by Heide Goody
“You should try one of these,” said Mrs Seth. There was the creak-pop of a plastic lid coming off. “Pakora. I made these yesterday. I make a lovely spice cake too.”
As snacks were passed about, Mrs Fiddler tried to shift around in her seat to look over the chair back at Nina. There was an unexpected twinkle in her eye, and the faintest of smiles on her lips.
“I’m glad someone’s enjoying this,” said Nina.
Mrs Fiddler tapped a point on Nina’s tricorn hat. “So you did it? You went back in time. Last I saw you, you were climbing through the oculus. But you did it.”
Nina nodded. “Georgian England. Seventeen seventy-three.”
“And you stayed long enough to pick up some clothes. Look at the stitching on these.” She ran a finger along Nina’s shoulder seam.
“Three months,” said Nina. “I was stuck there for three months.”
“You smell it.”
“Oi,” said Nina, smiling. “They don’t have deodorant. Or washing machines. Rod gave me a bottle of anti-wolf pheromone spray to cover the smell.”
“Not sure it worked. And did you … did you explore?”
“I stayed at the Old Crown in Digbeth. I ate oyster pie. I learned to ride a horse. Sort of. I met Matthew Boulton.”
Mrs Fiddler’s eyes sparkled. “What was he like?”
“Nice guy. Kind of intense. And I met Darwin and Wedgwood. We got off on the wrong foot. They took exception to my knees. There was a mad woman – Isabella – who was trying to start the end of the world two hundred years early. She had a Gellik orb that she got from my friend, Vivian Grey. She used it to summon these kobashi.”
“The ones we saw through the oculus.”
“Exactly. They were the ones who trashed Soho House. We chased her to Hagley Wood where she was opening a gateway to the end of the world. We stopped her. Just. Then she tried to escape through time with the oculus, but I think she just telefragged herself into a tree she wasn’t expecting to be there, in the future. If I had been able to get the orb off her, I could have used it to rescue Vivian.”
Nina remembered what she had seen through the window to the future Isabella had opened up. The armies of the Venislarn pouring across the landscape, a tidal wave of gore carried in the mouths and on the talons of dhius and dendooshi and Voor-D’yoi Lak. “Bhul, it’s going to be horrible,” she murmured.
“Hang on,” said Ricky, swerving to cut between a traffic island and an abandoned lorry.
“These are lovely pakora, Mrs Nina’s mom,” said Pupfish, munching happily.
“Bella in the Wych Elm,” said Mrs Fiddler out of nowhere.
“What’s that?” said Nina.
“Who put Bella in the Wych Elm?”
“I didn’t say anything about a … wych elm?”
“No,” said Mrs Fiddler. “It’s an urban legend. Except it’s not, because it’s true.”
Nina’s dad was nodding. “I saw the graffiti once.”
“It pops up sporadically, even now,” agreed Mrs Fiddler.
Nina had no idea what they were on about and said as much.
“Nineteen forty-three,” said Mrs Fiddler, settling into teacherly story-telling mode. “Four boys found a human skeleton wedged inside an elm tree in Hagley Wood. A skeleton. The woman had been dead for some time. The body was taken away and there was an autopsy but the police investigation didn’t get very far. There was a war on at the time.”
Nina wasn’t going to ask which war. Mrs Fiddler would only give her a disappointed look.
“Graffiti started appearing on walls in Birmingham. ‘Who put Bella in the Wych Elm?’ In the city centre, in Hagley. From the Forties right through to present day. This graffiti keeps popping up. If you go to the Wychbury Obelisk, it’s probably on there right now.”
“Vandals,” nodded Mr Seth.
“If you say so,” said Mrs Fiddler. “But someone clearly knew something about her.”
“And the body?” said Nina. “The orb around her neck?”
“Well, that’s another interesting part of the mystery. The skeleton was taken away. There was an autopsy and then…”
“Then?”
“They vanished. Skeleton. Autopsy. All evidence relating to the woman. Bella vanished.”
Nina huffed. “Someone stole it.”
