Oddjobs 5: The Long Bad Friday

by Heide Goody

  As the play continued, the witch Vivian adopted the role of narrator. Every word she wrote in her hellish prison was enacted on stage.

  “It’s a play about the book about the real things that happened,” said Rod, unimpressed.

  “Self-referential,” said the King. “The play is the book is the reality. And I don’t care if you don’t like it.”

  Birmingham - 03:45am

  At the sound of the announcement, [Ap Shallas wrote] Mrs Vivian Grey realised she would have to tear herself away from her work in order to intervene as the Book of Sand dictated.

  “This is most inconvenient,” she declared.

  She put down her pen (she had not yet found a pen with a better flow and ease of use than the frivolous unicorn-head one) and stood up.

  Lois Wheeler had put some clothes on the chair in the room for her. Vivian Grey looked at them, then looked at herself in the mirror above the sink. Hell’s grime mired her face, and her hair hung in lank strands, framing it. Elsewhere amongst its infinite pages, the Book of Sand held tables and charts which, for those who could read it, enumerated every one of those hairs. The Bloody Big Book encompassed the finite and the infinite, the microscopic to the macroscopic. At this moment, in the macroscopic world, Vivian was aware that her appearance was out of keeping with the rest of the human world and entirely unsuited for the workplace.

  She stripped off her clothes and washed. She sponged herself down with warm water quickly and efficiently, watching the rivulets trickle across her loose, emaciated skin. She held her head under the tap and rinsed her hair and paid little attention to the amount of hair coming away in her hands and accumulating around the plughole. She dried herself off with two small towels and dressed in the clothes Lois had provided.

  There was a formal jacket, a skirt, a blouse, underwear and shoes. Vivian struggled with the buttons of the blouse for a few moments. She had had little practice with buttons in Hath-No and buttons did not favour the one-handed woman. It only occurred to her as she zipped up the skirt that these were her own clothes, a suit she had kept in storage in the office for those (surprisingly frequent) times when encounters with the slimy and bilious Venislarn necessitated a quick outfit change during the work day.

  In the medical kit on the bedside cabinet, she found a safety pin with which to pin back the empty sleeve of her jacket. She used a fabric dressing, snipped short, to tie back her hair. She picked up the Bloody Big Book, consulted the last few paragraphs she had written and decided, inconvenient or not, now was the time. She slipped on the shoes, sensible formal shoes with a decent rubber grip, and stepped out.

  She knew from what she had written that no one would challenge her in the corridor. The people of the consular mission had just been informed that they would soon be killed and released from the prospect of eternal hell by a contingent of nuclear missiles. Their minds were preoccupied with personal matters and Vivian reached the lifts without hindrance or distraction.

  * * *

  A voice spoke over the public address system in the consular mission bunker.

  “Okay, folks,” said the man’s voice. “Just got confirmation that the missiles are in the air. Central Birmingham is one of the targets. The blast will easily penetrate down to this level. Um, instantaneously.” He gave a sharp breath, half-gasp, half-laugh. “So, I guess that’s it. Take care. Take care? Jeez…”

  * * *

  On hearing the announcement, Ap Shallas looked at the pages she had just written in the basement room and saw her immediate future written out for her.

  “This is most inconvenient,” she said to no one.

  The book said she would go upstairs to the ground level, and so she would.

  While the lift carried her up (now dressed in the clothes Lois had given her) she thought that donning her earthly work clothes again was a resumption of her earthly duties. She would have to ask Lois to provide her with a new ID badge. Perhaps it was time to readopt a name she had not used for an eternity.

  Vivian Grey stepped out of the lift.

  The sounds of the world beyond penetrated the glass and steel edifice of the building. The roars of beasts and flames were a constant background hum to the final day of Planet Earth, punctuated here and there by the fainter sounds of explosions and the unique (and frequently mind-melting) calls of certain Venislarn deities.

  The single human in the lobby sat on a chair by the open street door of the library. Outside, held back by Dee’s Ward of Perfect Intersection, were the August Handmaidens of Prein. Vivian approached with firm strides, giving herself a stature and an imperious energy that her frail body truly did not feel.

