Oddjobs 5: The Long Bad Friday

by Heide Goody

  “You the one hundred passengers for Celephaïs?” he asked.

  “That’s the place,” said Mrs Seth.

  “Is it?” said Mr Seth.

  She shook her head, both concerned and disapproving. “Forgive my husband. I think he looked at the horrible swirly things in the sky.”

  “The unholy colours of Ammi-Usub,” said the man.

  “That’s the one,” said Mrs Seth. “That’s the one you said,” she told Mr Seth. “Yes. We are the one hundred passengers you’re expecting, yes.”

  The man rubbed his chin regretfully. “I don’t think we’re going anywhere at the moment.” He tapped the barge. “She’s got a hull breach in her lower jaw. Had a run in with Yo Daganau-Pysh. She gave him as good as she got. Serves the bastard right. No offence,” he said to one of the nearby fishmen.

  “Fix her up good and proper,” said the fishman, repeating his one phrase of English.

  “Do you have food on board for all of these people?” asked Mrs Seth.

  “That will be extra. But we’re really not fit for travel, and we didn’t agree a price with the English man.”

  “Great!” Chad held his hand up. “If there’s negotiating to be done I can soon sort that out. Now tell me, who do we have the pleasure of meeting?”

  “I am Sven.”

  “Lovely to meet you Sven,” said Chad, shaking his hand.

  * * *

  Halfway up the hill, there was a roar of thunder and something unseen crushed the office block, the Chinese supermarket, and half the buildings on the road. The crowd of refugees bunched together in fear.

  As they looked back, some began to stare at the sky.

  “Don’t look up!” Mr Seth shouted. “It’s—” He tried to remember what the boatman, Sven, had said. “It’s the unholy colours of Ammi-Usub. If you look at it, it will do strange things and kill you.”

  “How do you know that?” said Mrs Seth, trying not to sound impressed.

  “Um. Someone told me,” he said. “Not yet. I think. But they will.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “It’s been a confusing day. It will be, I think. Yes. Come on, everyone. This way.”

  He walked up the hill. He was not as fit a man as he once was. It was probably a good twenty or thirty years since he could have actually described himself as fit. But then one never expected to be hiking around a demolished city at the head of a group of homeless people.

  Mrs Seth huffed and puffed as she walked beside him. She was shorter and probably even less fit than him, but she moved with dogged determination, as though a life of hard work had prepared her mentally for any exertions.

  “Where are we going?” she said.

  “The canal,” he replied. “There’s a boat waiting to take us to Celephaïs.”

  “How can you possibly know that?”

  “I would really like to be able to explain,” he said.

  There was a scream from back along the line. They turned. A woman stood in the middle of the road, her face turned to the sky, her arms thrust out as though she was being electrocuted.

  “Did you not hear my husband?” Mrs Seth snapped. “You look at the sky and you’ll feel the back of my hand!”

  * * *

  “Well, what do you say?” Chad asked.

  Mr Seth realised the question was being directed at him. He looked from Chad to Sven to Mrs Seth. They were back at the canal side.

  “I really am struggling with what’s going on,” Mr Seth admitted. “Is no one else having a problem with time?”

  “Time?” said Chad.

  “Like everything’s been chopped up into chunks and is in the wrong order.”

  Sven nodded sagely. “Is Yo Khazpapalanaka.”

  “That’s easy for you to say,” said Mrs Seth.

  “He is, um, manifestation of time.”

  “I think I’ve heard of him,” said Chad, sounding very much like someone who hadn’t but wanted to feel involved.

  “Time is not real,” said Sven. “Time here is different to time there.”

  “Here and there?” said Mrs Seth.

  Sven shrugged, sending a waft of stale sweat outward. “Here and there are different both here and there. Things aren’t things all by themselves. Here, Yo Khazpapalanaka is the god of time. You can see him, like black spiderwebs in the air. He is playing the giddy goat, the fool.” Sven prodded Mr Seth. “It’s Yo Khazpapalanaka. You are not going mad.”

  “Oh,” said Mr Seth. Sven’s explanation made him feel much better. “That actually makes sense.”