“There was a war on. Things went missing.”
“Mmm – ggh! – delicious!” said Pupfish up front.
“He’s eaten them all!” said Mr Seth.
“The boy has an appetite.” Mrs Seth, unfazed, cracked the lid on another container.
12:34am
The Venislarn were always going to destroy the earth. But still, the actual arrival of the end of the world was a surprise.
For decades, consular missions to the Venislarn had been working behind the scenes, keeping the public safe and in the dark. The Venislarn were here on earth, had perhaps always been here, had written themselves into human history and inserted themselves into human society. They slumbered and loitered and played games in the affairs of humanity, waiting for the moment when the Soulgate would snap its jaws around the world and begin an eternity of endless tortures.
In Birmingham, most of the Venislarn had been under the sway of Yo-Morgantus, a mere prince among the great, terrible and unknowable gods who were yet to descend upon the earth. Until now, Yo-Morgantus had confined himself to the top floors of the Cube office building. The consular mission had built its local headquarters less than half a mile away, nine storeys of offices, research and storage facilities, all masquerading as a shiny new city library that the public rarely had the opportunity to use. The outside of the building was covered in an overtly decorative pattern of interlocking rings. Rod had been told that the rings, of a tungsten-magnesium alloy with a selenium core, were some form of protective ward against any Venislarn that might try to breach the mission’s walls. Rod suspected that assertion would be put to the test today and be revealed to be absolute codswallop.
Rod put more faith in the layers of concrete now placed between the Library’s sub-sub-basement and the world above. This level, even deeper than the mission’s storage Vault, had corridors of white concrete and the simplest of strip lighting. It had a definite ‘bunker’ vibe and Rod had no issue with that.
It appeared that most of the mission staff who had managed to get into the city centre were down here. Rod wasn’t entirely sure what value the PR and marketing team were going to bring to proceedings on this final day (did anyone care about colour or font choice now?) However, he did spot the marketing guys in a side-room kitchenette, apparently giving each other tearful, comforting head massages as Rod and Morag walked past.
A leather swivel chair came down the corridor towards them.
It was being propelled by the mission chief, Vaughn Sitterson. He peered round the bulky headrest as he steered himself backwards. He caught Rod’s gaze.
“Don’t mind me,” he said in a jolly whisper. “Just heading to the lift. You wouldn’t press the call button for me, would you?”
Rod could not recall Vaughn ever speaking to him so directly and convivially before. Vaughn’s usual manner was to treat human interaction as a painful burden.
“Er, sure,” said Rod.
As Vaughn wheeled past, Rod saw his hands were bound to the chair arms with cable ties and, furthermore, below his rolled-up sleeves his forearms were wrapped in bandages. Dried blood had seeped under the edge of one of them.
Down the corridor, a mission security guard stepped out of a door and waved. “Mr Sitterson, sir. Can you come back down here, please?”
Vaughn gave Rod an imploring look. “Just take me to the roof. I don’t need any help. I’ll wheel myself off.”
Rod looked to the guard. “You want me to push him back to you, Andy?”
“Thanks, mate.” Andy gave him the thumbs up.
Vaughn obligingly tucked up his feet as Rod pushed him. “There’s still time,” he whispered to no one. “Death is stil
l a way out. For a time.”
“That’s right,” said Rod, deliberately ignoring him. “You keep thinking cheery thoughts.”
* * *
Security Bob chased Nina and her entourage across the Library lobby. “But they can’t all come with you,” he argued as he tried to keep up. Nina’s legs were short, but Bob wasn’t used to moving any faster than a rolling waddle.
“They’re coming with me,” said Nina, unwilling to consider any arguments.
“It’s only key personnel allowed in the sub-sub-basement.”
“You just make rules up.”
“I have the authority to taser you if you don’t comply,” he said in a darker tone.
Nina, who knew first-hand what it was like to get tasered in the back by consular security staff, whirled on the man. “Just because you’ve got a beret and those silly shoulder things—”
“Epaulettes,” said Ricky helpfully.