  “Vaughn Sitterson,” she called as she approached. “I would ask you what you’re doing, but I already know full well.”

  Vaughn swivelled in his comfy office seat. His wrists were pinned to his chair arms with cable ties. His shirt collar and jacket were askew, twisted round so that the knot of his tie was only inches from his shoulder. He stared at her with a wild-eyed look that indicated he had perhaps been through something of a physical and emotional journey to get here. “Don’t try to stop me,” he said.

  “I’m not going to stop you,” she replied. “I am only here because it is written I am here.”

  “You have no idea how difficult it has been to move around on this thing.”

  “Refreshing insights into access problems for wheelchair users,” she nodded. “If you had time, you could use it to rewrite our equal opportunities policy.”

  The corner of his eye twitched.

  The Handmaiden by the door tilted her carapace and her etched shell shifted from one angry baby face to another.

  “We have a deal?” she said smoothly to Vaughn.

  Vaughn turned to answer but Vivian spoke ahead of him. “I have a better deal for you,” she said.

  “You are Mrs Vivian Grey,” said the Handmaiden. “We were told you were dead.”

  “You are Shara’naak Kye. This man is going to tell you where the kaatbari can be found. Overheard the call the young girl made to the switchboard, did we, Vaughn?”

  “I just want it to be over,” he said. There was a terrible bitterness to his voice. It turned into a sob by the end of the sentence.

  Vivian put her elbow to his headrest and propelled him hard out of the door. Shara’naak Kye had to step aside to avoid him colliding with her legs. He rolled across the brick paving of Centenary Square until the chair came to a juddering halt and tipped over in front of the semi-circle of Handmaidens. Vaughn gave a high-pitched wail of surprise and pain.

  “Please, do kill him,” said Vivian.

  “He was going to provide us with key information,” said Shara’naak Kye.

  “Why do you want Prudence Murray?”

  “We are owed vengeance against Morag Murray,” said the Handmaiden smoothly. “She murdered our sisters.”

  Vivian shook her head and exhaled through her nose. “Such petty motivation. And on today of all days. Still, I will tell you where she is.”

  “We had a deal!” Vaughn cried. “She’s in Acocks Green!”

  “But he doesn’t know precisely where,” said Vivian. “And you will need to be quick. We have perhaps less than twenty minutes before the nuclear missile strike on the city.”

  Shara’naak Kye bent closer, presenting her shell face right up to Vivian’s. “What nuclear missiles?”

  Vivian kept her position and her composure. “Our deal. You and I. You inform Yo-Morgantus – san-shu chuman – about the inbound missiles and I, in return, will disclose that Prudence Murray is on Gospel Lane in Acocks Green.”

  Shara’naak Kye swayed in hesitation. Perhaps she was contemplating asking how Vivian could know such a thing. Perhaps she was going to make some parting remark about rejecting Vivian’s offer (even though she wouldn’t).

  “And just kill him.” Vivian pointed at Vaughn.

  “Thank you!” said Vaughn, tied into his chair on the ground. “Thank you! Yes! Yes! Ye—!” />
  His gratitude was cut off by a claw foot driving into his skull.

  Shara’naak Kye ran off, and her sisters followed. Vivian noted with unsurprised satisfaction that they headed west towards Yo-Morgantus’s court in the Cube and not south towards Acocks Green.

  She turned away to return to her writing. There were glass display cabinets near the centre of the lobby showcasing Birmingham souvenirs, and a few Library-specific souvenirs which could be purchased by visitors. In one cabinet were a number of copper-barrelled ballpoint pens in presentation cases. Vivian contemplated the unicorn-head pen held between her hand and the book.

  “This will be much better,” she said and slid the display case open.

  She laid the Bloody Big Book out on a side counter and tested the pens one at a time. One of the lobby lifts opened and Morag Murray emerged, followed by Professor Sheikh Omar. Morag was hurrying and Omar was hurrying after her, but since one had given birth not many hours ago and the other was in a wheelchair and nurturing a possibly mortal chest injury, neither moved with as much haste as they imagined.

