Oddjobs 2: This Time It's Personnel

by Heide Goody

  “Three,” said Nina.

  “Two,” said Ricky.

  “One.”

  Broad Street was half a mile of pubs, clubs, bars, casinos, comedy clubs, hotels, fine restaurants, budget buffet eateries and nasty late-night takeaways. On Fridays and Saturdays, the roads were closed to vehicle traffic, not to create an open pedestrian space and street café culture but simply to cut down on the number of drunks getting hit by passing taxis. It was said that Broad Street had everything you could want from a night out, if you wanted cheap alcohol, a fight and a new STD.

  Rockerfellers occupied a space at the unfashionable Five Ways end of Broad Street, between a peri peri chicken shack and the Kowloon Casino. It was a popular spot for lost hen parties, uni kids who had already spent most of their student loan in classier places and, tonight, Tony T and the rest of his Waters Crew.

  As promised, Jeffney Ray had found them a dark corner and four positively toxic fishbowl cocktails. Recycled beats of the latest dance hits throbbed from recessed speakers and set Ray’s teeth on edge. Out on the dance floor, a woman wrapped in a feather boa bopped drunkenly to the music. Tony T spread his arms wide along the back of the long seat, like this was his place, like he was a king come home. Death Roe, Pupfish and Fluke squabbled over who had the bigger cocktail.

  “Done good, Ray,” said Tony T. “Now – ggh! – round us up some honeys.”

  Ray laughed, a gentle respectful laugh. Tony T might be a naïve fish-out-of-water but he was dangerous. “I’m afraid that’s up to you boys. I’ve got some product to shift.”

  “What product?”

  Ray dipped into a pocket and held up a single square of paper. Tony T blinked at it.

  “Ggh! What adn-bhul muda is that?”

  “Activated Kal Frexo runes.”

  Tony T gave him a blank stare. Blanks stares came naturally to fish boys.

  “They’re contact-activated,” said Ray. “Stick it under your tongue. Stick it up your nose. Stick it anywhere you like and it’ll work.”

  “Never heard of them.” He clicked his wet fingers. “Give one to Pup.”

  “What?” said Pupfish.

  Ray held out the rune paper. Fluke took it and turned to Pupfish.

  “Open wide.”

  “I ain’t taking that muda.”

  “Come on – ggh! – that’s not what your momma says when guys tell her to open wide.”

  “Stop dissing my mom, Fluke.”

  “Ggh! I’ll stop dissing her when she stops giving me freebies.” Fluke slapped Pupfish in the gills and shoved the paper in his mouth.

  Pupfish pouted sullenly.

  “It’s warm,” he said. “It’s…” He raised his head and gazed about the room. “Ggh! Are you guys seeing this?”

  “Give me one,” said Death Roe.

  “Only the first hit is free,” said Ray, stepping back slowly, tantalisingly. “I’m around all night.”

  Nina was instantly struck by how shoddy-looking the rune drug effects were. The moment the paper touched the inside of her mouth, the world around her was cast in green and blue light, like the up-lighting used for the baddie in a pantomime, all garish light and deep shadows that would instantly make the audience hiss and boo.

  “It’s like a bad disco,” she said, mumbling slightly around the sliver of paper.

  In the unreal light of the other world, projected over and blurring with the office around them, shapes loomed near and lurked in the distance: fibrous tree-like structures, organic lattices of pipes, frill-edged discs. Dewy tendrils waved in a wind that couldn’t be felt.

  “Like looking at weird shit close up,” she said.

  “It’s like being in an old Doctor Who episode. A really cheap one,” said Ricky. “‘Attack of the Green-Screen Mushroom Men’. What is this?”

  “Kal Frexo leng-space,” said Nina. “Hell.”

  “I’d have thought hell would have higher production values. Is this place real?”

  Nina nodded. Ricky raised a hand to touch a hanging creeper.

  “Consensual hallucination. We’re seeing the same thing. This is an actual place. The drugs are summoning runes. Part of a ritual. But it’s incomplete. It’s a window, not a doorway.”

  “So, we can see them but they can’t see us.”

  “They?”