“—doesn’t mean you’re bloody important.” She stabbed a finger at Ricky. “This is the police Venislarn liaison officer for Birmingham.” She pointed at her mom. “She’s in charge of catering.”
Mrs Seth raised the bags and boxes that filled her arms. “Food.”
Nina pointed at Mrs Fiddler. “This is the best school teacher I ever had and might even be able to help us find Vivian Grey.”
Bob gestured in exasperation at Pupfish. “And him? He’s a bloody Venislarn fishman!”
“You ’bout to get – ggh! – racist on me, pig?” sniffed Pupfish.
“He’s fine,” said Nina. “He’s even been here before.”
“At a time of war?” said Bob, squeaking with emotion.
“This isn’t a war, you stupid man,” said Nina. “This is us … messing about while the world ends.”
Pupfish had his hand in his trouser waistband. “You wanna go, old man?” he said, rummaging around in his codpiece for a pistol. On reflection, Nina should not have let him take the gun from the Maccabees man who’d tried to kill them in Dudley. “I’m ready when you are, dog.”
“Enough of this muda,” said Nina. “Pupfish is our personal Venislarn expert. Pup, take your hand out your pants.”
Bob did not follow them as they backed off towards the lifts, but he did gesture at Mr Seth. “And him?”
“Oh, I just stay in the background and try to make sure everyone stays happy,” said Mr Seth. “Anything for a quiet life.”
Nina called the lift.
As they rode down, Ricky leaned in close to her. “The phrase you were looking for back there was rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic.”
“Right,” said Nina. “I don’t remember that scene. Was it in the director’s cut?”
“I liked that film,” said Mrs Seth. She made sure she caught Ricky’s eye. “The boyfriend drowned.”
12:45am
Someone had managed to find Morag a pair of trousers among the office uniform supplies so that when she sat down in the sub-sub-basement conference room she might have looked like crap in a blood and fluid-stained doctor’s coat with a heavy new-born baby clutched to her chest but – by the gods! – at least she had her legs covered.
The conference room designers had definitely opted for Cold War chic when decorating the place. Bare concrete walls contrasted with stark strip lighting overhead. A bank of monitors on one wall showed various live maps of the city, plus a few rolling news channels. Even on mute, the BBC newsreader did not look as if he was having a good night.
The round conference table was large but only half of its twenty-something seats were occupied.
“The Fifth Fusiliers A Company have already been mobilised,” said a grey-templed soldier who had curtly introduced himself to the table as Major Sanders. “Six hundred and fifty soldiers moving out from their barracks in Sheldon, supported by Warrior fighting vehicles.”
“And doing what?” asked the middle-aged man in a lilac tracksuit who looked like he had literally been dragged from his bed in the last half hour.
Major Sanders sorted through his papers. “Forgive me, councillor. It should have been Lieutenant-Colonel Ambrose here today. We don’t know where he is at the moment. I’m filling in for him. Our sealed orders direct us to initially undertake urban pacification.”
The councillor was Sajid Rahman, the deputy leader of Birmingham City Council. Morag guessed that day-to-day meetings for him leaned more towards the book-balancing, planning approval and library closures variety. Right now he looked seriously and fearfully out of his depth. He kept himself close to the equally bewildered Chief Executive Officer of the council, who at least had managed to throw on a suit and a tie before being dragged here. Morag judged that the tie, with its lurid SpongeBob SquarePants design, was a little too jolly for the situation they were in, but she couldn’t blame a guy who had been forced to oversee the end of the world (or at least the localised aspects of it) at a moment’s notice.
“‘Urban pacification,’” said the Council CEO. “Sounds a bit euphemistic.”
“The British Army does not do euphemisms,” said Major Sanders. “Clear communication avoids cock ups.”
“So, it doesn’t mean shooting people in the street?”
“No, Mr Groves,” said the major. “That comes later.”
Councillor Rahman made an apoplectic peep of alarm.