  “Think what you’re doing, dear,” Omar called. “You simply cannot go out there.”

  “I know,” said Morag. “It’s hell. You said. And then you chortled.”

  “An absent-minded turn of phrase juxtaposed with the literal hellscape out there. It was inadvertent humour. And I did not chortle.”

  “You did.”

  “Tittered perhaps. Chuckle maybe. But never chortle. A man has standards.”

  Morag whirled on Omar. Neither of them had yet seen Vivian at the reception counter and she watched their furious spat with aloof interest.

  “Are you going to help me find my daughter or not?” snapped Morag.

  “Find her?” said the professor. “If she or we encounter the military out there, they will kill us. If she or we encounter the Venislarn, they will kill us. Or worse. The roads are blocked. Half the city is engulfed in fire. That’s an Esk’ehlad death hymn you can hear out there. Yo-Kaxeos is rising from his tomb. Yoth-Thorani has summoned all the trees of the city to her army and is trampling anyone who even looks like they might once have so much as held a pair of pruning shears. Qahake-Pysh is making haste here from Carcosa, and even the gods don’t know what will happen if she bumps into her ex-husband. That’s going to be an earth-shattering lover’s tiff and I don’t mean in a ‘Christmas Eve at the Queen Vic’ kind of way.”

  “You don’t watch EastEnders!” said Morag.

  “No, but Maurice is fond of serial dramas and one can’t help picking up a thing or two. We have all of that to contend with and – oh! – we will be engulfed in a blessed thermonuclear explosion before we even get halfway to your daughter!”

  “But I have to try! Who knows what’s happening to her right now?”

  “She is going to be captured by the August Handmaidens of Prein,” said Vivian.

  Morag and Omar stopped and turned. Vivian had settled on a pen she liked.

  Morag took a stunned step. “How long have you…?” She gave Vivian a full look up and down as though she had not seen her in ages. “You look … better. Have you recovered?”

  It was an odd question. Vivian met Morag’s gaze levelly.

  “Recovered, Miss Murray? I’m not sure if, after all that has happened, there was much of me left to be recovered. I can say that, at best, I am functioning as a fair facsimile of Mrs Vivian Grey.” She looked at the post-natal Morag and the wounded Omar. “Under the circumstances, ‘functioning’ seems as much as any of us can hope for.”

  Morag stared at her for a long moment before saying, “How do you know Prudence is going to be captured?”

  “Because I have written it so and I have seen it written,” said Vivian. “Also, I told them where to find her.”

  “What?”

  “Vaughn was going to do that anyway.”

  “But why?”

  “Why capture her or why tell them?” asked Vivian. “It doesn’t matter. Despite their threats, they will have to take her to Yo-Morgantus before being allowed to kill her. If you have any hope of finding her, it will be there, at the Cube.”

  “But the bombs!” said Omar.

  Vivian ignored him. “I do have to ask you one thing, Miss Murray. I don’t yet understand, not satisfactorily.”

  “What is it?”

  “Your daughter. The world is descending into a hell, a true hell. All wise people are seeking death right now. Why do you have this need to find Prudence?”

  Morag recoiled, affronted. “Because she’s my daughter. My little girl.”

  “Well, exactly. You’ve only recently given birth to her. You barely know her.”

  Morag gave a disbelieving cough of laughter.

  “Oh, God, you really are Vivian Grey. A perfect facsimile. I forgot how mad you are.”

  Vivian was surprised. “Honest and practical, Miss Murray. Never mad.”

  03:49am

  Nina stood in the train’s cab with Karl the driver.

  “Keep looking as far forward along the track as you can manage, we can’t afford to miss any obstacles,” said Karl. “You’ve got to keep your eyes peeled in this game.”

  Nina peered forward. The track was lit up by the train’s light, but there was a purplish glow across the horizon that drew the eye away. It was either the approaching dawn or the burning city.

