. “You can’t change a book if you don’t like the ending.”

  “But you can always close the book.”

  “Not quite sure how that’s relevant.”

  “Just saying.”

  * * *

  “What’s a porn p-suedonym?” said Prudence.

  “It’s a silent P,” said Vivian. “And that’s the question you want to ask?”

  Prudence looked at the figure over the altar. “Why have they got a statue of the Jesus man being killed?”

  “Christians believe he died to save the world.”

  “The whole world?”

  “That’s what they believe.”

  Prudence shrugged. “Huh. You’d think he’d look more pleased with himself then.”

  Vivian turned back to the page she’d been working on and continued writing.

  09:30am

  Rod went to fetch himself another pint. It was his third. Nina was counting.

  “You’re going to drink yourself drunk?” she said, seething.

  “I’m going to drink until the barrel is empty,” Rod replied. “Not going to let good beer go to waste.”

  Nina had no illusions about craft beer. Like posh restaurants, folk music, camping holidays and anything on BBC4, there was no way anyone could actually like it. She had long ago concluded middle-aged people like Rod just pretended to like it in order to make themselves seem interesting. It was a midlife crisis in liquid form. It was piss on the way in and piss on the way out.

  “You’re not doing this,” she said.

  “I bloody well am.” He pulled a pint and addressed the empty seat opposite his at the table. “You want one, your majesty?” He sniffed. “Suit yourself.”

  “He’s gone mad,” said Yang.

  “He’s being a twat,” said Nina.

  When Rod put his pint down, Nina grabbed his left shirt sleeve and yanked.

  “Lay off,” he said.

  She yanked, pulled and pushed and, with a combination of moves, managed to half rip, half push his sleeve back to his upper arm.

  “What the hell are you doin’, lass?” he growled.

  “Reminding you of … this!” With a final effort, she pushed his sleeve up to expose his bare shoulder.

  He looked at her. She looked at his white, unblemished shoulder.

  “What happened?” she said.

  “What?”

  “Did you get rid of it?”

  He made a foul and unhappy sound and carefully, with angry little movements, rolled up his other sleeve. “You mean this?” he said.

  “Ah-ha! That!” She prodded his tattoo. “Carpe Diem. Which is not foreign for ‘fish of the day’,” she said as an aside to Yang.

  “I do speak Latin,” said Yang. “I have an education, you know.”

  “Seize the cocking day,” said Nina. “That’s what it says.” She gave Rod a victorious look. “That’s what you’re meant to do.”

  “There’s no day left to seize,” he said and tried to sit down. Nina blocked his way.

  “Bollocks,” she said. “You don’t stop. You never give up. You know you died, right?”

  He paused. “Yes. You told me.”
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  “You fell from a helicopter and went splat on a rooftop.”

  “Yes, you told me,” he repeated sullenly.

  “Did I give up then? No I adn-bhul didn’t. I went back in time through a hole this big and spent months with no Wi-Fi and no social media, and saved the world from a psycho-bitch just so I could come back again and save you.”

  He was momentarily thrown, mildly intimidated. “I … know,” he said. “And I’m grateful.”

  “Are you?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Cos you don’t act like it. I do all that for you cos you’re the best man I know. You are! The best man I know in the whole wide world, and you act like a selfish prick who doesn’t really love me—”

  “Love you? Nina, I’m really, really—”

  “Not like that!” she said. “Ugh! Christ, you’re old enough to be my granddad.”

  “There’s literally less than twenty years difference—"

  “You act like you don’t care.”

  “I’m tired!”

  “We’re all tired! It’s Friday. It’s been a long week and it’s not over. But we cope!”

  “I don’t know what to do,” said Rod. “I lost Prudence. Morgantus wrapped Morag up and ran off. The consular mission is gone and—”

  “What’s he like?” asked Pupfish.

  “Morgantus?” said Rod.

  “I’ve never seen him but I heard – ggh! – he’s like a big pink blob.”

  “A big pus-filled bag of skin and flesh,” nodded Rod.

  “So,” said Pupfish slowly, building up to a thought, “like that – ggh! – thing we saw in New Street Station?”

  “What thing?” said Rod.

  “We don’t know what we saw in New Street,” said Nina, then checked herself. “We don’t know what we saw in New Street Station.” She spread her hands. “Could be worth checking.”

  Rod looked at the pint on the table. There was clearly some tug of emotions going on inside that big fat head of his, but it still looked like a glass of cloudy piss to Nina.

  “We could do that,” he said finally. He nodded, reaffirming the thought, and turned to address them all. His eyes twitched with some swift thinking. “We go to New Street. We explore.” He pointed at Yang and Pupfish’s rifles. “We pepper Morgantus. He can be hurt, possibly even killed.”

  “Good,” said Nina.

  “We rescue Morag. Maybe she has some insight. Maybe we can even get answers out of him.”

  “What about the donkeys?” said Nina.

  “You stay with them.”

  “Bhul-zhu. You need me. You think you can go in and face Venislarn without me? You’d drop at the first enchantment cast at you. And you don’t even speak the language.”

  “I do,” he said. “Mostly.”

  “Kash ka, muda khi umlaq. Deha-kz’sa qhadau, neas hpar thu.”

  “I got the bit where you called me ‘shit for brains’.” His jaw worked as he reconsidered. “Okay. Steve – you and the King in Crimson are going to stay behind and tend the donkeys.”

  “The who?” said Nina.

  “Steve does not do menial animal care when there are wars to be fought!” said the doll.

  Rod turned to the empty seat. “You will do this one thing for me, please,” he said, as though arguing with an unseen presence. “It doesn’t count as a wish. And I promise, if I see Morgantus, I will punch his lights out for you. Deal?”