“The consular mission to the Venislarn has a clear set of procedures detailing our response to the Soulgate,” said Vaughn smoothly, without addressing anyone in particular. “This policy here—” His bound hand flailed as he tried to reach for the printed document in front of him. “This one here – that one—” He gave up and pointed. “—details the army, police and civil response to this emergency.”
Holding her squirming but still sleeping baby close, Morag flipped open the policy document. It was still warm, fresh off the printer.
“Is this really happening?” said Councillor Rahman. “Is this—” he spread his fingers, ‘hey presto’-style over the document, and figuratively everything else “—is this a real thing that’s actually happening? I mean, I’m only the deputy council leader. The major here is standing in for a colonel—”
“Lieutenant-colonel,” said Sanders.
“Right. The lieutenant-colonel’s gone AWOL.”
“And we are definitely not quorate,” said the CEO. “Surely, this can’t be enough people to handle…” He looked round the table. Two representatives from the local council, an army officer and a handful of consular mission office staff including Vaughn, Rod, Morag and, for some reason that Morag could not fathom, Chad from marketing. Down by the screen end of the table in the half shadows sat Professor Sheikh Omar and his companion Maurice. Omar was in a wheelchair, and had an unhealthy pale sheen to his face.
“What’s up with Omar?” Morag whispered to Rod. “He doesn’t look well.”
Rod leaned in. “Better than I expected, truth be told. He took a bullet to the right lung yesterday. Flamin’ Maccabees.”
“He should be in hospital.”
“I hear the hospitals are already euthanising their patients,” Rod said.
Omar caught Morag looking at him. He raised his eyebrows above his black-rimmed specs, silently expressing his surprise at the Venislarn anti-Christ in her lap. Morag tilted her head, a ‘hey, what can you do, eh?’ gesture. She frowned at his chest which, now that she looked at it, bulged oddly, and seemed to be shifting and pulsating. Omar’s face took on a familiar superciliously amused expression, an admission he was perhaps doing something a little naughty and was, as always, playing by his own rules.
“I don’t know if I can even make any decisions on any of this,” the CEO continued. “I’m only the interim CEO. Holding the tiller for Mr Jordan until the nasty business with the waste collection dispute can be resolved.”
“I think we’ve moved beyond striking binmen now,” said Rod.
“But is this real?” said Councillor Rahman, stretching his face as though everything was a nightmare he was st
ill hoping to wake from. “Like, really real? Is it one of those war game scenarios? Shouldn’t we be in the Anchor Exchange bunker?”
“It’s flooded,” said Morag.
“And it’s got a spider infestation,” added Rod.
“Everything is in order and as it should be,” said Vaughn. “We have policies in place and wheels in motion. Euthanasia packs are being delivered to as many residents as possible, the Prime Minister is going to appear on television in the next half hour to address the nation—”
“A live broadcast?” said Morag, who had a low opinion of the national leader’s ability to deliver any kind of coherent message on the first attempt.
“A recording,” said Vaughn.
“A live recording,” said Chad from marketing.
“What does that even mean?” said Morag.
“Recorded as though live,” said Chad. “At the moment it was recorded, it was live. The Prime Minister was live at that time.”
“That makes no sense,” said Rod.
“The PM will address the nation,” said Vaughn firmly. “A clear message will be given to the people of the country. We can rely on their common sense to do as requested at this time. The public will remain calm and through a combined military and medical operation, as many of the population will be euthanised as possible.”
“We prefer the word ‘kill’,” said Major Sanders, looking aside as an aide entered the room and passed him a slip of paper.
“The medics will euthanise,” Vaughn corrected himself. “The army will just kill people. The point is, we all have a role to play and as long as we do that—”
Major Sanders had his hand up. “Lieutenant-Colonel Ambrose is currently on the M54, heading to North Wales.”
“What’s he doing there?” said Vaughn.
Sanders looked at the slip of paper but finding no answers there, put it down. “I believe he has a holiday home in Snowdonia. Perhaps he intends to co-ordinate matters remotely from there.”
“Everyone playing their role, eh?” said Rod quietly.
