Oddjobs 5: The Long Bad Friday

by Heide Goody

  “My car’s this way,” he said.

  “Ours is just there,” said Maurice, gesturing to a car in a nearby bay.

  Rod looked at its stark and unlovely lines in the diffuse orange streetlight. “That’s a British Leyland car.”

  “A Princess,” said Maurice.

  Rod felt the touch of ancient memories – childhood journeys in the back of Leyland cars. Hot slippery vinyl seats, rolling suspension, clunky dashboards and shoddy engineering. It might have been the magnifying lens of nostalgia but, as far as he was concerned, the Leyland cars of the nineteen-seventies were the nadir of British engineering. As though the designers had looked at the appalling vehicles produced by soviet Eastern Europe and taken it as a challenge.

  “Aye,” said Rod, trying to break it gently. “I’d rather we went in a car that won’t break down on the way.”

  “It’s a three-mile drive to the university.”

  “Exactly.” Rod gestured to the up ramp. “BMW. One year old. Fully serviced. Nought to sixty in five seconds.”

  Maurice pointed to the Princess with his thermos flask. “Sturdy. Reliable. Meticulously maintained. They don’t make them like this anymore.”

  “There’s a reason for that,” agreed Rod. This was building up to be the longest conversation he’d ever had with the man. Maurice was the silent and diligent partner in the Omar and Maurice franchise. Behind every great man there was a great woman. Or a Maurice. There was also a new and belligerent look in Maurice’s eyes, as though this was a matter of principle and worth fighting for even on the day of judgement.

  “Listen, I’m sure it’s a lovely car—” began Rod.

  “It’s also been marked with various protective wards that will guarantee our safety,” said Maurice.

  Rod tried to read the man. “Is that true, or are you just saying that to win the argument?”

  Maurice said nothing.

  Rod sighed. “I’m going to die. And I’m going to die in a bloody awful car.”

  “They’ll be no dying in my car,” said Maurice. “I’ve just had it cleaned.”

  Maurice unlocked the car, leaning inside to unlock the passenger side. Rod climbed in. There was a lemony fresh smell that spoke of careful and regular polishing of the dreadful vinyl interior. He nearly sat on a bundle of crochet needles and yellow wool. Maurice scooped them out of the way.

  “Never got to finish the baby’s booties,” he said mournfully, passing them to Rod. “Pop them in the glove compartment.”

  The glove compartment door in the huge ugly dashboard creaked. The compartment was mostly taken up by a chunky Tupperware box.

  “Oh, get that out,” said Maurice. “We might need those.”

  Rod exchanged the half-finished woollen booties for the plastic box. “Nice booties,” he said.

  “She’s probably outgrown them already,” said Maurice.

  “She’d have loved them,” said Rod charitably.

  “You think so?”

  “Aye.”

  Maurice turned the ignition. It caught on the third attempt. Rod swore under his breath and wished he had the solace of religion to turn to at times like these.

  * * *

  The lobby of the Library was quieter now, but not yet empty. Most but not all staff had gone below ground. As Morag slowly walked to the doors, she listened to the sound of the city: the sirens, the thunder rumbles, the thousand creaks of reality being torn apart at the seams.

  “There,” said Security Bob, pointing to the August Handmaiden of Prein waiting outside the glass security doors.

  “Yes, I can see,” said Morag. August Handmaidens were hardly difficult to spot.

  The Handmaiden was slowly gouging the glass with the spear tip of one of its thin, armoured legs. Its exo-skeletons were white, as though bleached by a harsh sun. Barbs and horns of chitin sprouted from its shell-like aborted growths. The plates of its massive carapace shifted and slid over one another with the scrape of someone shuffling crockery.

  Morag nodded for Bob to unlock the door. He only hesitated briefly.

  The night air was warm. There was the smell of smoke on the air.

