I was cool.
In a backstage area that seemed manufactured to look messy, Mute led us to the curtain and pulled it aside for us, revealing the stage beyond. He nodded us up with a cold stare, begging us to try our luck.
I was cool.
We stepped onto the stage one at a time. The wooden surface was slick, four instruments spaced around the stage sparkled at us, expecting to be played. Out and over the edge of the stage was the dining room as I remembered it: the table, the chandeliers, the disturbing red of the walls, the wall of tight windows and the rains colliding with them. The only differences were at the back of the room, where a little shack had been set up to contain one terrified-looking sound engineer and where a curtain had been hung over the door to the conservatory. It hid the exit from view. Such a glaring security error in the construction of the manor needed to be covered when they had people hostage.
I was cool.
I adjusted my stool and picked up my drumsticks, sat myself down and tuned the snare. Meanwhile, Mute let himself into the hall via a door on the right.
WHOMP. WHOMP. WHOMP.
I was cool.
In daylight, Mute was bigger. Shadows hid parts of him downstairs, upstairs Mute was a canvas of solid, teen-slaying muscle. Daylight reduced our chances of survival by ten percent, easily.
But even as I made that calculation, as I assessed exactly what I was about to do, twitching my nose and mumbling about how we were aimed at each other, motherfucker I was cool.
Only when I was ready to start, did my cool collapse.
Only when I had to count four on the hi-hat, did I start to piss my pants.
Now, the problem wasn't that I was about to make a run for it, past the giant watching over us. No, the problem was I fully intended to run directly at the giant.
My band escape, I take Mute on to give them the chance to run.
I had stuff I wanted to say to him.
But I couldn't bring myself to count four. I couldn't stop any part of me from shaking. I couldn't fight off the lightning my ribcage scattered across my nerves, reminding me of my last scuffle with Mute. I just couldn't hold my shit together long enough to count to four.
I wanted, so badly, to not be scared of him. I was the most excellent girl that ever lived, and if I was expected to stand a chance, toe-to-toe, with the beast, I needed to be fearless.
I rolled my drumsticks in my hands and urged myself back to cool.
On the right-side of the table, Mute pulled up a dining chair.
He sat down, the chair struggled.
He folded his arms.
He waited.
'Okay, so...' I muttered.
Now, Cora.
My mouth went dry.
I rolled the sticks faster.
My band waited.
I looked at the sticks.
Count four, Cora.
'We're... we're aimed at-' I stuttered, shutting my eyes.
My hand found the hi-hat cymbal without looking.
It counted one, it counted two, it counted three-
And the double-doors on the left-side of the hall exploded open.
~
Judge Rabbit made his entrance. 'I'm here! I'm here! Don't start without me!'
Immediately, my band spun their heads fast enough to break their necks. Each set of eyes screamed at me. I nodded. A nod suggesting I was in some sort of control.
I was not.
Judge Rabbit approached with Derek and his professional walk at his back. Both men were dishevelled; Judge Rabbit's hair had gone awry, he staggered slightly as he powered towards the stage and the sleeves of his white blazer were rolled up.
Derek, while it was only the second time I ever met the man, looked like he recently experienced something that made him uglier.
The Judge spoke with wild arms. 'My apologies for being tardy! A prior engagement took longer than I thought. I don't want to ruin it. You'll see.'
His heels echoed around the room, clicking.
Mute had stood to greet his... boss or master or handler or whatever. With both hands behind his back, he waited - I don't doubt - to be formally seated.
At the other side of the table, two spaces from the foot of the stage, The Judge stopped and took a graceful step back, allowing Derek to swoop in and pull the chair out for him. Sweat beaded on his head.
Six sidled over to me, leant over the drums and whispered, 'should we start?'
'Fuck no,' I replied, without even a hint of melodrama.
'Who is he?'
I sighed. 'He's probably about to tell you.'
Six stepped back, narrowing his eyes.