  Ricky pointed. Nina swivelled her chair. Figures pushed slowly through the fungal plant-life (and the office wall) towards them. Figures. They were round, not humanoid, and walked on shovel-like appendages that might have been hooves or might have been huge fingernails.

  “Leng-space residents,” said Nina. “Possibly priests of Nystar.”

  “But can they see us?” said Ricky, rising with nervous energy.

  The prehensile limbs that sprouted from the creature’s tops bent towards them, like daisies towards the sun.

  “Logic says they can’t,” said Nina.

  She saw a pair of mouths open in the body of one. They moved in speech but there was no sound.

  “Fuck logic,” said Nina.

  “Is it working?” said Ray.

  The pretty girl nodded mutely and smiled.

  “Is it E?” her friend asked.

  “Something new,” said Ray.

  The pretty girl’s eyes sparkled. She had a pretty face but a body like an ironing board. The friend’s body was all hot, slutty curves but she had a face like a bulldog chewing a nettle. One with a beautiful face. One with a hot body. Ray thought it was a crime and a shame. Maybe if they offered do a threesome with him, he’d consider it, but only consider it.

  “What’s it like?” the bulldog asked as the pretty friend pirouetted towards the dance floor.

  “Twenty quid,” said Ray.

  “Is it E?”

  “It’s not E.”

  “We took some E in Magaluf. It was insane!”

  “Fucking hell, bitch,” he said under his breath and under the thud of the music. “It’s not E.”

  “Twenty?” she said, digging in her purse.

  She passed him the cash and Ray pocketed it.

  “Put it in your mouth but don’t swallow it,” he said.

  “Like E?” she said.

  Ray made fists with his hands and said nothing.

  Morag Senior hunched at the bar of the South American street food restaurant, even though attempting to hide was probably drawing more attention to her rather than diverting it away. The young Australian behind the bar finished serving another customer and came over.

  “What name was it under?” he asked.

  “Murray. Morag Murray,” she whispered.

  He looked at his till screen. “That booking was for over an hour ago.”

  “I know. I just want to know where you sat them?”

  “And you are?” he asked.

  “I’m Morag Murray. It’s my booking. I couldn’t see them when I came in and I wondered…” She glanced over her shoulder at the stairs leading both up and down to other seating areas.

  “But you didn’t turn up,” said the Australian. “We’ve given the table away.”

  “What do you mean, didn’t turn up?”

  He put ten fingertips on the bar. “You did just walk in, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, but... When they… It’s…”

  “You’re here now,” he said, slowly, as though he was talking to a nutter. “You didn’t come then. No one came then because you are here now.”

  “But where did they go?”

  The Australian licked his lips and glanced at the bar phone on the wall. It was a coin toss as to whether he was planning on calling the police or an ambulance.

  “Where did who go?” he asked slowly.

  “Eat his skin!” shrieked a tiny voice from within Morag’s handbag.

  “Did something in your handbag shout ‘Eat his skin’?” said the Australian.

  “It’s just my ringtone,” said Morag which, on reflection, wasn’t the best answer she could have given.

  Morag Junior wave
d for the waiter to bring her another beer.

  “Make that two,” said Rod sourly.

  They sat side by side, watching Cameron and Kathy have a fascinating conversation with one another across the destroyed remains of their starters.

  “I’m so jealous,” Kathy said to Cameron. “Six months on a research platform in the south Pacific, just you and the elements and the sunken city of Cary’yeh, home of Zildrohar-Cqulu.”

  “Zildrohar?” said Junior. “I thought he was in the south Atlantic.”

  Cameron snapped the poppadum in his hand, shocked. “Muda. I went to the wrong fucking ocean.” And then he laughed. Kathy too. “It was the Pacific, Morag. I’m fairly sure.” He grinned and pointed at her. “Your sense of direction. Wasn’t it you who got lost in your own apartment once?”

  “In the building,” said Junior. “Those Edinburgh tenements all look the same. And you shouldn’t be a cock about it.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, hands raised. “Mia culpa.” He looked at his phone. “Ah, a text from you, Morag. How long ago did you send that?” He suddenly snorted with laughter.