  “So they’re important, these donkeys?” Karl asked eventually.

  “Yes, they are. Well, one of them is, and I don’t know which one. That’s why I brought them all.”

  “Makes sense.”

  Nina was impressed by Karl’s ability to assimilate highly improbable information. Either he was in shock, or he would score a high abyssal rating. She pointed. “What’s that on the track up ahead?”

  Karl slowed the train while they tried to make sense of the obstruction up ahead. “Is it a person?” he asked.

  It was a man, lying prone and staring at them.. He scrambled to his feet and moved away from the track, but then stuck out his thumb like a hitchhiker.

  “Am I stopping?” asked Karl.

  “Absolutely not,” said Nina.

  Karl nodded grimly and accelerated as they passed the man.

  They came across other pedestrians, using the train tracks to navigate the city. They passed buildings on fire, some of them so close to the track that their faces felt scorched. They heard the sound of breaking glass from further back in the train.

  “That’ll be the heat,” said Karl.

  The unspoken question hanging between them was whether it was a window which exposed some, or all of their passengers to the appalling heat. They pressed on in silence.

  The station signs were the only reliable markers of where they were. As they passed through Gravelly Hill station, Nina strained to see whether the railway line would be affected by the madness that had taken Ricky Lee’s life.

  “It was a bit screwed up round here earlier,” she said, quietly.

  She could see no sign of the loop-the-loop road from this angle, which was absurd. It was hundreds of feet high; they should have seen it miles back.

  “You’ll see when we go past Spaghetti Junction,” she said, nodding to the concrete structures towering over them. They crawled underneath. There was a sudden, appalling pressure in the cab. They both cried out in pain. Then it was gone.

  The donkeys further back in the train brayed loudly in alarm.

  “Calm down, you bitches,” Pupfish could be heard shouted.

  “What the Jesus and Mary Chain was that?” Karl said, shaking his head.

  “I think it’s some sort of barrier,” said Nina. “We made it through.” She gave him a weak smile.

  “That’s Aston station,” he said as they rumbled over a bridge. “Just Duddeston to go before we reach the city centre.”

  “Doing a great job, Karl,” she said, shifting the oversized hard hat back onto her head.

  “Not doing so bad a job yourself, mate.”
/>   She left the cab and went back to check on the passengers. The donkeys shifted restlessly. Nina liked to think they were excited by the experience of being on a train, but figured they were really just spooked as fuck.

  The railway woman sat with Karl’s mum, employing her powerful arms to keep a donkey at bay. It clearly felt it would be most comfortable standing with its rear end pressed up against Karl’s mum.

  “This is quite undignified,” Karl’s mum told Nina.

  “I run the best train service in the city.”

  “Certainly ain’t no Virgin Trains,” said the railway woman.

  Nina carried on, squeezing past uncooperative and occasionally bitey donkeys until she reached the rear carriage and Pupfish. Some of the windows had been blasted in by the heat. Pupfish stood with the rearmost donkeys. He had his arm round the neck of a skittish one to keep it under control. Nina saw the seats at the very back were scorched and smoking.

  “You guys okay back here?”

  Pupfish stared at her. He blinked broad golden eyes. “Ggh! This ain’t like Shrek at all!” he complained.

  Nina shook her head. “You’re a film star. Consider this a helpful experience. Research for a role.”

  “For what film, huh? Ggh! Donkey Train of Death?”

  “I’d watch it.”

  There was a small lurch as the train slowed.

  “We nearly there?” said Pupfish, peering through cracked and smeared windows.

  “Don’t think so,” said Nina. She hurried back through the crowded carriage, squeezing past and elbowing donkeys that got in her way.

  “What’s up?” she said as she re-entered the driver’s cab. Then she saw it. Up ahead, just about picked out by the train lights, a large form blocked the track. “Is that a tree?”

  “Fallen from where?”

  The giant object was fat, round and tapered at each end. Its surface was brown and cracked like bark, but there was a glistening smoothness to it too.