  “I still think he’s gone mad,” said Yang.

  Rod smiled. “Yang, I reckon you’ll like this next bit.” He made for the outer door, Nina and the others followed.

  “Rod,” she said. “Did you touch the Azhur-Banipal shad Nekku?”

  “The red stone,” he said. “Aye. But I had to.”

  “You traded your soul to the King in Crimson?” She failed to hide the worry in her voice.

  “He’s actually a pleasant chap once you’ve got to know him.”

  “But your soul…”

  “One thing at a time.” He walked up the pavement to where the armoured army vehicle had crashed into a wall. He climbed up to the driver’s hatch and contemplated both the vehicle and the wall. He looked at the armaments and then down to Yang Mammon-Mammonson.

  “If we can get this out, do you think you could learn how to operate it?” said Rod.

  “Who says I haven’t already?” said Yang.

  Rod’s eyes met Nina’s. She grinned.

  “I’m coming back for that pint after though,” he said.

  09:48am

  “Drink up,” said Morag. “You’re falling behind.”

  Brigit downed her glass and scowled at Morag as she did so. Scowling with your lips round the rim of a wine glass was a feat in itself. “You want the truth?” said Brigit when she’d finished.

  “Please,” said Morag.

  Brigit looked at her levelly. “What happened to your sister?”

  Morag recoiled.

  “Think,” said Brigit. “Think back to your earliest memories. When you came to the court of Yo-Morgantus on your first week here, you shared a memory with him. You and your parents at the Moray Firth. The dying otter on the beach. And on your mother’s knee…”

  “My baby sister…”

  Brigit gestured at herself. “Did you just forget about me?”

  Morag felt a leaping swell of emotion inside. Tears pricked her eyes.

  “Our parents died within years of each other. You and I were left behind.”

  Morag gazed into Brigit’s eyes. What physical similarities were there between them, apart from the hair, obviously?

  “You were meant to look after me,” said Brigit. “But you didn’t. I came here, to this city. I fell in with … a different crowd.”

  “I don’t remember,” said Morag softly, feeling she was on the cusp of having it all flood back to her.

  “And when you heard what happened to me…” Brigit put her hand on Morag’s. “Don’t you remember? That was why you joined the consular mission.”

  It made sense. The pieces slotted together. Someone, somehow, had tampered with Morag’s memories to make her forget. Maybe it was even Yo-Morgantus on that first meeting.

  “What happened to your accent?” said Morag, the question coming to her out of nowhere.

  “People change.”

  “No…” It didn’t seem right. Morag thought furiously. “Our house in Fortrose. Which bedroom was yours?”

  “Which bedroom? I—”

  “What was the name of the cat?”

  “The cat, yes.”

  “You must remember the cat.”

  “Of course, the cat,” said Brigit. “His name was—”

  “Her name.”

  “Her name was—”

  “We didn’t have a bloody cat,” said Morag. “Our mum— My mum couldn’t stand them. False memories. I never had a fucking sister.”

  A sob exploded from Brigit’s lips. “How can you say that? Morag! After all this time—” Brigit’s expression snapped from one thing to another, like a badly edited film. “Fine,” she said, emotionlessly, wiping the tears from her cheeks. “Thought we had you, this time.”

  “This time?” said Morag.

  A tendril of Yo-Morgantus’s being shot out and touched Morag’s wrist. She jerked back in surprise.

  * * *

  Brigit drank her wine, down to the very last drop, a look of foul contempt on her face. “You want the truth?” she said.

  “Yes,” said Morag.

  Brigit put her glass on the table and Morag refilled it. “I was given to Yo-Morgantus as a child.”

  “Who by?”

  “My parents of course.”

  Morag shook her head. “Why?”

  “They thought the world was ending.”

  Morag frowned.

  Brigit toyed with the stem of her glass. “I was the kaatbari.” She smiled at the surprise on Morag’s face. “What? You thought your daughter was the first?” She laughed. “No. My parents conceiv
ed me so I could be used in a magical ritual to drive the Venislarn from this world. Start the apocalypse, then kill me. That was the plan. I was born purely so I could be sacrificed.”

  “That’s…”

  “Monstrous, I know. My mum was a cold, heartless calculating machine. My dad was just interested in whether it could be done. He never questioned whether it should be done.”

  “And they just handed you over?”

  “It didn’t work out quite like that,” said Brigit. “This was a scam they were pulling, a confidence trick. The kaat-bed sho ritual that my dad, Giles Grey, had devised involved presenting me to the Venislarn as—”

  “Wait wait wait! Giles Grey? As in Mr Grey?”

  “Yes. Giles and Vivian Grey were my parents.” There was a bitter smile on her face. “Did you never wonder what had happened to Vivian Grey to turn her into such a soulless bitch? Never wondered what drives her to fix the Venislarn threat?”

  Morag was temporarily robbed of words. “That’s … that’s…”

  “Horrible,” nodded Brigit.

  Morag’s mind reeled. “You don’t look at all like her.”

  “I take after my dad.”

  “But … you have blue eyes. Hers are brown, aren’t they?”

  “So?”

  “Can brown-eyed people have blue-eyed babies? I thought that wasn’t possible.”

  “I’m fairly certain it is,” said Brigit.

  Morag raised an eyebrow. “Only fairly certain?”

  Brigit opened her mouth to speak, then realised she was on the back foot. “Damn,” she said. “Thought we had you this time.”

  “This time?”

  * * *

  “You want the truth?” said Brigit.

  “Yes,” said Morag.

  Brigit put her glass on the table and Morag obligingly refilled it. “There is no one called Brigit.”

  “Then who are you?”

  Brigit smiled like a cat. “I’m Morag Murray.”