  “What?” she said.

  He showed her. The text read, WHERE ARE YOU?

  “I’m saying nothing,” said Cameron.

  “Don’t reply,” said Junior. “I think I know where you are now.”

  The waiter came with the beers. Rod downed half his bottle and then asked, “So what was this ‘bloop’ research you were doing, Cameron?”

  “It was the bloop,” said Kathy. “You know, the bloop.”

  “I’m hearing the word ‘bloop’ a lot,” said Rod. “I don’t know what it is.”

  “The bloop. It was a sound. First heard in the late nineties by oceanographers in the Pacific.”

  “That’s right,” said Cameron. “A sound like no other, coming from the deep ocean. It wasn’t whales. It wasn’t seismic activity. Totally funsa wiar.”

  “It was the Venislarn,” Rod hazarded.

  “Exactly,” said Cameron. “A city. A civilisation. A culture far richer and more diverse than any on Earth. But, of course, the really important thing about the bloop is that it might have been the sound of the first Venislarn arriving on our world, the spearhead of their invasion, the great city of Cary’yeh, anchoring itself in the depths of the ocean.”

  “Nah, mate,” said Rod. “The Venislarn have been here for decades, hundreds of years.”

  “But their point of arrival might have been as little as twenty years ago.”

  Rod straightened himself up in his chair.

  “I think one of us is drunk. You can’t arrive after you’ve already arrived.”

  “Time doesn’t apply to the Venislarn the same way it applies to us,” said Junior.

  “And it might be that the appearance of the Venislarn in Cary’yeh called the rest of the Venislarn past, present and future into our world by ontological necessity,” said Cameron.

  Rod was shaking his head. Junior didn’t know what he was on about either but kept shtum and tried to look intelligent.

  “It’s like the Mathematical Universe hypothesis,” continued Cameron. “Our reality has been called into being by the inherent truth of mathematics. Our universe is an expression of mathematical structures.”

  “Yep, it’s definitely me,” said Rod, making a show of looking at his bottle.

  Kathy smiled at Rod. It wasn’t an unkind smile but it was the sort of smile one gave to a stupid kitten that had got its head stuck in a box.

  “It’s like…” She looked around the table and picked up the little silver bowl of sliced salad. “It’s like this.”

  “Salad,” said Rod.

  “Right. Nobody ordered it. None of us want it. But, we all know that if you have a curry a little bowl of salad turns up at some point. Ontological necessity.”

  “I knew there was a reason I hate salad,” said Junior.

  “You like salad,” said Rod.

  “Shhhh.” She pointed at Cameron through her raised palm. “There’s another Scot here. He hears that and I can lose my passport.”

  “It’s true,” Rod said to Cameron. “She’s gone totally native.”

  “Gone native in Birmingham,” smiled Cameron. “That sounds gigginin terrible.”

  “And what do you mean by that?” said Kathy with a sudden and not entirely affected brittleness.

  “Well, it’s Birmingham, isn’t it?” said Cameron. “I mean, I’m looking forward to working here but it’s not like it has much to offer, does it? It’s like a standing joke.”

  He looked from face to face to face.

  “Second largest city in Britain,” said Kathy.

  “More canals that Venice,” said Rod.

  “More parks than Paris,” said Junior.

  “Birthplace of the British Enlightenment.”

  “And the Industrial Revolution.”

  “And heavy metal.”

  “And the balti.”

  “It’s green.”

  “It’s friendly.”

  “It doesn’t pretend to be something it’s not.”

  “It’s not Manchester.”

  Cameron clutched his chest as though shot. “Okay, you got me. Birmingham’s bloody camchai. The next round’s on me.”

  “The meal’s on you at this rate,” said Kathy. “And we need to order.”

  Cameron reached over and put his hand on Junior’s to get her attention.

  “I never realised Birmingham was so amazing. Let’s hope I get this job tomorrow.”

  “Keep hoping,” said Kathy as she browsed the menu. “And Birmingham’s not perfect.”

  “No,” agreed Rod. “The roads are mess.”

  “It’s too far from the sea,” said Junior.

  “The council can’t balance the books,” said Kathy.

