Oddjobs 5: The Long Bad Friday

by Heide Goody

  “For what?”

  The King in Crimson strolled up behind Rod and stood next to him. With the extra height the litter bin gave Rod, he was still only a couple of heads above the creature. Rod looked at the dried and crusted blood soaking the cowl. A fly buzzed about the King’s head. Abstractedly, Rod wondered if it was a real earth fly, drawn to this mostly invisible entity, or if it too was apparition, a ghost-fly.

  “River, raver, rover? Does he perhaps know someone called Roger?” the King mused.

  “Not helping,” Rod muttered. The cord was pressing up against his jaw, perhaps even his carotid artery. There was a greying at the edge of his vision and he could feel a headachey pressure building inside him.

  “Letter, dog,” said Fluke.

  Malcolm gasped, swung precariously and managed to spit out, “A!”

  “Lucky,” said Fluke and drew the letter in the second space.

  There were sounds of derision from the crowd: Venislarn curses and English shouts of “Too easy!”

  “Ggh! One letter left,” said Fluke.

  Malcolm attempted a shrug but it wasn’t possible in his position. “Could be anything.”

  “Guess, dog.”

  “Give him a clue at least,” said Rod.

  Fluke gave a display of gallant swagger. “Sure,” he said. “It’s what I’m gonna be one day.”

  “What?” said Malcolm.

  “R-A-something-E-R,” said the King in Crimson. “Rager? Raper?”

  “P,” blurted Rod. “It’s P.”

  Malcolm tried to twist to look at him, but there wasn’t enough give in the rope. “What? Being funny? C?” he called to Fluke. “Racer?”

  Fluke picked up the rifle. Malcolm began to shout. Fluke fired in concentrated full auto. There was a dull thud. Malcolm’s lower leg lay on the floor before them, flesh, bone and trousers roughly severed by gunfire.

  Malcolm grunted, hopped, then slipped and swung free. Fluke watched him kick feebly before shooting him again. Malcolm jerked once and fell still, his corpse swinging with the momentum of his final moments.

  “Well, G-man,” said Fluke, turning to aim at Rod.

  “It’s P,” said Rod and Fluke filled it in.

  “Raper?” said the King in Crimson.

  “Like Tupac, right?” said Rod.

  “Bes’ rapper there ever was,” said Fluke, wiping the bloody letters from the glass with his hand.

  Rod tried to take a breath and straighten himself up. He wasn’t just up against random barbarity. There was a strong chance he was going to be killed by youth illiteracy.

  07:53am

  Prudence trudged along the canal path, her arms wrapped around her wet body. Water trickled from her clothes and down her legs. The sensation made her twitch and shiver. She looked back and saw she was leaving a little trail of water droplets on the path behind her. She had goosebumps on her arms and an unpleasant tightness in her throat. She had swallowed a lot of canal water. She could feel Yoth Bilau’s warmth on her back, but it was not enough. She was cold. With so much of the world on fire, it seemed unfair that she should feel cold.

  Ahead, where the path split to go both under and over a bridge, a grey-haired woman sat on a low wall. She waved at Prudence. “Young woman! Over here!”

  Prudence did not wave back. Her arms were too busy hugging herself.

  On the wall, to one side of the woman, was a big brown hardbacked book. On her other side was a small pile of folded clothes. Prudence saw the woman had only one arm, the sleeve of her jacket pinned back over the lost arm.

  “You are Prudence Murray,” said the woman.

  Prudence abruptly recognised her. “You are the Yoth-Kreylah ap Shallas,” she said.

  “I was,” said the woman. “I think I am Vivian Grey again.”

  “You were in Hath-No.”

  “I was brought back.”

  Prudence nodded. The woman looked very different from the last time Prudence had seen her, in the vision Crippen Ai had provided. Then, the Yoth-Kreylah ap Shallas, had been buried at the centre of a writing machine. Now— Prudence gave her a long look. Now she looked like an elderly aunt. Not a very nice one.

  “What happened to your arm?” said Prudence.

