The Queen of Yesterday

by Rob Kinsman

  “You said that yesterday, and it took six hours till you managed to fob them off,” said Martin. Peter nodded agreement.

  “What’s the problem?” Zoe peered back out the window at the sea of blue rinse below. “They’re ancient. If we wait twenty minutes they’ll all die of old age. Surely you don’t think they’re going to turn violent?”

  “They have aggressive banners. We have a policy on that.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Zoe, deadpan. “I thought you just said aggressive banners.”

  “Yes.”

  “Are they mounted on spears?”

  “Just sit tight and let the police do their job,” said Nigel, with practiced calm. “I’ll keep you updated on their progress.”

  “I can’t sit here hiding from lunatics on my own time.”

  “They’re not lunatics,” snapped Julie.

  “Of course they are!” retorted Zoe. “They’ve come to the sodding council for help. We can’t even keep up with the parking permits, how are we meant to solve an impossible supernatural crisis?”

  “They don’t know who to turn to.”

  “They’re idiots, the lot of them.”

  Zoe started up a new game of Minesweeper. It took her a few moments to register the hush which had fallen across the room.

  “Everything’s just a joke to you, isn’t it?” Julie’s eyes were glistening bright with anger. “I’m sick of it, you hear me. Just shut up with your sniping and your moaning.”

  “Whoa! What’s got into you?”

  “These people need help, and you just take the piss out of them,” said Fat Julie. “Just like you do with everything else. What’s happened, this dream – it’s frightening.”

  In all the years they’d worked together, Zoe had never seen Julie display any emotions other than boredom, lust or hunger. This outburst was a strange and unsettling occurrence.

  “I’m sorry if I upset you.”

  Julie’s lip was trembling. Martin stepped in.

  “Let’s go and get some tea, eh?”

  Martin led Julie away towards the kitchen, giving Zoe a sharp look over his shoulder as they went.

  What’s going on? When did I become the bad guy?

  Zoe was left in the office with Peter and Nigel.

  “Oh come on guys. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Let’s all just carry on with our work, shall we?” said Nigel, before leaving to dispense his sage advice to other departments.

  Chastised, Zoe started sweeping for mines again.

  Home time came and went, yet still the police hadn’t resolved anything. In the meantime, Nigel had locked the entire staff inside the building for their own safety.

  Julie and Martin were back at their desks. A new cold war had developed in the office, with Zoe on the wrong side of the wall.

  “Do you think we’ll get overtime?” she asked aloud, hoping to break the ice.

  Aside from the gentle tapping of keyboards, there was no reply.

  Zoe had fallen out with most of her colleagues on a fairly regular basis over the years, although in the end the tiny space they had to share meant there was always a tentative truce called sooner or later. But today, for some reason, her colleagues’ anger was more than the usual childish strop. Planet Zoe was turning into a lonely place to live.

  After an hour of sulky silence she decided it was time to try and make amends. But where to start? Of all her immediate colleagues Lopsided Peter was, ironically, the most level headed. Over the years he’d certainly shown less overt dislike for Zoe than the others, so he seemed a good bet. Zoe typed him an email, his preferred form of communication.

  ‘Do you hate me too? Z.’

  Peter never let any email sit in his inbox for more than four seconds without checking it. Zoe carefully watched his face for a reaction. Somehow he managed to read her message then type a response without engaging any facial muscles or showing any hint of human emotion.

  ‘Hey Z. No worries. I don’t hate you. Everyone just on edge. Scary dayz. P.’

  Well, that was something.

  ‘Thanks P. How can I make it up to the rest of them? Z.’

  ‘Money, sex or time. :-) P.’

  She didn’t have any money, and the idea of pleasuring any of them made her sick to the core of her soul.

  ‘Think I’ll give them some time. Z.’

  The reply came a moment later.

  ‘Heals all things ;-) LSP.’

  Oh fuck.

  L.S.P. Lop Sided Peter. How does he know I call him that?

  She peered over the top of her monitor. He didn’t look angry with her; well, not compared to her other colleagues. Maybe that friend of his she’d slept with had said something, or she’d been drunk and indiscreet at some interminable function. Still, at least Peter seemed to have forgiven her for it.

  Lucky I don’t believe in karma or I’d be fucked, she mused to herself, before remembering that by most measures she already was.

  By the time the clock reached half past six, everyone was feeling glum. Rather than quelling the fires of rebellion, the police presence seemed to be drawing growing numbers of teenagers who just wanted to make trouble. Everyone had been advised to stay away from the windows, which was almost impossible to do in the already cramped general office.

  “I’ve got to pick my son up,” said Martin. “He’s staying with a friend. I promised I’d be there by now.”

  “I don’t like it. I want to get out of here,” said Julie.

  Zoe mused on time the great healer and wondered if she’d served enough penance to be allowed back into polite society. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

  “I know how you feel,” said Zoe, in her most empathetic voice.

  “Shut up you silly bitch,” snapped Julie.

  Guess she needs a bit longer.

  “Hey, that’s enough,” cut in Peter. “I know we’re all feeling tetchy, but let’s just draw a line under this. Zoe said she was sorry.”