On the ground, Judge Rabbit got comfortable. 'So, this is it!' He tucked himself in, talking to us. 'My RabbitFootFour!' He presented us with two outstretched arms, unwilling - not unable - to count us. 'Beautiful, talented kids! Scruffy looking, for now, no doubt. Rough around the edges, but nothing a splash of glamour won't sort.' He scanned us from stage left to the right. Six, Keys, Vox, me and Bass, who made him recoil in fright. 'Oh-ho!' he cried and raised a finger in our bassist's direction. 'That poor boy! Mute, son, find him some better painkillers, please!'
Mute nodded.
The Judge absorbed a sip of his freshly-poured whisky. ‘Thank you, Derek.’
Derek stepped back, returning the hip flask to his jacket with a shaky hand.
'Good, good... now, where is our ring-leader? Hrm? Where is she?'
'Fuck.'
He leaned around, craning his neck. 'Cora! Hello back there! Come forward, won't you?'
I stood up and shuffled around the kit. I made sure I had my hoodie zipped up and pulled down; I ran a hand through my hair; I tried to still my breath; I tried to slow my heart.
I walked to the front of the stage, planting myself next to Vox.
Judge Rabbit grinned drunkenly. 'There she is! How are you today?'
I wouldn't give him anything, I remember thinking. I wouldn't give him the pleasure. 'Been better.'
'I bet! Nerves must be wracking you, eh?'
I shrugged.
'Oh don't lie! I know you're nervous! Look at you. Look at all of you, look at the little one next to you, she's dying!'
'She's fine,' I lied.
'Oh-ho, if you insist... To business, then. I assume you've put me together the best band on the planet like we agreed?'
'They're great,' I confirmed.
'As we agreed, when you met me in this very room a few months back, do you recall?' He smirked a sinister little smirk from under his moustache.
My nose twitched. At least three sets of eyes burned through the back of my head. 'Yep.'
'You promised me, in our agreement, made right here earlier this year, that they'd be the best-'
'They play perfectly.'
'Oh, don't interrupt me, girl, are you oblivious to the giant at the bottom of this table?'
~
Wanna know how I felt?
I felt like I was at school, as a new teenager, realising I might be in love.
I felt like I was in the cafeteria, thinking about how we kissed for the first time.
I felt like I did when that bitch with the thong pulled up her back emptied my bag and got a hold of my workbook, in which I had written some lovely, graphic things about my new romance.
I felt like I did when she stood up on one of the seats and made sure the cafeteria knew I fancied my best friend.
Who was a girl.
Judge Rabbit hurled me back to a time when I was just a weak, broken, twelve-year-old, gay girl with a hall of teenagers chanting 'dyke' at her.
~
Judge Rabbit gave me a moment to absorb his threat before he continued. 'So again, before me stand the perfect band?'
'Perfect,' I replied, dry as I could.
'Oh-ho...' Another indulgent sip of his whisky followed. Each time he drank, the glass swayed around in front of his lips. He leant into the sip as opposed to tipping the glass towards him. A single tentacle of hair f
lopped out of place, and every time he swept it back. A delicate, drunk little routine that would be endearing on a friend.
Man, I hoped he'd catch fire.
'RabbitFootFour, my name is Judge Hugh Rabbit Jnr, owner of the fine instruments you play, the stage on which you stand, the room in which the stage is built, and everything beyond - effectively - right up until the borders of the island. I assume our Cora here has told you of me?'
Silence.
'Oh-ho... I see. Well, I’m hosting the return of the annual Mur-Reaper’s Gala tonight. The Gala needs some spectacular entertainment. I was quite definitive that it needed to be perfect. I used that word when last Cora and I spoke. I said, "Cora! Who is standing in my dining room having a bit of a chat with me, having a conversation I'm sure you'll tell your new band about at a later date! Cora! I need my band to be perfect! Don't con me!" I said all of that.'
Every time he spoke, he killed me.
'Didn't I, Cora?'
'Something like that.'