  The Handmaiden angled its massive body forward so that Morag was not faced with its soft underside, but one of its sightless armour plates. The August Handmaidens of Prein had no faces of their own, so created some for themselves. This Handmaiden’s powder-white plates were distended into the shapes of babies’ faces. Screaming babies’ faces.

  Morag looked at the bawling mouth and screwed up eyes of the face before her, She felt an involuntary rush of emotion, a desire to reach out and console that tortured infant. She had never felt a response like that before. Blasted post-natal hormones.

  “Who are you and what do you want?” she said bluntly.

  A segmented claw came round to within inches of Morag’s face. The claw was longer than Morag’s arm. It could have snipped her head from her shoulders with minimal effort.

  “I am Shara’naak Kye and we have come to collect the kaatbari.” The Handmaiden’s mouths were not equipped for speech. Her voice came from nowhere, unaccented and smoothy delivered.

  At the mention of ‘we’, Morag realised this Handmaiden was not alone. In the dark space between the Library and the construction site that filled most of Centenary Square there were other Handmaidens. They waited, patient and still.

  Morag attempted a quick count. There were nine, or somewhere near to nine. There had been twelve once, but three had been killed. Morag had been present at all three deaths, and the August Handmaidens seemed to have taken that personally.

  “A little family outing, is it, Sharon?” asked Morag.

  “The kaatbari,” repeated Shara’naak Kye.

  “What do you want her for?”

  “It is owed to us.”

  “Uh-huh.” She looked along the square in the general direction of the Cube building, even though it was hidden from sight by the conference centre and buildings beyond. “Were you sent here by Yo Morgantus?”

  Shara’naak Kye didn’t seem to like that. Her plates ground together. “We are here on official business.”

  It was an odd phrase, and ridiculous enough in the circumstances to make Morag laugh. “Official…? Right. I don’t think there’s official anything anymore. We’re in an end of the world closing down sale at the moment.”

  “The child!”

  Bob stepped away, his flabby face pale with fear and gestured to the lifts. “I could go down and get it.”

  “Her!” breathed Morag savagely. “She is a person and she is going nowhere!”

  “A female!” said Shara’naak Kye with the delight of someone finding an unexpected treat on a menu.

  “That’s right, Sharon.”

  “Bring her to us. You are still beholden to the em-shadt Venislarn.”

  “Bhul-zhu, shaska. You want her, you try come and get her.”

  The Handmaiden shifted. Claws clicked on concrete. She waved a pincer claw but came no closer. There was something peculiarly restrained about her movements. Morag considered the great interlocking rings that decorated the façade of the Library.

  “That’s Thingy’s Ward of Perfect Something or other,” said Morag.

  “Dee’s Ward of Perfect Intersection,” said Bob.

  “They said it would stop Venislarn getting in.” She pulled a face. “I didn’t believe them.”

  “You think it will stop Lord Morgantus?” said the Handmaiden, light laughter in her voice.

  “Then you go tell him if he wants to see his daughter – step-daughter, whatever – then he needs to come down here and ask. And pay child maintenance.”

  Shara’naak Kye was still. Here was the moment when having a face would have allowed her to pout scathingly, but Shara’naak had to make do with a tortured baby face.

  Slowly, the Handmaidens moved off.

  “That’s it. Piss off back to the hole you came from,” Morag shouted.

  “Terrible agonies await you,” said S
hara’naak Kye.

  “Yeah, been there, done that, left nasty stains on the bed sheets.”

  When the door was shut again, Morag let out a ragged sigh. “They will come back,” she said softly. “For Prudence and for me.” She snatched the beret off Bob’s head and slapped him with it. “And what the hell was that about?”

  “What?”

  “Offering to fetch her!”

  “Just trying to do my job,” he said. “We do have an official job to do.”

  She was debating whether to slap him again or throw his beret back at him when Lois came over from the lifts.

  “They’ve gone? Good. Have any of you seen Vaughn?”

  “He was in the meeting,” said Morag.

  “Was,” said Lois tersely. “It appears he’s gone walkabouts.”

