by Heide Goody
“Taken?”
“Charged me.”
“For what?”
“Renting out that apartment upstairs.”
Hattie frowned and then looked worried. “Is it the Smiley Tots? I know you say there’s too many and I know you’re wrong but if it’s bothering you that much…”
“I’m not moving out,” I said.
“But he charged you to rent the apartment.”
“All my money. And I need to pay him even more or he’s going to evict me.”
“Why would he do that?” asked Hattie, horrified.
“He says that the water damage was my fault but he was being kind to me because he likes me and I’m a…” I made a surreptitious glance at my own backside.
“A what?” said Hattie.
“I have no idea!”
The car made an angry beep and slowed. “Insufficient funds to access optimal route,” it said. The slip road for the pay-per-metre was a short distance ahead and closed off to us.
“All my money,” I sighed. “Hattie?”
Hattie blushed. “The new Smiley Tot has wiped me out.”
The car sped up, and took a different turning. “Rerouting on legacy roads.”
We were soon in among the suburban grid of the city, away from the business parks, residential zones and shopping malls we were familiar with. The premium pay-per-metre roads were smooth and tidy but the legacy routes were unmaintained and littered with potholes and obstacles. The car twitched from side to side, finding the best path through the debris.
“You should tell him it’s not your fault,” said Hattie. “Tell him.”
“I did tell him, but he says I’m liable because I broke in to that apartment.”
Hattie stared at the floor. “You can’t be evicted. You just can’t.”
I threaded my arm through my friend’s. “I’ll think of something. Don’t let’s dwell on it.”
The car’s progress through back streets, cut throughs and unmonitored intersections was slow; then we came upon a much more serious blockage. Our car stopped.
“What is it?” said Hattie.
“There is traffic ahead,” said the car. It had pulled up behind another vehicle.
“That’s strange,” said Hattie, “I’ve never seen a car on its side before. It looks wrong.”
I shook my head. There was indeed a car on its side, and something that looked like a huge wheeled rubbish dumpster next to it, which had possibly knocked the car over. They looked like they had been there a very long time. There was no one in the car.
“Can we go round?” I said.
“There is traffic ahead,” repeated the car.
“Yes, but I don’t think that car is going anywhere.”
“It is not parked,” said the car.
“No, it’s something else,” I said.
The car and dumpster blocked the entire road; there was no way Hattie or I could move them.
“We could call an engineer.”
“Running self-diagnostics,” said the car. “No problems found. Engineer not necessary.”
“No, but this is clearly an incident. Can we report it?”
“You have requested to create a report,” said the car smoothly. “This option is not valid for legacy routes without specific travel insurance.”
“We don’t have travel insurance,” I said.
“You have insufficient funds for travel insurance,” said the car.
“I know!”
“At this rate, it would be quicker to walk,” said Hattie.
I got out the car and looked at the turned over vehicle.
“I didn’t mean we should walk,” said Hattie. “The car will work it out.”
The car whirred. “There is traffic ahead. It will add unknown time to your journey.”
“We can’t stay here,” I said.
Hattie got out to look at the car blocking the road.
“If you are unable to proceed, please choose another destination or leave the vehicle,” said the car. “You have chosen to leave the vehicle.”
The doors swung shut. I tried to stop it but the car was nippy and was already driving off, back the way it had come. It bounced in a pothole in what seemed to be inordinate haste to get away.
“Well that was a bit rude,” said Hattie.
“It’s not all that far,” I said, jipping a route-finder. “We can walk.”
I peered over the top of the overturned car. As my fingers touched it, the door sprang open.
“Where would you like to go?” said the car.
“We’re fine, thanks,” I said. “It must be this way,” I said to Hattie.
We walked on along the road. At the next junction, the area changed significantly. The houses here were large, much larger than the ones we’d seen previously. There were houses here which were easily ten times the size of our apartment. I wondered how many people lived in each one.
“I wonder how they get about if the roads are blocked like this?” said Hattie.
As if in answer to her question a commuter drone rose from the back of one of the houses.
“Ooh, no, I don’t fancy one of those,” said Hattie.
“They’re perfectly safe,” I said.
“I’m sure they are,” said Hattie. “But still…”
My attention was taken by the bits of land in front of the houses. They were like the sculpted greenery around Jaffle Park except there was more than just grass and trees.
“The plants are so tall,” I said, pointing. “Why would you let things get tall like that?”
“Trees are tall,” said Hattie.
“Yes, but trees are important. Those things, the brightly coloured things—”
“Flowers.”
“Right. Flowers. They’re everywhere. Just make it look untidy.”
“I like grass,” said Hattie.
“You can sit on grass,” I agreed.
“Exactly. Those things are definitely not grass. Maybe this is what happens when gardeners don’t come and, you know, garden.”
“I don’t know,” I said slowly. “There’s grass by these houses as well. It looks as if those tall things are supposed to be there. Someone’s coming out of that house,” I added in a whisper.
“Why are you whispering again?” asked Hattie.