  “Good,” said Sven and adopted a more business-like manner again. “Now, price. A hundred people is a lot.”

  “Let’s talk about how we can move this forward,” said Chad. “I’m looking for things that are of value to you, my friend. Now, this is me just thinking off the top of my head, you understand, but I can’t help noticing that your brand aesthetic is missing the mark. My friend, Vikas Seth here, says interior design doesn’t count, but I can offer you an hour’s consultancy as part of this deal. You either want to go spooky steampunk, and do it properly, or – and I’m saying this because I’ve had an inside view of next year’s trending Pantone palette – we could deem that somewhat passé. Maybe it’s time to bring you bang up to date with some zesty citrus accent colours, what do you say?”

  Sven looked uninspired.

  “Fix her up good and proper,” said the fishman next to Mr Seth.

  Mr Seth grinned. “Yes.”

  * * *

  Chad collected the bowls of finished noodles from the hungry people and brought them to the kitchen hatch. Mr Seth moved them from the hatch to the sink for Mrs Seth to wash, taking the washed ones from the draining board and putting them on the far counter to drip dry until he could get round to drying them manually.

  He stopped, a bowl in each hands. He remembered. He put the bowls down. “Back in a minute,” he said to his wife and went out into the restaurant area.

  It took him a short while to locate the fishman with the grubby brunette. He went up to them. “You,” he said. “Am I right thinking you can fix boats?”

  The fishman gurgled in his throat. “Sheg’ll pas beh rgn’pha?”

  “Boats. You can fix them. Hulls specifically.”

  The woman turned to her fishman boyfriend, or husband, or whatever he was, and spoke briefly in that throat strangling language.

  “There’s nothing Gill don’t know about boats,” she said.

  “Right,” said Mr Seth, feeling himself smile. “So if I showed him a boat, a canal boat, he could fix her up good and proper.”

  The woman began speaking in the language. The fishman watched Mr Seth.

  “Fix her up good and proper,” said Mr Seth.

  “Fix her up good and proper,” echoed the fishman slowly.

  “Good man! Good man!” He dashed away.

  On the way back to the kitchen, he nearly collided with Chad. “Chad,” he said. “If you had to buy passage on a boat, paying only with your skills, what could you offer?”

  “Fascinating icebreaker question,” said the marketing man. “Now, I’ve always thought that I had an eye for—”

  Mr Seth cut him off. “Interior design does not count.”

  “Oh. Oh, well. Well, in that case…” He paused in thought.

  Mr Seth didn’t wait for an answer, he hurried on. In the kitchen, he grabbed his wife from behind and placed a big kiss on her cheek.

  “This is no time for messing about,” she said.

  “No, quite,” he said. “Now, I have a question for you. Think quick. If we wanted to pay for a boat out of Birmingham but could only pay with the skills and abilities we possess – because we have nothing else – what do you have to offer?”

  “I don’t have time for nonsense neither,” she said.

  “Time is—” He tried to recall exactly what Sven had said and came up short. “—It’s neither here nor there. I need you to think about it. And dry your hands because we
’ve got to get out of here.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the roof’s about to fall in and crush anyone left inside.” He went out into the seating area. He clapped his hands for attention. “Everyone! Gather up your things. We have to go. The building’s about to collapse. No pushing, no shoving. Move in an orderly line and head out onto the pavement. And when you’re out there, no looking up.”

  “What is going on?” demanded Mrs Seth, coming out of the kitchen and drying her hands on a tea towel.

  “It’s…” He contorted his face in thought. “It’s like Only Connect. I’ve finally got one of the questions right. Everyone! Let’s go!”

  He swung his arm in a wheeling motion, directing them all towards the door.

  * * *

  Mr Seth guided the fishman towards the canal barge. “This is Gill,” he said. “He can fix your boat.”

  “Good and proper,” agreed Gill.

  “That’s a nice start,” said Sven. “But, as I say, a hundred people is a lot. What else do you have?”

  Mrs Seth started to root around in her handbag, then hesitated. She reached forward and, visibly fighting her own sense of revulsion, pulled at the edge of Sven’s mouldering leather coat-tabard-thing. “This looks like it could do with cleaning. Or restitching. Possibly replacing.”

