Oddjobs 5: The Long Bad Friday

by Heide Goody

  “That okay?” said Morag.

  Prudence nodded and smiled, and raised her arms to be picked up.

  “Hungry again?”

  Prudence made approving sounds.

  “Okay,” said Morag, slinging her girl into her arms. “Let’s take this back inside the meeting room and see how many males we can freak out with the sight of your mum’s tits.”

  She opened the meeting room door with her shoulder and found her seat while the deputy council leader and his CEO bickered about some detail. When Morag sat, Prudence immediately began to wriggle free. Morag lowered her to the floor and let her crawl around under the big table.

  “Sorry, professor,” said Major Sanders, “you were telling us something about Yo Thothothoth-something, the time-eater?”

  “Yo Khazpapalanaka,” said Omar, gesturing to a convoluted ball of shapes on the painting. “As best we understand it, he – it – is the manifestation of time within our universe. Ever wondered why everything doesn’t happen at once? Yo Khazpapalanaka. He will arrive, accompanied by the Cha’dhu Forrikler, who are the maintainers of objective reality.”

  “They’re what?” said the council CEO.

  “You think this is real?” said Omar withering. “You think that anything in this universe is real? These gods – and these are the ones which we can just about conceptualise – they are the true foundations of the universe and will be the undoing of our world. The end of the world isn’t going to be monsters and rivers of blood and volcanoes – although we will have all these things soon enough. What we’re going to endure is the deconstruction of our entire reality. You, sir, might spend an eternity as a super-taut violin string of high-pitched pain. Imagine feeling nothing. Or everything. Imagine you are not you, but an infinite number of copies and all of them having the worst possible wet Sunday afternoon in Cardiff. And it’s always Sunday afternoon and it’s an infinite Cardiff.”

  “A bit unfair on Cardiff,” said a middle-aged woman in a chunky bead necklace.

  “Omar’s gone a bit hellfire preacher crazy, hasn’t he?” said Morag to Rod.

  “I think he’s trying to stamp out any unrealistic optimism in the room,” Rod replied. “The city councillors there are having a hard time getting their heads around it.”

  “So, we need to effectively kill the entire civilian population before physics itself comes apart at the seams,” said the major, clearly trying to keep up.

  “It’s madness,” said Councillor Rahman.

  Major Sanders shook his head. “Fighter jets have already been scrambled from all available bases. Once the codes have come through, the Trident submarines and our other bases will launch their entire complement of nuclear missiles at large urban centres.”

  The city council dude in the tracksuit seemed most upset. “This … this whole thing strikes me as … very bad.”

  “Very bad,” nodded the suited man next to him.

  The deputy council leader quivered with fearful horror. “It’s not going to be popular with the electorate. I mean, I am voting against it. I propose we just back out of this thing straight away.”

  “We’re not even quorate anyway,” said the suit.

  “Oh!” said Chad, looking at his phone and standing up. “Time for the Prime Minister’s address to the nation.” He swiped with his phone.

  The wall screens changed to show the wood-panelled walls of a ministerial conference room. The Prime Minister stood at a lectern. A banner hung from it, bearing the slogan Stay at Home – Follow Instructions – Be at Peace.

  “We had a lot of discussions about the colour of the border,” said Chad. “I was all for green or blue, something calm – with perhaps the reassurance of a slight medical feel. But they went with the attention-grabbing red.” He shook his head.

  The Prime Minister, without expression or tone, addressed the camera directly. “We are facing the biggest threat this country has faced for decades. All over the world we are seeing the devastating impact of this threat. And so tonight I want to update you on the steps that all of us must take in the coming hours.”

  The PM paused. For a good few seconds, Morag assumed this was for rhetorical effect; but no, the screen had frozen.

  “Technical problems?” said Rod.

  The screen juddered, went to static for half a second, then the image resumed. The Prime Minister was no longer at the lectern. A change in light suggested a change in time.