  “It was eaten by a carpet worm in a jagrahad forest,” said Vivian Grey. “Most people would consider that a rude question.”

  “Was it a rude question?”

  “I am not most people,” said Vivian Grey. “I prefer honesty to politeness.”

  “Are you honest?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are we going to die?”

  “Everyone dies,” said Vivian Grey.

  Prudence nodded and couldn’t help but think of what had recently happened. “We jumped off the top of the building. He was my mum’s friend.”

  “Rod Campbell,” said Vivian.

  “I couldn’t find him afterwards.”

  “No.”

  Prudence sniffed. It wasn’t because she was sad, although she was. She had lost Steve the Destroyer, and Yang Mammon-Mammonson, and Rod, and had seen her mum for a short time but it hadn’t really been her mum, not in the end. She sniffed because her throat and nose felt funny. It was probably something to do with all the canal water she had swallowed. But she was sad, all the same.

  “Is that the book that has everything ever written in it?” she asked.

  “The Book of Sand,” said Vivian. “The Bloody Big Book.”

  “And it told you I would be here.”

  “It did.”

  Prudence pointed. “So are those clothes for me?”

  “They are.”

  Without hesitation, Prudence stripped off her T-shirt and reached for the grey hoodie. “Is my mum dead?”

  “No.”

  “Rod?”

  “No.”

  “Steve?”

  “No.”

  “Yang?”

  Vivian paused to remember for a moment. “No.”

  Her skin was still wet, but the feel of the soft dry material against Prudence’s body was wonderful. She tried to undo the wet string knot that kept her shorts on. “Will you help me find my mum?”

  “No,” said Vivian. “I need you to come with me.”

  “Where to?”

  “A place where I can finish this book.”

  “Why?”

  “Why what?” said Vivian. “Why do I need to finish the book? Or why do I need you to come with me? You should aim for clarity in all communication.”

  “Both,” said Prudence. She gave up on the knot and forced the shorts down. They pinched her hips painfully, but she forced them off and picked up the elasticated jogging trousers.

  “I must write the book because the world exists,” said Vivian.

  Prudence made an unimpressed noise. “You should aim for clarity in all communication.”

  “And you should be more respectful when talking to me.”

  “You prefer honesty to politeness.”

  “It is possible to possess both,” said Vivian. “I can do it and so can you.”

  The trousers were baggy and long. Prudence pulled the drawstring at the waist tight and tried to tie a knot. Knots were not one of her strong points.

  “Do not look to me for help,” said Vivian. “Having only one hand has certain disadvantages.”

  “Is that why you need me?” said Prudence. “Because I’ve got two hands?”

  “No. I need the kaatbari. I need a young woman with imagination.” Vivian appraised Prudence at length. “You will need to roll the trouser bottoms up but, otherwise, the clothes are a good fit.”

  “I think I needed something smaller,” said Prudence.

  “You’re nearly as big as Nina Seth and those are the smallest clothes I could find.”

  “Who is Nina Seth? I’ve met her, haven’t I?”

  “Yes. She is somewhere in the city. She has a donkey and is looking for you and me.”

  “I’ve never seen a donkey before,” said Prudence.
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  Vivian’s expression stiffened but she had nothing to say about that. “Come,” she said, standing. “We have a bit of a walk ahead of us.”

  Carrying the book, Vivian led the way. Prudence followed her, down the lower fork of the path and into the darkness under the bridge.

  07:58am

  A light appeared in front of Morag and, by the light, she saw a table.

  She sat on a chair at the table. She looked at her surroundings as though waking from a dream. The walls, floor and low ceiling were a soft peachy pink. They were warm to the touch. The table was composed of the same stuff: a stiff extrusion of the same soft tissue, like a table-shaped subdermal implant. Brigit was sitting in the chair opposite. She had decided to put on some clothes for once. She wore an outfit of grey spongey material, as though an avantgarde clothes designer had decided to dress her in tripe.

  Brigit had a sour look on her face. Brigit always had a sour look on her face.