  “Wheelabouts,” said Morag. “He can’t have gone far. He’s not up here.”

  “I think if he puts his mind to it…” said Lois and shook her head. “We need someone downstairs.”

  “To chair that chaos?” Morag grunted.

  “Listen, bab. Currently the big idea circling the table is Chad’s suggestion that we all go outside and clap in support of our brave soldiers and emergency services. I for one—” She stopped, sniffed and wiped her eyes. Heavy mascara smeared with tears. “I for one would like to get on with things and be vaporised by a nuclear bomb before the elder gods of Ur-la-wossname get here and transmogrify us all into pain-lizards, or whatever it is they intend to do to us.”

  Morag groaned. “Has no one heard of maternity leave? I’d just like a sit down and maybe have someone rub my aching feet.”

  “I will massage your feet to heaven and back if I can do it in the meeting room,” said Lois.

  01:35am

  Nina returned to the sub-sub-basement meeting room to find her mum outside engaged in deep conversation with the city councillor. Deep conversation in this instance meant having him virtually pinned against the corridor with the joint forces of her personality and physical bulk.

  “And they did not come and collect because it was a bank holiday,” said Mrs Seth. “So next week, I put out the extra rubbish in bin bags, and the binmen, they refused to take it.”

  “Indeed, Mrs Seth – or can I call you Sheetal?”

  “You can not!” she said, not letting go of the reins of the conversation. “So then I phoned the council to report the missed rubbish collection— But, oh no, you have to do everything ‘on line’ these days. No phoning people. Can no one pick up a phone anymore?”

  Nina smiled at Councillor Rahman’s terrified face as she and Morag walked past and into the meeting room. He might have been subjected to the full blast of Mrs Seth for the last five minutes, but Nina had been subjected to it for over twenty years. He should regard it as a character forming experience.

  In the room, the meeting had broken down into chatting sub-groups. Vaughn’s chair had indeed disappeared, and Vaughn with it. Nina didn’t have strong opinions on that, one way or another.

  “It would be ideal if all residents stayed in their homes,” said Major Sanders.

  “And all I’m saying,” said Chad – Nina couldn’t believe there was such a thing as ‘all Chad was saying’. Chad’s brain didn’t have so much a train of thought as a wildly uncontrolled epidemic of thoughts, spreading out at random and latching onto anything they could. “All I’m saying is that it would be great if, at this difficult time, we could have a moment of national unity. Everybody out in the streets, flags, street parties, celebrating the good that unites us and sending out positive thoughts to our emergency workers.”

  “Your response to this situation is thoughts and prayers?” said Mrs Fiddler.

  “Do not underestimate the power of positive thinking,” said Chad. “The law of attraction states that if we focus on good things then those things will come to us. That’s physics. You can’t argue with that.”

  Nina tapped Ricky Lee on the shoulder. “I need you.”

  “Now?” he whispered. “The end of the world and you think this is an ideal time for you and me to—”

  “I need you to drive me to Sutton Coldfield.”

  “You going somewhere?” said Pupfish, leaning in. “I’m coming too. Ggh! These people are adn-bhul crazy.”

  Morag had shifted a chair to replace Vaughn’s and now, at the notional head of the table, rapped a glass on the table top to draw everyone’s attention. “Let’s get back to business,” she said. “We have things to do before the night is through.”

  “I have some marvellous suggestions,” said Chad.

  “Yes,” said Morag firmly. “We are clearly going to need to communicate our needs and wishes to the general population. This will require a multi-platform approach. Chad, I want you to find an office and work up a mood board for this campaign. Colour schemes, fonts, images, key phrases.”

  “Oh, indeed,” said Chad, delighted.

  “Report back here in six hours with your ideas.”

  Chad gathered his papers, gave a cheery and triumphant smile to all and left.

  “Oh, she’s good,” murmured Ricky.

  Nina gave Morag a good luck thumbs up as she left.