  “Is this now live?” said Morag.

  On the carpeted space behind the lectern, a woman’s leg could be seen. A trail of blood stretched from one side to the other. Morag realised there was sound too: a continuous ‘schlup schlup schlup’. A half-drinking, half-eating sound. A few seconds later the video feed disappeared completely.

  Councillor Rahman broke the stunned silence. “I don’t think that will play well with the electorate at all,” he said.

  “I strongly argued for a green or blue border,” said Chad.

  “That was terrifying,” whispered the council CEO.

  “We might need to try and put a positive spin on that,” agreed Chad thoughtfully.

  “Surely, it is better to fight back,” said Councillor Rahman suddenly. “Those things… You!” he said to the major. “You’ve just been bragging about – what was it? – six hundred men? Tanks?”

  “Armoured fighting vehicles,” said Major Sanders.

  “Has no one thought about fighting back?”

  “The Maccabees,” said Nina. She leaned forward and placed her hat on the table in front of her. “We’ve just spent the last day trying to undo the damage caused by nutjobs who believed it would be possible to fight the Venislarn.”

  “It’s arguably their fault that the world is ending today,” said Rod, glancing at Morag and Prudence. “And not in six months’ time, if things had been allowed to take their natural course.”

  “Then can we not at least come to some accommodation with these things?” said Councillor Rahman.

  “Have you not listened to anything I’ve said?” said Omar. The pulsating mass covering his chest wound shifted and something rolled out onto the floor.

  The councilman batted away Omar’s negativity. “There’s always compromise, always a way forward. You think Birmingham got the Commonwealth Games by sheer luck? Compromise, discussion, negotiation.”

  “I think there’s something in this,” said Chad enthusiastically. “Yes, yes, yes, Professor Omar has painted a clear and definitive picture of how the world is going to end. But is it really all that bad?”

  “Yes, it is,” said Omar.

  “Is there not a glimmer of hope?” Chad asked rhetorically.

  “No, there is not.”

  “Isn’t there a means by which we and the em-shadt Venislarn can sit round a table and thrash something out?”

  “Have you not seen what’s going on?”

  Omar gestured (wincing as he raised his arm) to the screens. Spindly creatures galloped through a city centre park. A hulking shape, bigger than a cargo ship, was surging up the Bristol Channel. On another screen, what looked like a southern European city was wrapped in an all-consuming firestorm.

  “Even if the world is ending,” said Councillor Rahman, his voice a ghostly autopilot, “surely we must make plans for continuity government.”

  “Oh, someone wants to reign in hell,” muttered Omar bitterly.

  “Cos even in hell, someone needs to run the libraries,” said Ricky Lee and cracked a smile.

  “And the museums,” said the bead-wearing woman.

  “Just don’t mention the bins,” said the councillor.

  “I mean, there’s going to be some pretty unhappy tortured souls if their buses aren’t running on time,” said Ricky.

  “If we can perhaps move beyond such facetious comments and get back to the simple business of overseeing the final hours of human life, please,” said Vaughn.

  The door banged loudly and a rotund woman backed in with a wonky-wheeled trolley. “Now, who i
s wanting a nice hot cup of tea and some digestives, eh?” she said cheerily.

  From the way Nina buried her face in her hat, Morag surmised this was the fearsome Mrs Seth. Morag also realised that she was thoroughly parched.

  “Tea here, please,” she said loudly. “And are those Tunnock’s wafers I see on your second shelf?”

  01:00am

  The space under the big table was dark and empty except for the forest of legs around its edges. Prudence Murray crawled into the centre, rolled onto her back and gazed up at the slices of light appearing through the gaps in the table sections. Prudence had never seen stars, but had heard her mother talk about them. She wondered if they looked something like these lines of light.

  The adults talked on and on and on in droning voices. If she let them wash over her, the muffled talk and the darkness of the under-table were comforting, although the floor was hard and cold. When something dropped between Professor Omar’s feet and landed on the floor with a tiny, hard ‘clack’, Prudence rolled back onto her knees and went to investigate.