'And wham-bam, Mute assures me you delivered.' He slapped his knee. 'He assured me you did it. He wrote me a lovely letter last night telling me about how perfect your band are...'
He paused.
I reminded myself to breathe.
'This morning, a new day - and an important day at that - he provided me a contradictory letter. He told me my best gal here made a substantial boo-boo on this morning's rehearsal. The sole survivor of my last band, for reasons strictly gathered around her skill as a drummer, made a colossal error in a simple song this morning.'
'My hand slipped.'
'And then he tells me this afternoon, after months of keeping your door shut, with none of your band setting a foot over the boundary, this handsome pale fellow decides to turn yellow, and take his chances in Mute's maze.'
'His foot slipped.'
'Oh-ho... I'm glad you're amused, dear Cora, but I'm having a stressful day so allow me to hop to the point of my visit.' He polished off his drink and signalled Derek, who was... staring.
Not looking at anything. Just... staring.
He caused a lull. He didn't see Judge Rabbit give him the nod to proceed, only when The Judge coughed did he snap out of it.
He shook his head, flicking sweat in his radius. 'Yessir. Sorry, sir.' He approached the stage.
A lead tension hung in the air.
Derek took some time getting to us. He didn't have a lot of ground to cover, but he stopped to fish his phone out of his breast pocket on the way.
Judge Rabbit filled the silence. 'Cards on the table then. I assume you know that because my Murder Gala is tonight, I don't have time to train a replacement for you. I can't kill you, nor is our big dog here supposed to be taking quite so many liberties with your limbs. You are immune to physical punishment and have been for three days. On that basis, I've had to find a new way to keep you all in line. It took effort, I'll admit, but if Derek ever figures out how to work his bloody phone, then I'm sure you'll agree it's been worth it.'
We listened to him but focused on Derek.
His hands shook - a type of shaking that required medical attention and a type of shaking that caused him to drop his phone.
'Oh,' he grunted as he fumbled it in the air.
It was no use, the phone landed face-down.
‘Oh no.’
Judge Rabbit slapped his palm to his forehead.
Derek bent down to retrieve his phone and inspected it. 'It is cracked s-sir.'
'Yes Derek, does it still work?'
'It is restarting sir.'
'Oh for goodness-' Judge Rabbit jumped to his feet, slammed the table and spread his arms to the room. 'I've killed the bass player's family!' he announced. 'I burned the whole house down with them in it! Derek will show you if he ever gets his phone working!'
We processed his words slowly.
Bass didn't move.
His mouth was open, and his eyes were blank.
Judge Rabbit slammed the table once more and scooped up his glass. 'Stick that in your immunity and smoke it!’
And that's how our escape plan ended up in the pan.
~
Twenty-Five
Derek Can't Even
Derek might have found something that could flap his professionalism. It only took killing a full family in a tauntingly familiar fashion to that of his own.
After the big reveal and the eventual screening of Bass's home on fire, Judge Rabbit still made us play and held our families at ransom for our fuck-ups.
During a performance of Lou Reed's Perfect Day, Derek freaked out.
For one hour, Derek stood outside Bass’s house in Eppston, recording every second. Until that point, it was the longest hour of his life - but his day wasn't over.
Judge Rabbit emerged from the property, leading a trail of gunpowder from a bag under his arm.
'Oh, how I've always dreamed of this!' he cried as he produced a lighter (causing Derek to flinch). 'Do I look like a cartoon character? I bet I do! Who's the most handsome cartoon character? I’m that one.’
The recording caught Derek's shaking breath as the flame travelled up the garden path and through the front door.
My band played music in the same room as him, but he heard only screams. Screams of his Mum, and Daddy, and the scumbag arsonists that ruined his life.
The stench of fire on his clothes terrified him, making him tremble and - at chosen intervals - wretch into his dry mouth that craved his medicine upstairs, on the mantel, right next to Daddy.
He didn't think Daddy would be at all proud of him.
When Vox's voice cracked slightly on the rise to the chorus of Perfect Day, Derek considered retirement for the first time.