  All eyes fell on her. This was it, her moment to clear the air.

  “I am sorry Julie. Truly.” Zoe sank her head and contemplated trying to squeeze out a tear. She didn’t, for fear of accidentally shitting herself instead. “I guess I’m just as frightened as you. Maybe I don’t know how to express it.”

  Alright, that’s your lot. What do you want? Blood?

  Julie emitted a histrionic sigh, which sounded like a motor boat powering down, then finally nodded acceptance.

  “See, there’s no need to delete Zoe from our friends list,” smiled Peter. “We’re all having a difficult time.”

  Yeah, must be really hard for you all being normal – I’d punch a kitten in the face to be in someone else’s shoes right now, was one of the thoughts Zoe didn’t articulate. She was getting good at this tact thing.

  Finally the mood seemed to lift, the tensions between them starting to dissipate.

  “Do you think we can make a run for it?” said Zoe to her new friends she didn’t like.

  Martin went closer to the window to have a peek outside.

  Thud!

  A condom filled with paint splatted against the glass where he had broken cover. “I’m guessing not,” he said, retreating to the ‘safe’ corner of the room, which in reality was only about three feet away from the ‘dangerous’ corner.

  Zoe tried to call Nick again. Still no joy. An idea crossed her mind. She dialled the landline in her flat. Someone answered. Game, set and match, Mrs Columbo.

  “Hi, it’s me,” she said.

  “Hello,” rasped Crazy Sid.

  It never rains but it pours.

  “Um, hello Sid. It’s Zoe.”

  “Zoe from down the corridor?”

  “Zoe from the flat you’re in. What are you doing there?”

  “The door was open.”

  Bloody Nick must have gone out and left it open. Sid’s probably urinating in my plant pots as we speak.

  “Is my friend there?” she said urgently. “Can I speak to h
im?”

  “No.”

  “No he’s not there or no I can’t speak to him?”

  “No.”

  “Ok Sid, can you just shut the door on your way out?”

  There was an unnatural silence down the phone. It was as if Sid had stopped breathing, which was a noticeable change in someone who habitually rasped like a serial killer.

  “He’s here.”

  “Who? Nick?”

  “The shadow. He says it’s your fault.”

  “What is?”

  “All of it.”

  Zoe hesitated for a moment, taken aback by how convincing he sounded. But then reality flooded back into her brain. The man was a care in the community case who nobody cared for.

  “If you go now I’ll come and see you when I get back,” promised Zoe. “Then you can tell me all about it.”

  Again, a strange silence. Zoe cupped her ear against the phone, trying to listen closer. There was a strange sound. Whimpering.

  “Sid?”

  She heard some kind of thudding noise before the line went dead. When she called back the line was engaged.

  Ten minutes later, Nigel came in to tell them that the whole ground floor had been deemed out-of-bounds, but by now the reason was obvious for all to see. The original protestors – a harmless if deluded bunch – had now completely dispersed, chased away by the taunts and jeers of the feral newcomers. They, in turn, seemed to be engaged in skirmishes with an evangelical looking group who carried banners naming them as members of something called Waking Dream.

  “The safest thing to do is just stay put,” explained Nigel. “This might actually be a good opportunity to fill in the appraisal forms which were circulated to you last Tuesday.”

  “I’ve got to pick my son up,” protested Martin.

  “I need to get back to my husband and give him his medication,” pleaded Julie.

  “There’s a madman in my flat,” said Zoe. “He may have his genitals out.”

  That seemed to briefly trump everyone else’s concerns, although not in a way which elicited much sympathy. Despite their supposed truce, Julie couldn’t hold her tongue.

  “Is this a new boyfriend?”

  “No. He’s a neighbour.”

  Nobody looked convinced.

  “I say we make a run for it,” said Martin.

  Nigel shook his head. “You’ll really be much safer if you stay in the building.”

  “We could get out through the sewers,” said Zoe, giddy with adventure. “That’s what they do in the movies.”

  “Or we could just use the back door,” shrugged Martin.

  Nigel decided to stay aboard the sinking ship so he could issue advice for anyone left behind. Zoe suggested it wasn’t a lack of health and safety information which had done for the people on the Titanic so much as the huge fucking iceberg, but he remained resolute. There were still nearly sixty other people in the building, and he was going to be their saviour.

  Martin led Peter, Julie and Zoe through the maze of corridors down towards the rear exit. None of them had realised the building stretched this far back, although hopefully the protestors wouldn’t have noticed either. Considering how vast the building turned out to be, Zoe wondered why she’d been forced to spend a decade of her life in a room not much bigger than a cupboard. She’d originally been told that the general office was a ‘central creative hub’ where various departments could be ‘synergistically integrated’. It had always seemed odd to Zoe that she wasn’t even located on the same floor as the other members of the communications team.

  The reason, of course, was that the general office was a dumping ground for members of staff who didn’t actually contribute anything useful, but couldn’t be got rid of for various contractual / political / marital reasons. Deep down Zoe had realised this long ago, but she had also decided to remain in denial for the sake of her own sanity. She just wasn’t ready to admit that she was as useless as the people she was now following towards their fifth dead end.