  Morag looked about the fleshy chamber which Morgantus had constructed inside himself. With chairs and tables and soft mood lighting, it was like he had tried to recreate a cosy café bar inside the chambers of a whale’s heart. She understood Morgantus had created this space inside himself; she also understood he had done no such thing, that she was still firmly wrapped in his flesh, his orifices against hers, and he was merely creating a dream of a physical space.

  “What kind of a game do you think you’re playing here?” she said out loud. “This is well creepy. I’m not playing.”

  There was a bottle of wine and glasses on the table.

  “But – there’s a bottle of wine,” she said and reached across. She looked at the label. She couldn’t read it properly – this was a dream of sorts after all – but she got the impression it said something like Chateau Vino Villa de Cote du Sol blah blah blah, a general impression of a cheap and cheerful white wine. She poured a glass for herself and, as an afterthought, one for Brigit. When Brigit didn’t respond, Morag slid it across the table to her.

  “What is it with you?” said Morag. “Do you suffer from Resting Bitch Face, or are you actually a miserable cow?”

  Brigit snatched up her wine and held it close to her chin. “Do you think I care what you think?”

  “I don’t know,” said Morag. “I really don’t know anything about you, do I? You’re a name, a perfect body and a bloody pout, and that’s it. I don’t even know your surname.”

  Morag saw the miniscule movements around Brigit’s eyes, micro-frowns. Maybe even Brigit didn’t know her own surname. Morgantus liked to play with his pets, removing and inserting memories as he wished. It was quite possible Brigit wasn’t even her real name.

  “You think I have a perfect body?” said Brigit.

  “Fishing for compliments, dear?”

  “I’m wondering why you care.”

  “Who wouldn’t want a great body?”

  “You think men don’t find you attractive?” said Brigit. “Was there a man you couldn’t seduce with the body you’ve got?”

  Morag snorted at the word ‘seduce’. It felt stupidly old-fashioned. “Okay, in terms of pulling, snogging, shagging, I’ve not struggled to—” She shrugged. “Maybe I set a low bar. Maybe I’m lazy like that. But this is men we’re talking about, right? That doesn’t change the facts. You’ve got a stunning figure. Young and healthy and—”

  Brigit smirked. It was a smile of sorts. “Because the young and healthy have got so much to live for, haven’t they?”

  “Can you not take a fucking compliment?” said Morag and laughed. She topped up her glass and saw that Brigit had barely touched hers. “I don’t know if you’re even into men?”

  Brigit put her hand to the wall of their cosy booth. “Yo-Morgantus is the one I serve, the one I love.”

  “Did he make you say that? Are you under duress? Give me a sign. Blink once for yes, twice for no.”

  “I make my own choices.”

  “But he could have made you say that.”

  “Of my own free will.”

  “He might have made you think that.”

  “Are you just going to say that to everything I say?”

  “But it’s true.”

  “And you can’t prove it one way or the other.”

  “Doesn’t stop it being true,” said Morag.

  “Or irritating,” said Brigit. “You want us to have an honest conversation?”

  “I’d like you to drink up,” said Morag. “You’re falling behind.”

  With a spiteful look on her face, Brigit downed her glass and watched Morag refill it. “If you want the truth, this is it. I chose to serve Lord Morgantus.”

  “Why? He’s an evil alien blob monster.”

  Morag expected a rumble of discontent to ripple through their little chamber but Morgantus was silent on the matter.

  “He’s a winner,” said Brigit. “The truth is, when the end of the world comes, you want to be on the side that survives. If nuclear bombs are going to fall, do you care which nuclear bunker you climb inside? If the Earth is dying and there’s just one SpaceX colonist ship going to Mars, do you care who’s on it?”

  Morag put her hand on her chest. “Me? Yeah. If it’s the last ship to leave Earth, I’m going to take a long hard look at those weird Silicon Valley types I’m going to have to share it with. And when the bombs drop? You’ll find me in the nearest field, bottle in hand, arms wide, shouting ‘Bring it on, ya bastards!’”

  “That’s very principled of you.”

  “Bloody-minded, I think. Yo-Morgantus is a scumbag and I owe him nothing. You think he’s your best ticket out of here, you’re welcome to him.” Morag laughed suddenly.

