by Heide Goody
“Yes, very good. Now, for the final time. Return to your seat.”
“Not my score,” said the girl and scrolled helpfully. “Yours.”
Cook-Mammonson saw her own name at the top of the screen now and next to it a pathetic zero point two. Students in the hall had their tablets out too and, as Cook-Mammonson watched, it dropped one notch and then two.
“You let her beat you, miss,” said Yang coldly. “You let her.”
Behind Yang, other students were standing. Oh, look, thought Cook-Mammonson, they’ve even brought their own knives. And, despite herself, her heart swelled with pride at a job well done.
Morag Junior turned at the sound of footsteps.
“She’s coming,” she said.
“Then we can proceed,” said Professor Sheikh Omar.
Morag Senior walked through the Vault security doors with a helpless gesture of apology.
“You’re late,” said Junior. “You’re letting Team Morag down.”
“Security Bob wouldn’t let me in on account of me ‘already being inside’.”
“Ladies,” said Omar. “Or is that just lady? Shall we begin?”
The professor stood beside the line of symbols he had drawn in marker pen on the Vault floor two days earlier, a line that held back the mish-mash of alternative universes Cattress had created by breaking the Berry Mound vase.
“Are you both happy that you wish to do this?” he asked. “I have a client friend in Santiago who would furnish one of you with a new identity if you’d care to act as his private advisor on the Venislarn and all things outré. An absolute gentleman.”
Maurice, who had dressed for the day in a bold lemon sweater and a pair of deck shoes, as though he couldn’t decide if he was going golfing or sailing, gave a tiny snort of derision.
“Paulo is a gentleman,” said Omar and turned to the women. “Ignore, my lovely assistant. He’s bitter after he and Paulo had a disagreement regarding the novels of Jilly Cooper.”
“We’re doing this,” said Junior, butterflies in her stomach.
“Yo-Morgantus says we must.”
“And Vaughn won’t pay two salaries.”
“Very good,” said Omar. “The gin please, Maurice.”
Maurice extracted a bottle from his Gladstone bag and passed it to Omar, along with a white cloth. Omar wrapped the cloth around his fingers and upended the bottle to dampen the cloth.
“Finest cleaning substance known to man,” said Omar. “And, given where Maurice does our drinks shopping, not good for much else.”
He bent to rub out one of the symbols.
“Wait,” said Junior. “Just wait.”
“Yes?”
“This isn’t going to kill me, is it? And it’s not going to kill her?”
“No,” said Omar. “I promise.”
Senior took hold of Junior’s hand. “But which of us will remain?”
“When the weekend comes, which Morag are you?” said Omar. “The Morag who lived through Thursday? Or the one who lived through Wednesday?”
“But they’re the same person,” said Junior.
Omar smiled and bent with his cloth. “I like to pretend that the trick to a good disenchantment is like – oh, Maurice what’s that game we spent the evening playing on that wet weekend in Barry?”
“Jenga,” said the lithe little man.
“Yes, like Jenga. It’s all a matter of the order in which it’s done. But, you know, truthfully, all the bricks come tumbling down in the end.”
One of Pupfish’s eyes was clouded with blood but the other widened as he spoke.
“Then, to cap it all off, we all – ggh! – went out for Nando’s,” he told Rod. “And Fluke paid for all of it out of his own pocket.”
“Did he now?” said Rod.
“And my mum was really grateful. Ggh!”
“Is that so?”
“She gave him a big kiss cos, I guess we don’t go out for Nando’s much mum and me. But Fluke’s – ggh! – like a second son to you, isn’t it?”
Next to Pupfish in the office reception, his mum, Kirsten, squirmed uncomfortably and put on a smile that could only possibly fool a half-blind fish.
“Yeah,” she said, unconvincingly.
“But we just wanted to say thanks to you and Nina and Mrs G and that,” said Pupfish.
“We do,” said Kirsten, finally able to say something genuine.
“All part of the service.” said Rod. “Anyroads, look, I’ve got to…”
“Sho thing. Sho thing,” said Pupfish. “Go do.”
Rod directed them to the lift.
“Got things to do myself,” said Pupfish. “Me and Allana are meeting up later.”
“A date?”
“Takin’ it slow, dog,” said Pupfish like he was coolest cat on earth.
“Aye. Slow is good,” said Rod and waited for the door to close before swearing softly to himself.
The samakha thank you party had been a momentary diversion. He went down the corridor a way and into the marketing office.
Leandra was alone in the office, sorting through headshots of pretty young men on the central meeting table.
“Rod!” she smiled. “You can help me find the stars of the future. We’re auditioning for Tentacular. We’re going to have a number one album next year. Unless you’re looking for Chad. He’s out at a chakra realignment seminar. His vibrational energies have been off all –”
Rod set the plush Yoth Mammon toy on the table.
Leandra looked at it.
“What was it you mentioned?” said Rod. “Mutual fact-pooling outreach programme with the local Venislarn community or some other horse muck?”
“They were never going to be taken up for mass production,” said Leandra sadly, touching a floppy tartan spike.