  “And then,” Mrs Seth was saying to the still-trapped councillor in the corridor, “I get a letter telling me that if I leave rubbish out on the street I will be given a fine! What the hell is that supposed to mean, eh?”

  * * *

  Lightning strikes over the Edgbaston cricket ground silhouetted something gently descending on stick legs the height of mountains. It was accompanied by miniature versions of itself – Offspring? Disciples? – that were merely the size of tower blocks.

  A car was on fire at the crossroads on the dual carriageway. Maurice checked his mirrors and indicated to go around it.

  “So this orb we’re going to collect,” said Rod. “It’s in Omar’s office.”

  “The Gellik orb. Big pink jewel. It’s in the mine,” said Maurice. “Are you familiar with the mine under Birmingham University?”

  “Er, no,” said Rod.

  He watched the speedometer as Maurice drove. The man was sticking to the speed limit on the almost empty road. Rod clenched his fists and tried not to comment.

  “They excavated it in nineteen-oh-five as a teaching aid to the mining course that ran there,” said Maurice. “It’s almost a mile in length.”

  “And Omar keeps his juiciest treasures down there?”

  “His Aladdin’s cave. There are some quite rare pieces, hence the security.”

  “Right,” said Rod. He adjusted his head to look in the passenger wing mirror. Something huge and covered with glistening quills had lolloped onto the A38 behind them. Rod tried to wind down his window to get a better look but the handle wouldn’t turn.

  “You have to jiggle it,” said Maurice. “Backwards and then forwards. But not too hard or the mechanism breaks.”

  Rod jiggled the window winder as instructed. By the time he had it down, the lolloping quilled thing had disappeared from sight. He was not reassured by this. A warm, unnatural wind blew a smell like charred wood into the car as it carried on.

  “So, this security,” said Rod. “We’re not just talking locked doors, are we?”

  “There are certain enchantments and protective wards,” said Maurice.

  “Omar mentioned riddles.”

  Maurice hummed in amusement and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “That’s more for … decorative effect.”

  Maurice indicated to turn into the university campus. At the corner, in front of the new leisure centre, a dozen figures cavorted about. They looked like students, dancing to unheard music, ridiculous novelty hats on their heads. Then Rod saw they weren’t hats, but creatures riding on the figure’s heads. Juices dribbled down blinded faces.

  “How far now?” said Rod.

  “Just here.” Maurice pulled over at the roadside. “Through the fence.” He prodded the Tupperware box in Rod’s lap. “Bring that.”

&n
bsp; Rod climbed out. By chance or design, some of the creature-wearers wobbled in their general direction. The earth trembled beneath Rod’s feet. Two of the blind figures staggered and fell down. Further into the campus, a black cloud shifted and mindlessly toppled the university’s clock tower.

  “Old Joe,” said Maurice, shocked.

  “Bugger Old Joe,” said Rod, running round the car. “Let’s get into this mine o’ yours.”

  Rod propelled the smaller man ahead of him. Through the fence, across a short lawn, he could just make out a brick hut. Keys rattled in Maurice’s hands.

  “Just got to find the right one.”

  Rod looked back. Something rustled at the edge of the lawn, struggling to navigate the gap in the fence.

  “Quickly now.”

  “Here,” said Maurice. Rod heard the clunk of a key in a heavy lock. As a shadow crossed the lawn, the door swung open. Rod pushed Maurice inside.

  “Careful!” said Maurice. “Or you’ll fall in!”

  The door closed. The sound of it being locked once more was a lovely sound. Maurice found a light switch.

  Rod looked at the shaft bored into the ground by his feet. The smell of damp rose up from the darkness. A short railing that would only have served to trip him over the edge if he’d gone any nearer ran around the shaft. There was a stout, caged access ladder.

  “Shall I go down first?” said Rod.

  “So, eager,” said Maurice, taking out a pair of fine leather gloves to wear for the descent.

  Something scratched at the door.

  “Come and share with us,” said a reedy voice. The building shook as the titan demolishing the university took another step.

  01:45am