  “I thought you knew where you were going,” hissed Julie.

  “I’m sure it’s here somewhere,” said Martin.

  It wasn’t. And nobody they asked knew where it was either, although most of them were quick to join their little band of lost wanderers. Alarmingly, a lot of the new recruits didn’t seem to know where the front door was either, which begged the question of how they ever got into work in the first place.

  “Have you got some string?” asked Zoe, a genius idea brewing in her head. They found some in a dusty desk in the obsolete Social Health office, which had been closed down eight years ago after the entire department contracted herpes from one another at the Christmas party.

  “We tie it here, lay a trail and then we’ll be able to tell where we’ve been,” said Zoe confidently. Unfortunately, since the string was designed more for parcels than labyrinths they reached the end of the roll just after the first corner.

  Another twenty minutes later and they eventually stumbled across the fabled back door. As they approached, Martin held up a hand to halt his small crowd of followers. Someone had wedged the fire exit door open with a brick. The members of the makeshift group exchanged concerned looks. Had the protestors found this exit and jammed it open so their fellow thugs could follow them inside? Martin cautiously peered out into the alleyway beyond while everyone else bravely guarded the rear.

  “Hello?” he called.

  Movement from the alleyway. There was someone out there, obscured by a large bush.

  “We should head back,” said Peter. “They could be dangerous.”

  Before anyone could answer, Martin stepped out into the alleyway. Nobody chopped his head off, lobbed a grenade, or swept forward with a scimitar. So far, so good.

  “Oh, just a wee moment,” came a Scottish voice from behind the bush. Zoe relaxed. Alf emerged, looking like he’d got dressed in a hurry. “I was just doing my rounds. All clear.”

  “Alf, you know there’s an angry mob out the front of the building?”

  “Oh, aye?”

  “They’ve been there for hours.”

  Alf shrugged in a not-my-problem way, even though contractually it clearly was.

  “I’m going,” said Julie, thundering past him and into the streets beyond. As Zoe followed with the others she caught sight of Kelly, one of the more overtly perky secretaries from accounts, hastily dressing herself behind the foliage.

  Once again, Zoe’s respect for Alf crept up just a little bit further.

  Once they were safe, Zoe split up from her colleagues. Since she lived in an even more shitty part of London to the one she worked in, time was not on her side. Every second of the journey would give Sid more time to literally mark his territory in her flat.

  The bus to the Underground seemed to take forever. As she sat, frustrated, her phone rang. Another unknown number.

  “Nick?”

  “It’s Skyhawk.”

  “Fuck off.”

  She hung up.

  When she got back to the flats she scuttled up the stairs at speed. Her front door was still open. She entered her home fearing the worst. Having witnessed one of Sid’s solo ‘parties’ before, she knew what to expect. Or so she thought.

  When she later tried to recall what she’d seen, her initial impression was that everything was much as she’d left it. The sofa was still against the wall, the television undamaged opposite. The garish little china bulls she’d bought on a holiday to Barcelona remained unbroken, standing in line on her bookcase. For a long time she couldn’t even remember seeing the blood. Her mind had played a lot of tricks on her in the past, but perhaps this was the kindest.

  Sid’s crumpled body was lying in the middle of the living room floor, almost as if someone had dropped him there by accident. There was a glassy stare in his eyes, not unlike the one he’d had when he was alive. He was finally still, freed from the ticks and twitches which had plagued him even in sleep. He would have made a perfect exhibit in the unlikely event
of Madame Tussaud’s opening an exhibition of inner city sexual deviants.

  Zoe stared at him for a full minute without moving. She didn’t scream, didn’t panic. It just didn’t compute, so she ignored it.

  When she finally animated she went through to the kitchen, filled the kettle and waited for it to boil. She stared at the wisps of steam for some considerable time before returning to the living room to make sure Sid was still there. He was.

  Zoe sat calmly on the sofa, bullet points and action plans running through her mind. Rationalising and depersonalising what to do next. She finally watched her hands take out her phone and dial the number.

  “Which emergency service do you require?”

  Zoe’s lips moved but no sound came out.

  “Which emergency service do you require?”

  “I… um…” She swallowed, trying to wet her throat. “I don’t know. Ambulance. And police.”

  “Please hold. I’m transferring you.”

  If I get a recorded voice saying my call is important to them, I’m hanging up.

  This thought tickled her, and she started laughing. A whimper that soon became a roar.

  “What is the nature of your emergency?”

  Zoe bellowed down the phone, unable to catch her breath. She hadn’t laughed so much since the day Julie had said she was going on a Flab-Busters Boot Camp.

  “Are you in immediate danger?”

  “Ha, ha, ha, haaaa!”

  “Making hoax calls to this number delays the response time for those with a genuine emergency. Your number has been noted.”

  The line went dead.

  It took Zoe ten minutes to calm her hysteria, and then she tried again.

  Seven

  It wasn’t until the police arrived that Zoe realised she’d left her front door open. She was still sitting on the sofa, staring at what remained of Sid.

  “Hello,” she told the two officers, as if they were friends popping round for tea.

  “Come this way, love,” said the female officer, lingering in the doorway. Her partner looked like he wanted to retch.