“By any chance was there anything else you shared with the local Venislarn community?” he asked. Rod was rarely angry and it was a novel and exhilarating experience as he now tried to contain his rage. “A book perhaps?”
Leandra frowned.
“It’s just a book, isn’t it? Just words.”
Xerxes Mammon-Mammonson stalked the floors and corridors of his company office. Colleagues and underlings were keeping their heads down, buried in their ledgers and screens. An unsettled mood had come over the place from the very start of the day. Saul Smith-Mammonson had declared in an open meeting that a change of management was clearly needed. His skinned body now hung in the lobby as a reminder to all that the board still had confidence in their managing director and if they didn’t then they’d better come armed.
Xerxes polished his knife with a silk handkerchief as he walked. His chief accountant, Scott-Mammonson, had to scuttle to keep pace with him.
“The surveyors will be in tomorrow to assess the structural damage, sir. It may be that this whole building has to be condemned.”
“We must be able to sue someone for that at least,” said Xerxes.
“Our lawyers are analysing the wording of Lord Morgantus’s edict. If there’s any loophole or wiggle room, they will find it.”
“Good.”
Xerxes stomped down the broad stairs to the lobby.
“And confiscation of our property by the consular mission?”
The accountant flicked through his pad. “All the humans in our storage facility plus all soul cash certificates, redeemed and unredeemed. They made it clear that those won’t be returned and we won’t be receiving any compensation either.”
Xerxes huffed and then spotted a blank space on the lobby wall where there shouldn’t have been one.
“And where’s the picture gone?” he demanded.
“Er, yes,” said the accountant. “They took that too. The little woman was quite insistent. She didn’t say why.”
“I caught the big spider-fish in the washing line, swung it round and smashed it into the fence and I said, ‘Dry yourself off, pal.’ Boom.”
“Yes?” said Barbara politely.
“Ne
ver mind,” said Nina. She’d tell it better next time.
Barbara Gudge, the demented Koloba, went back to her lunch of human face. It was Nina’s own face. It was intriguing to see someone tucking into a cold plate meal of your own face. Nina wasn’t sure if she felt flattered, disgusted or even slightly aroused.
The screen on the hospital room wall was showing Marco the Orderly Reads Purple Ronny Poems. So far, Barbara’s diet (televisual and actual) of the same faces, again and again, had kept them all fresh in her memory and thus in the world.
“You want some?” said Barbara, offering Nina the plate.
“I’m fine, thanks,” said Nina. “I brought something for you.”
“Did you, dear?”
Nina unwrapped the picture. It was wider than she was tall and she’d had a hell of a time fitting it in the lift and then in through the airlock around Barbara’s door. She propped the picture on one of the free chairs.
“Now, this man here. This is Xerxes Mammon-Mammonson. Get a good look at him, Barbara. He’s the managing director of Mammon-Mammonson Investments. Xerxes Mammon-Mammonson. And these are all the blokes on the board.”
“Not one single woman,” noted Barbara. “For shame.”
“For shame indeed,” said Nina. “Now this one…”
Nina went along the two rows, naming everyone and making sure that Barbara got a good look at each of the executives in the corporate portrait. Then she made tea.
“I had a friend,” said Nina. “She told me there were five steps to making a perfect cup of tea.”
“And what are they?” asked Barbara, taking her first sip.
“I don’t know,” said Nina softly. “I never asked her.”
Barbara gestured at the picture of the Mammonites with her cup. “It’s very… kind of you to bring it, dear,” said the wrinkly baggage. “But what’s it for?”
“Don’t worry,” said Nina. “Just forget about it.”
Morag stood and thought. The Vault was back to its original, horrifically disorganised former self. There was probably a lot of tidying up to do somewhere. The merging of dozens of universes must have resulted in at least some breakages.
“Do you have any of that gin left?” she said.
“I’m afraid we’re lacking glasses and a decent tonic water,” said Professor Omar.
Maurice, a man of silent insights, simply passed Morag the bottle and she took a swig.
“Ah, you can take the bonnie lass out of Scotland…” said Omar.
Morag could feel the tight tenderness around her right cheek where Jeffney Ray had struck Morag Junior and, additionally, the lesser but nonetheless real soreness on her left cheek where Junior had punched Senior.
“So, which Morag are you?” said Omar.
Morag didn’t have an answer to that yet so took another swig. Omar put his hand on the bottle.
“Easy now. We need to take care of ourselves.”
“Vaughn told me a funny thing,” she said.
“Mr Sitterson has many fine qualities,” said Omar. “I was unaware that humour was one of them.”
“He told me why you had applied for the tech support job. Sorry you didn’t get it, by the way.”
“And yet” – Omar performed a slow and merry pirouette – “I am down here and the week is not yet over.”
“What did you mean when you told him I was the reason you applied? That’s pure creepy uncle territory. Fancy me or something?”
“Miss Murray, I have absolutely no designs on you or, to be perfectly specific, your body.”
“Uh-huh,” she said and raised the bottle again. Omar took hold of it before it could reach her lips.
“However,” he said heavily, “I am sure you’ve had your fair share of gentleman callers.”
“None of your adn-bhul business, prof.”