  “What?” said Brigit.

  “It’s like that – oh, what do they call it? – Bedford Test? Bechford test. The one about women in movies.”

  Brigit shook her head. She didn’t know and didn’t care.

  “Bechdel test!” said Morag. “That’s it. My housemate, Richard, told me about it. Very aware of gender issues is Richard, despite being a shapeshifting Venislarn horror. He’s clearly receptive to new ideas. He told me about the Bechdel test.”

  “You witter,” said Brigit.

  “Right. The Bechdel test is about whether women in movies talk to each other about something other than men. Cos that’s what female characters do half the time in films. And here we are – look at us.” She waved her glass between the two of them, nearly sloshing some over the side. She took a big gulp to make sure that didn’t happen again. “We are two strong-willed women with drive and ambition. And what are we doing? We’re talking about Yo-Morgantus.” She nodded earnestly to drive the point home. “And we’re doing it … sat inside his adn-bhul brain! We’re like thoughts in his head.”

  “Yeah? Is that your great insight?”

  “Sorry. I forgot you were a source of scintillating topics of conversation.” Morag swung her arm about to take in their cramped and foetid surroundings. “Here we are in Club Colonoscopy with only each other for company. You say something interesting.”

  Morag saw a finger of flesh emerge from the wall and reach for her. “Don’t you dare,” she said. “Don’t mess with my mind.”

  “Why not?” said Brigit.

  “Morgantus has me utterly in his power. He can touch me and erase my mind and insert memories. He could make me love him, fear him, make me think I’m a goldfish. Whatever. But the moment he does, he admits that he can’t negotiate with me, person to … transdimensional individual. If he can’t make me fear him by simply being who he is, if he can’t make me love or respect him by showing me why he deserves to be loved or respected, if he has to resort to fucking with my mind … then the moment he touches me he has lost.”

  The finger extrusion wavered but moved no closer.

  “That’s the problem with gods,” said Morag. “You just can’t respect something that has that much power.”

  “What an interesting thought,” said Brigit. “You’ve said it before th
ough.”

  “Have I?”

  The fleshy arm leapt out at her with viper speed and slapped on her wrist. Morag jerked back in surprise and screwed her eyes shut…

  …When she opened her eyes, there was a light in front of her and, by the light, she saw a table.

  She sat on a chair at the table. She looked at her surroundings as though waking from a dream. The walls, floor and low ceiling were a soft peachy pink. They were warm to the touch…

  08:03am

  Mr Seth watched his feet as they progressed through the city. A viscous grey liquid seeped through the stones around them. It seemed to contain a large quantity of pigeon and rat corpses, flowing with purpose and against gravity. He looked away, and a familiar angle caught Mr Seth’s eye. He realised where they were.

  “Look at that. It’s the Radisson!”

  “The what?” said Mrs Seth.

  “That big tall blue hotel – not so tall anymore,” he said.

  Everything was in ruins. Ahead of them, on the left, was a jagged mass of metal and glass: a skyscraper brought low. It was definitely the Radisson. That meant they were heading toward the markets and the Bull Ring.

  “And there are people,” said Mrs Seth.

  In this landscape of confusion and noise, the savage roaring of monsters and the collapse of more buildings, they had not spotted any other people until now. She pointed into the distance. “Quickly.”

  A mouth formed in the nearest mass of grey goop. “Don’t go that way,” it wailed breathily.

  “We must help the people,” said Mrs Seth.

  “Are you sure,” said Mr Seth. “The face thing says we shouldn’t.”

  She turned and fixed him with a familiar glare. “Listening to strange creatures now, are you? My father told you to invest in property. You didn’t listen to him, but you think we should take advice from a talking mud pie?”

  “I’m just saying—”

  “No, no. I see how it is.”

  The feather strewn grey slop reached out. Mrs Seth stepped away quickly. “Come! We’re going to see the people.”

  It seemed inordinately important to connect with the strangers at the end of the street. They were moving listlessly, a whole group of them.