I didn’t know why, but there was something about the woman that made me feel I didn’t belong. It should have been the woman who looked out of place – her clothes were unnecessarily bright and didn’t seem to cover enough of her to be of any practical use – but, no, it was me who felt I was in the wrong place.
“I said—” repeated Hattie. I pressed my finger to her lips for silence. It did nothing to dampen the volume of Hattie’s voice. “’Y are ’e ’iskering?” she demanded, loud enough to be heard in the next street.
“Can I help you?” asked the woman as she strolled down the path between the strange tall plants.
Hattie and I exchanged sideways glances, both of us startled by the animal that the woman had at her side.
“We’re just walking to work,” I said, and then had to ask. “Is that a dog?”
The woman took a sip of golden liquid from the heavy glass tumbler in her hand and glanced across at the property next door. Another woman in a broad floppy hat and equally colourful clothing was watching through the high metal railings.
“Every home should have one. Lovely creatures. Very loyal.” She looked at us over the rim of her glass. “Knows its place.”
I still didn’t understand. I knew what dogs were – a little jipping of my Jaffle Port told me this heavy and hairy creature was a golden retriever – but what was it doing here? Why was it standing quite happily besides this woman and why was she tolerating it? Even now it was squatting at the side of the path and – I recoiled – defecating onto the ground.
“Oh wait, I know! I know!” exclaimed Hattie. “You’re blind, aren’t you?”
“What?” said the woman.
Hatti
e turned to me. “In the old days, before they fixed blindness, dogs helped blind people.”
I wasn’t sure the woman was blind; she was staring straight at Hattie. She reached out, took my sleeve between a thumb and finger and gave it a little rub. Her face pulled into a strange expression. It was like a smile. Almost a smile, but not quite. “Genuine polyester. You must be so proud,” she drawled.
“Proud?” I said.
“Jaffle Tech standard issue.”
“Yes,” I said. “What are you wearing?”
The woman’s attire was complicated. The colours were bright in the same way as the garden. The sleeves of the dress were very thin, so I could see the woman’s arms. The neckline of her top ran down to the top of her stomach. A split in the side of the flowing skirts went right up to her waist so that her long legs were utterly exposed.
She saw me looking and gave her hips a playful wiggle. “It’s Chanel, darling.”
“You’re wasting your breath, Claire,” called the woman in the floppy hat next door. “They don’t even know what that is.”
“It’s a French fashion house,” I said, discreetly jipping so I could look it up. I understood the word house, but not much more. I glanced at the house behind us, hoping for a clue as to what French and fashion might be.
“I’ve got it!” said Hattie. “Do you need the colours to be so bright because you can’t see where your clothes are otherwise?” She gave an experimental wave in front of the woman’s face.
“I wear colours because they suit my personality,” said the woman. “Some of us can afford a personality.” The woman, Claire, looked them up and down. “I expect the two of you simply eat beans and watch the Smiley channel when you get home.”
“Of course we do,” I said, smiling at the strange question. What else was there?
Claire smiled widely at that and made a strange coughing sound. The dog stopped sniffing its own poop on the ground and looked up at her. The woman in the floppy hat put her hand to her mouth to hide her own smile.
“Oh darlings,” said Claire, “you have no idea how fucked-up you are, do you? Absolutely no idea.”
I wasn’t sure what that meant, but I smiled at the woman. “Will we get to Jaffle Park if we carry on this way?” I asked, pointing down the road.
“Yes, you will,” said Claire and took another gulp of her drink. “But you can do me a favour first.”
“Yes?”
She pointed at the brown pile of dog poop on the path. “There’s a refuse bin a hundred metres down the road. Can you put that in the bin?”
“That?” said Hattie.
Claire looked at her levelly. “Yes. Pick it up, take it with you and put it in the bin.”
“But it’s…”
“I’ve been good enough to talk to you and tell you where to go. You owe me.”
“Do we?” I said.
“It’s your place to do as you’re told.” Claire poked Hattie in the shoulder. “You. Pick it up. With your hands.”
“With…?”
The woman sighed, suddenly tired and irritable. “Do I need to report this to your boss?”
Neither of us wanted that. We didn’t want to get into trouble at work and any negative interactions, in or out of work, could impact on our Jaffle ratings.
Hattie knelt quickly, scooped up the soft pile in her cupped hands. “Happy to help,” she said, recoiling at the smell as she did.
The woman on the next property hooted with surprise and apparent delight.
Claire pointed firmly down the road, swilling but not spilling the drink in her hand.
“That way. Refuse bin. Or take it with you as a gift. I don’t care. But you’re not to come this way again. We simply can’t have you trailing up and down here with your vacant little faces mooning at the houses, can we?”
“No, of course not,” I said, completely out of my depth, but wanting to be polite. I hesitated as I made to go, unsure if I had been dismissed.
“And say thank you,” said Claire.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Yes. Thank you,” said Hattie and even bobbed a little curtsey, with the steaming dog mess in her hands. The golden retriever wagged its tail. The woman, Claire, made the oddest barking sound, like she was really really happy. The woman next door joined in with a sort of loud, rhythmic panting.