  “The tunnels make no sense. You could starve to death trying to navigate through the city.”

  “The accent sounds stupid.”

  “There isn’t a decent tram or underground system.”

  “It’s not Manchester.”

  The waiter came to take their order. Kathy pored critically over the menu.

  “They give these chili ratings but a lot of places they just don’t make the food hot enough.”

  Rod grinned. “Is this some macho thing?”

  “Of course, Campbell,” said Kathy drily. “I’m trying to prove my manly credentials by eating the hottest thing on the menu. I just like hot food, okay?”

  “Well, nothing too hot for me,” said Cameron. “Go easy on the new boy.”

  “You could just join me in a madras,” suggested Rod.

  “Is that hot?” said Cameron.

  “No,” said Kathy and Rod as one.

  “Yes, it is,” said Morag Junior. “He’s being cruel and she’s got a mouth made of Teflon.”

  Rod frowned. “Teflon?”

  “Yes, as in it won’t – I don’t mean Teflon, do I? That’s non-stick. What’s the stuff that doesn’t burn?” There were shrugs. “Famously doesn’t burn,” she said. Responses weren’t forthcoming. “Anyway, just stick to kormas and bhunas, Cameron. It’ll be a chicken bhuna and keema naan for me,” she said to the waiter.

  “Spoilsport,” said Rod and asked the waiter for another beer.

  Rain spattered against the window. The weather had turned.

  “So, what made you give up the sunny south Pacific for Birmingham?” said Kathy.

  Something nudged Junior’s shoe. Nudge, nudge.

  “I wish I didn’t have to,” said Cameron. “I was spending every day studying the Cquluman’i Venislarn, getting to know them intimately.”

  “Intimately?” said Rod.

  “I made friends, I’m not embarrassed to say it. But the rotation I was on came to an end,” said Cameron. “There’s a limit to the amount of time you can spend there, due to exposure to gloxym and fuligin. Besides, I had to come home for my mum.”

  The foot nudging continued. Was it Cameron’s shoe? Was he p
laying footsie?

  “Your mum, how is she?” she said. “I always remember how she used to –”

  “She died,” he said abruptly. “A couple of months back. Cancer.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Nudge, nudge. Okay, footsie was one thing. Footsie while talking about your dead mother was… odd.

  Cameron smiled sadly.

  “I was with her at the end. It was as peaceful as it could be. As they say, sa’frei kantutin ai.”

  “That’s something,” said Junior. “Excuse me.”

  She peered under the table. Steve the Destroyer was trying to hack off her feet with a teaspoon from the pickle tray. She stared at him. Steve the Destroyer stared back with his wooden eyes and continued his savage and ineffectual attack.

  “Lost something?” Rod asked her.

  “Um, no.”

  Junior reached down, took hold of Steve and balled him in her fist to conceal him completely.

  “I just need to get a moment of fresh air,” she said, scraped her chair back and went outside onto the dark side street. The rain was light but unpleasantly cold.

  “How the hell did you g–”

  A hand grabbed her shoulder and hauled her away from the windows and into the pungent shadows of a commercial dumpster.

  “I have spent all night looking for you!” hissed Morag Senior.

  “Ah,” said Junior.

  “‘Ah’? What fucking good is ‘Ah’? Have you been drinking?”

  “Of course, I’ve been drinking,” said Junior. “We’re having a night out.”

  “I’d booked a table.”

  “Change of plans.”

  Even in the dark, the fury was written large on Senior’s face.

  “Your gold top looks nice,” said Junior.

  “This is insubordination,” snapped Senior.

  “I am not your slave, Morag Murray.”

  “No,” Senior snarled. “No, you’re like the bloody annoying twin sister I never asked for. Take off your jeans and top.”

  “What?” said Junior, thinking for a thankfully brief instant that her doppelganger wanted to have angry sex behind a dumpster.

  “I’m going in,” said Senior. “Give me your jeans and top.”

  “But I thought you wanted to wear that gold top and khaki pedal pushers?”

  “Yes, but if I come out wearing one set of clothes and go back in wearing another, that might draw some suspicion.”