  It was a small silvery object with a hinged shell that was half ajar. Inside its shell mouth was a glistening wet creature, slimy like a tongue. Its shell mouth was crusted with blood.

  “Hello,” said Prudence.

  The shell creature did not respond. Prudence poked it with her finger. The shell mouth clacked viciously as it tried to grab her.

  “You are a very angry shell,” she told it.

  The angry shell had nothing to say on the matter.

  “I will pick you up and you will not bite me,” she told it, and did just that. The shell flexed its sharp mouth but behaved. “You will be my friend and you will come with me.”

  Beyond the angry shell and the (slightly smelly) forest of legs, there was not much to entertain Prudence under the table, so when the door swung open and was held in place by a noisy trolley, Prudence made towards it. As the trolley trundled inside the door began to swing shut. Prudence did a turbo crawl and slipped out, shell in hand.

  In the corridor she got to her feet, adjusted her string belt – which was far too tight – and went exploring. The grownups stared at her when they passed but most were far too anxious and busy to stare for long. When they asked her if she was all right or okay, she said, “Yes, thank you.” When they asked her where she was going, she said, “Exploring.” No one ever asked more than one question.

  There was a lot of corridor and many rooms. People were busy at desks in many of them. Most of them were talking; a few were shouting. Some of them were weeping. In a glass fronted office, Prudence patted the leg of a man who was sobbing gently to himself and showed him her angry shell. She wasn’t sure if it cheered him up, but he stopped crying for a bit.

  As Prudence continued her explorations, she heard a thumping clatter from a metal panel in the wall. The panel had slats in it to let air pass and Prudence peered through. Something shifted and moved in the darkness.

  “Hello,” she said. “Would you like to come out and see my angry shell?”

  “You can’t see me! I’m incognito,” squeaked a furious, high-pitched voice from within.

  “Hello. I’m Prudence,” said Prudence and pulled at the panel. It popped away in her hands and fell heavily to the floor. Inside the square space within was a little cloth man riding on a creature with many wriggling arms.

  “How dare you disturb me while I’m incognito, fleshling!” snarled the cloth man.

  Prudence poked her head inside. The square space was narrow and ran up past the height of the ceiling and away into the distance. “Do you live in here?” she asked.

  The creature with many arms patted her face with its suckered tentacle. Prudence laughed at its peculiar touch.

  “Foolish question, tiny human!” said the cloth man. “I do not live in this chimney! Steve the Destroyer roams where he wishes and calls no place home!”

  Prudence abruptly remembered where she had heard the voice before, even if it had been in utero. “Uncle Steve!”

  “I am no human’s uncle,” he said.

  “It’s me, Uncle Steve. Prudence Murray.”

  “Who?” demanded Steve.

  “I’m the kaatbari!” she said, grinning.

  Steve looked her up and down. “But you are massive,” he declared. “I did not realise you were so large. Your mother must have a cavernous uterus! I must compliment her on the size of her womb when I next see her.” He struggled to control his squid creature as he spoke.

  “What is that?” asked Prudence.

  “This is my dnebian land squid mount.”

  “And what is her name?”

  “I do not have the time to give names to dumb creatures, gobbet.”

  Prudence held out her pet shell. “This is Mr Angry Shell,” she said. “You should give your squid a name.”

  Steve considered this. “It should be a bold name,” he said, thinking it through. “It should strike fear into the hearts of my enemies. It should be a name suited to a battle charger, one on which Steve the Destroyer might ride into the final conflict which is to come.”

  “Mrs Squiggly,” said Prudence.

  “Pah! Idiotic suggestion!” spat Steve.

  “She is very squiggly, though.”

  Steve shook his head in disgust and disappointment. “So, you’re the kaatbari then,” he said.

  “I am,” said Prudence.