Hattie looked deeply unhappy at having to carry the smelly poop in her hands but she swallowed her discomfort and looked back at the woman.
“Do you want us to show you the way back to your house, or will the dog do that?” she asked.
***
Chapter 5
Being late for work was unfortunate. Being late for work and having dog poo on her hands was almost too much for Hattie. Anxiety radiated from her, and she made occasional meeping sounds.
I touched her lightly on the shoulder as we approached the door to reception. “It’s going to be fine.”
“Don’t touch me! You’ll get it on you as well!” Hattie wailed.
I recoiled. I was a long way from Hattie’s hands, but perhaps really, really dirty things could transfer their dirtiness across a wider gap? Hattie was so fanatical about cleanliness, she was sure to be right. If the smell was anything to go by, I would need to be across the street to be completely safe.
“Right, we’ll go in and get you straight to the toilets. You can wash your hands there.”
“No, wait!” said Hattie. “You can’t touch the door with your hands! You’ve touched me. If you touch the door then every person that comes in after us will get dog poo on them.”
“Oh,” I said. I looked at the door. It wasn’t the sort of door I could simply push with I shoulder. I needed to jip the door and then press a button. Perhaps I could gain the attention of the receptionists inside?
“Hello!” I called through the glass, waving. The two receptionists were concentrating on their heads-up displays and failed to see us. I tried again, louder this time.
“HELLO! PLEASE LET US IN!” I waved frantically, trying to ignore Hattie whose meeping had escalated into a continuous keening.
One of the receptionists looked over. She was immaculate in her white admin staff tunic. She responded to my wave with a tentative wave of her own and a look of confusion. I performed an exaggerated mime, trying to indicate that I was unable to open the door and pleading for the receptionist to open it for us. The receptionist slid down from her stool and walked over. She cracked open the door and stood in the gap.
“Can I help you?”
“We work here. We need to come in but we don’t want to touch the door,” I said.
She looked at me and then at Hattie, whose face was crumpled in despair.
“You don’t want to touch the door.”
“No, we’ll make it dirty. We had a sort of accident,” I said.
Hattie held up a poo-smeared hand.
The receptionist stepped sharply backwards, sniffed the air and then stared at the two of us with fresh horror. “Oh no. Can’t you control your bodily functions.”
“No, no. Not that sort of accident,” I said. “It’s not human poo, it’s dog poo.”
“Dog?”
“And I don’t even think the woman was blind,” said Hattie.
“We accidentally touched some dog poo,” I said. “We need to wash our hands?”
The receptionist pulled a face. “How does that even happen? No, you’ve put me right off my beans. Come in.”
Hattie and I trooped in behind her as she held the main door and then the door to the toilets. After a moment’s thought, she stepped inside and turned on a tap.
“There. Now just make sure you do a thorough job and don’t…” She shuddered. “Just clean it up.”
Hattie sighed with relief as she lathered up and rinsed away the filth from her hands. “Oh I don’t think I can remember having such nasty stuff on my hands,” she said. “The smell!”
I used lots of soap and made sure I washed right up my arms. The fur
ther I washed, the further I wanted to wash. “Do you remember that video we had to watch about the correct way to wash our hands?” I asked Hattie.
“Oh yes, that was a really good one,” said Hattie, brightening. “I always do it exactly as they showed us.” She repeated the words from the video. “Left on top, right on top, turn over and interlace the fingers on each side. Rinse and do a nail scrub.”
I was fairly certain that Hattie was word perfect. I wasn’t surprised. “What’s that voice you’re doing?” I asked.
“That’s my posh but friendly narrator man voice,” said Hattie. “The kind who puts deep and deliberate … pauses in the middle of sentences for effect.”
“That’s a good voice.”
“It’s…” She paused momentarily as she jipped her Jaffle Port. “It’s avuncular.”
“That … is a good word,” I said in my best avuncular voice.
“Indeed,” said Hattie in her very avuncular voice, “Avuncular is one of the … best words.”
I smiled and continued with the routine myself. I did it once more, remembering the stench, and afraid it would taint me for the rest of the day.
We both dried themselves. I took a tentative sniff. “I can only smell soap now. I think it’s all gone.”
“Are you sure?” Hattie asked, snorting up great lungfuls of air as I opened the door back out to reception.
The receptionist stared at us. I felt compelled to go and present myself. I held up my hands, and nudged Hattie to do the same. “All better now.” I dropped my hands. The receptionist said nothing so I pressed on, feeling that I needed to make it clear that we were model employees, not filth-smeared incompetents.
“We’re experts at … cleaning up,” I said in a deeply avuncular and pause-laden voice. “We’re … highly trained. No clean-up was ever … more thorough.”
A hand clapped on my shoulder from behind. “You’re on the efficiency leader-board too, I see.”
I turned to see who it was. I faced a tall man with cropped hair.
The receptionist smiled. “Henderson, sir.”
I had seen the man around at times, sweeping through the lobby and such, but didn’t know who he was. Someone high up in another department, I guessed.