He stepped over his line. Gone was his faith, broken over The Judge's knee and discarded in pieces to the floor.
Why did he need more gunpowder?
What other plans did he have?
Why did he keep calling it a Murder Gala? It only just occurred to him the word didn't sound like 'Reaper' at all!
We played three songs for The Judge and then he dismissed us and left the room. In the lobby, he asked Derek to check in with the kitchen staff and make sure there were no complications with the evening's food.
Derek, in maybe his only act of disobedience in his servitude to The Judge, decided instead to go to his room to cry deeply.
The mirror over the mantelpiece showed him his whole reflection. He wished it wouldn’t. It showed him an ugly, tired, hungover, and emotionally distraught man. His eyes welled up, blurring the view of himself, and Daddy's truncheon became a vague smudge that judged him.
'Sorry, Daddy. I think I...'
To the right of the truncheon sat his medicine. He picked up the bottle and opened out a few pills into his hand, though it trembled too violently to get the whole handful to his mouth. Most of them tumbled down his suit to the floor. His blood raced through his veins. His heart beat all the beats it should've when he recorded Judge Rabbit setting that house on fire in a fraction of the time his body was prepared to accept and suddenly everything went a bit blurry.
He fell over.
His insides tipped upside down.
He hit the floor
He fell asleep.
Adrenaline-induced narcolepsy.
Derek hadn't dealt with the affliction since childhood, back when the Doctor diagnosed him.
Daddy advised, 'WHEN YOU THINK YOU'RE ABOUT TO PASS OUT, DEREK, DON'T.'
Once that advice failed him repeatedly, he chose not to participate in any adrenaline-fuelled activities instead.
For most of his life, it worked.
But it was back - he realised when his eyes opened an unknown amount of time later - with a fiery (ah!) vengeance to make the rest of his day uncomfortable.
'Oh, dear,' he said to the ceiling.
The rear of his suit had climbed into his rectum. He tucked his tongue back into his mouth but decided not to sit up yet. He remembered why he fell over. He couldn't deal
with it yet. Standing up would almost definitely cause the process to repeat.
But when he was ready to deal with it... how?
The last Reaper - Wilson - retired, and Derek had the cheek to judge him for it. The Reaper saw the coming storm. Wilson watched as Judge Rabbit lined up four teenagers and blew their heads off, one-by-one. He predicted things would only get worse, that the difficulty of his job was set to multiply in dozens. He got out.
Follow his footsteps, Derek thought.
Unfortunately, retirement for a Reaper - immortal, to reconfirm - meant signing a piece of paper and climbing into a box for a bit of a snooze. That sounded delightful compared to what would meet Derek should he choose such a path. Oh, no. Derek would be shot only if he was lucky. If Derek decided to retire back when Wilson did, he might've gotten the bullet.
Not now, no no.
New Judge Rabbit had been thinking about fire because he was idiotic enough to tell him how his parents died. New Judge Rabbit had a taste for gunpowder and gasoline. New Judge Rabbit would certainly kill Derek with fire, he would see it as somehow poetic.
He started to cry.
He didn't want to die, he didn't want to be burned. He didn't think he could become the man Judge Rabbit expected him to be. He didn't want to betray his duty. His duty - the distinct level of sheer professionalism to the man keeping him under a roof and rolling in money - was the only thing he had ever been dedicated to.
He was stuck.
At his fingertips, he grazed a pill.
He examined the scenario to find he had fallen amongst a few of them. The handful he spilt before the fall surrounded him.
So, one-by-one, he popped them into his mouth, numbing himself to his evening and whatever it held for him.
The carpet felt nice.
~
Twenty-Six
Under the Hood I: School
This is the part of the story I struggle with.
Grim managed his first two sends by the skin of his teeth, and that was with the cloak on. Without it, the ghouls would've gotten both those ghosts.
For some reason, Grim took the cloak off.
Sometimes I wish Mum had swallowed me.
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