  “I expected you to be a bit more—” he waved a cloth hand about “—fearsome. Have you got any powers?”

  Prudence considered this. “I made friends with Mr Angry Shell.”

  Steve moved closer to inspect the shell and poked it. The shell snapped viciously at his pudgy little hand. Steve yelped and waved his hand about until he was sure it hadn’t been bitten off. His land squid joined in with an alarmed “Mwwa-waa!”

  “I meant stuff like making people’s brains melt with the power of your mind. Or scalpel fingers. Or laser eyes.”

  “I might have laser eyes,” said Prudence and stared at him very hard. “Are they working?”

  “Not at all,” said Steve.

  “Maybe I need to try harder.”

  “You’re far less puissant than I’d imagined.”

  “What’s puissant?”

  “Never you mind, fleshling. Seems like you need a mentor to show you around and guide your powers.”

  “Do you know where I can find one?”

  “None would do a finer job than Steve the Destroyer. If I choose to take you on.” He stroked his rough cloth chin. “I think you should come with me. I have such sights to show you.”

  “Like what?”

  “You’ll see.” His land squid angled itself and began to climb the wall of the shaft.

  “Do you want me to come with you?” said Prudence.

  “I did say,” snapped Steve. “You should listen more.”

  Prudence clambered into the space beyond the hole. The shaft above was ringed by lips where sections of the shaft had been bolted together.

  “Can I have a ride on Mrs Squiggly?” she asked.

  “Of course not!” said Steve from above. “And her name’s not Mrs Squiggly!”

  Prudence began to climb.

  01:04am

  Judging by the faces around the table, some were clearly not happy to have the meeting interrupted by Mrs Seth the tea lady, but Rod for one thought the end of the world ought to be faced with a cup of strong builder’s tea. Actually, he thought it would be better faced with a pint of craft beer but, at times of crisis, one took solace where one could.

  Across the table, Chad turned to Mrs Seth. “Is there any chance you could rustle me up a cruelty-free soy latte?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “There is tea. And a macaroon.”

  Rod untied one of Vaughn’s hands so the man could reach his own fresh cuppa.

  “So, there is no avoiding the destruction of our world,” said Councillor Rahman, who seemed to be finally getting the point.

 
“And the eternal hell that awaits us all,” added Omar.

  “What about Yoth-Bilau?” said Morag. “Kathy said…”

  Omar chuckled, although it was clearly an affectation, as the pain his wound was causing him was writ large on his face. “Don’t be so quick to take the word of our treacherous doctor,” he said.

  “But is it true?”

  Omar addressed the whole table. “There is an apocryphal story that the Soulgate will not truly close around our world, that the Venislarn apocalypse won’t be an inevitability until the arrival of the god Yoth-Bilau.” He searched around on the map and located a mass of writhing red tentacles in one corner. “As the kaatbari is the herald, so Yoth-Bilau is the rear guard. The one who shuts the door behind the horde and seals our doom.”

  “So there is hope?” said the council CEO.

  “I think the electorate would be interested in some hope,” said Councillor Rahman.

  “That’s certainly something we can sell,” nodded Chad enthusiastically.

  “There is no hope,” said Omar with quiet certainty. “For one thing, all it gives us is time.”

  “Time is good,” said Mrs Fiddler, and Major Sanders nodded.

  “If we had a remarkable plan, a way out of this, but no. An impossibly powerful and generally incomprehensible army is descending on us. We are animals in the abattoir. This business with Yoth-Bilau is just the slaughterman stopping to tie his laces. Furthermore, it’s really quite doubtful Yoth-Bilau even exists. Mentions of her are scant and sparse and frankly unbelievable.”

  “But if she existed…” said Nina. “Prof, prof, look at me. What if she existed?”

  Omar shrugged wearily. “Then – huzzah! Put up the bunting! – you’ve got an extra few minutes, hours or days in which to put a bullet in your head.”