“I believe there was a young man, one of Morgantus’s human puppets…”
“Again,” she said hotly, “business, as in none of your, as in bhul-zhu.”
“Sorry,” said the professor. “I meant no offence. Feminine ways are a mystery to me.”
Maurice tittered.
“And my understanding of the internal plumbing is wholly theoretical,” Omar added.
“Right,” she said. “Thanks for sorting out the old two-Morag problem but you can fuck right off now, gents.”
“But despite all this, Maurice and I might be of some small use in a few months’ time, fetching towels and hot water and such.”
The words cut through her annoyance and the edge of the neat gin. She felt a tremble in her legs and reached out for something to hold. Maurice nipped forward and took her arm.
“Oh, God,” she whispered.
“Well, quite,” said Omar gently.
“Or gods,” suggested Maurice. “It might be twins.”
Leng-time, leng-space
Vivian pushed away the rock directly above her and wriggled and hauled her way towards the light. The light was pink, the pink of inflamed wounds and cheap costume jewellery, but it was the only light there was.
Scraping herself savagely but choosing not to care, she emerged, pushed herself over the edge of the hole in the rubble and allowed herself to roll down the pile to the ground.
She hurt and she suspected that wasn’t going to change. She would do an inventory of her injuries eventually. Death was a stranger in this place and so she could wait until she had the time to check herself over.
Time, she thought.
She still had the screwed-up remnants of the Big Bloody Book in her hand. She straightened the pages out, folded them neatly and placed them in her jacket pocket next to the pen nib and her arrow pendant.
She stood. She had lost a shoe.
She distracted herself from that annoyance by inspecting the horizon. The geography of hell did not remain constant but there were definable moods to the landscape. There, a crawling forest of fire. There, jagged peaks and the suggestion of a city. There, a ripple across the world, a sea perhaps, pink on pink. She saw the movement of creatures in the distance, some humanoid, most not. From far, far away there came a desperate volcanic roar: Yoth Mammon, she supposed, a fire of infinite size stuck in her craw. Death was a stranger here even if one wished it otherwise.
Something scrambled across the rocks towards her. It was a handspan high and appeared to be made from poorly stitched sack cloth.
“Ha ha!” it crowed. “You are now mine, fleshing!”
“Your stuffing is coming loose,” she said and pointed.
The ragdoll looked in alarm at the brown wool spilling from its side.
“I am wounded!”
“I can fix it if we can find a needle,” said Vivian. “What is your name?”
The creature immediately forgot its wound. “I am Steve the Destroyer, gobbet! Fear me!”
“No,” said Vivian.
“Yes!”
“Steve the Destroyer is a ridiculous, twee and juvenile name. Whoever gave you it should be ashamed.”
“I don’t know,” said Steve. “I think it sounds dangerous. Steve!” It struck a dynamic pose. “Mysterious even. Steeeeve.”
“No,” she told it. “Not at all.”
Steve kicked at a pebble contemptuously.
“Which way are you heading?” it said.
“I thought I’d try down there,” she said, pointing towards the sea. Things that might or might not have been draybbea oozed along the beach. Something very much like a Croyi-Takk wheeled in the nightmare sky above.
“This your first time in hell?” asked Steve.
“This hell,” Vivian nodded.
“Come!” it boomed as ominously as a doll could boom. “We have such sights to show you.”
“I believe I shall be the judge of that,” said Vivian haughtily.
She debated whether to keep her one shoe on or abandon it. In the end, she took it off and carried it as she and the doll walked down the hill to the shores of hell.
Authors’ Notes
NO – There are no mysterious artefacts to be found embedded in its foundations.
YES – There is a hardened telephone exchange and nuclear bunker underneath the city of Birmingham, built to preserve the city’s telecommunications (and a few precious lives) in the event of a nuclear strike. The Anchor Exchange is one of three such bunkers in the UK, although there is alleged to be a fourth in Glasgow that remains classified. The Anchor tunnels run from the Jewellery Quarter to Southside, a distance of around one and a half miles. Their exact dimensions and function remain a secret and members of the public are not permitted entry.
YES – Astonishingly, the decline of heavy industry in the city has so reduced the demand for water that the local water table has risen to the extent that the Anchor Telephone Exchange must be continually pumped out to prevent it flooding.
NO – There is not an illegal nest of alien spiders in the Anchor Exchange.
YES – Dickens Heath is a village on the outskirts of the Birmingham conurbation developed as a considerable housing estate in the 1990s.
NO – Despite the confusing road layout and uniformity of the housing, Dickens Heath was not deliberately constructed to bewilder and deter the casual visitor.
NO – Thatcher Academy (formerly Tythe Barn Lane secondary school) is not a real school. Any similarity to nearby schools, in layout or management practices, is entirely accidental.
YES – In 2016, the Defence Secretary launched an army cadets scheme in targeted Birmingham schools with the stated intention of using them to combat religious extremism and instil “British Values”.
NO – Army cadets in Birmingham schools do not engage in live fire exercises.
NO – The giant rings on the outside of the Library of Birmingham are not forged from a tungsten-magnesium alloy with a selenium core.
YES – There are the remains of an Iron Age fort at Berry Mound on the edge of Shirley.