  Sven tilted his head, not quite convinced.

  “Also, I do haircuts.” She pulled a pair of scissors from her bag, followed a moment later by a hairbrush “I’ve cut all of my children’s hair.” She gave Sven’s head a meaningful look.

  He ran his fingers through his greasy strands of hair and looked, if not convinced, then definitely thoughtful.

  Mrs Seth gestured back at the crowd behind her. “And I have a team ready to clean and cook and do light repairs.”

  “I think we could make this work,” said Sven. He gestured for them to come aboard.

  “But let’s chat about those zesty citrus tones,” said Chad, going below deck with the bargemaster.

  Mr Seth waved the people onto the barge. The little boy in the train pyjamas was asleep on his mum’s shoulder as she carried him on board. Mr Seth was the last of them all. He looked at the city before stepping down into the hold, but it was a city he no longer recognised. He went down the stairs. He could already hear his wife talking about the making of tea and cake.

  09:57am

  Vivian pointed to the floor. “And another jid-ap yoi ward,” she said.

  Prudence drew one deftly. The girl’s skills were impressive.

  “And then I continue the pattern all the way round?”

  “Quite. Your zahirs are accomplished.”

  “Are you mocking me?” said Prudence.

  “No. Not at all,” said Vivian. “I do not joke. I only know one joke. You do demonstrate a natural flair for sigils and wards.”

  “Thank you, Mrs Grey.”

  Vivian had confidence that the girl knew what she was doing, so she returned to her work in the book. The end was tantalisingly close. There were no great passages left to write. She had worked diligently on the book, her principle strategy to write from the outside in, from past and future and distant places to this point here and now.

  It was akin to a jigsaw of limitless size. Despite its infinite scope, it had defined edges. There were beginning and ends. Vivian had resolutely sorted through the pieces and built those edges, boring and innocuous though they may have seemed. Working inward was relatively easy by comparison. It was a labour that could not have been achieved in this mortal world, constricted by time and logic. Vivian had sacrificed aeons of time and much of herself to lay down the many, many histories the book demanded.

  As she flexed her aching hand and annotated this page and that, she tried to recall some of what it had been like to be the Yoth-Kreylah ap Shallas – the living black and white – the feel of her mechanical limbs, the automation of her writing processes, the acts of researching, scripting and filing as blindly unconscious as the beating of her heart, or the working of her liver. It was nearly all but gone from her now.

  She had just enough residual comprehension to finish the book. In this jigsaw, all that was left were a dozen individual pieces. Their placement was obvious, and each, properly placed, would bring the true picture to life.

  “So, can you tell me it?” said Prudence.

  “Tell you what?” said Vivian.

  “Your one joke.”

  “If you wish. When I was a child my parents gave me—”

  She was interrupted by the smashing of glass. A hort’ech doll, mounted on a Tud-burzu, flew in and circled like a World War One spotter plane. Seeing Vivian and Prudence, the doll squealed in joy and spurred its mount to attack.

  “Inside the circle, Prudence,” said Vivian.

  Prudence promptly obeyed.

  Two yards from Vivian’s face the Tud-burzu slammed into the edge of the circle’s power and stopped, like a bird flying into a pane of glass. The Tud-burzu managed to stay airborne and wobbled back in a daze. The doll, thrown from its perch, slipped forward and in front of the flying creature’s blowtorch mouth. It vanished into ash with a tiny scream. The Tud-burzu reeled away erratically, flew back up to the window and out.

  “They know we’re here,” said Vivian.

  “You say it like it was going to happen anyway.”

  “Indeed.” Vivian collected her thoughts. “So, my parents gave me a huge pile of comics – you know what comics are, don’t you? Good – but all of them had the last page of the story ripped out.” Vivian paused for comedic effect. “I had to draw my own conclusions.”

  Prudence looked at her. Vivian mentally recounted what she said to check she’d got it right.

  “That’s the joke, is it?” said Prudence.

  “Yes. The comics had had the last pages mysteriously removed, so I had to draw my own conclusions.”

  “Thank you,” said the girl.

  “No,” said Vivian. “That’s not the correct response to a joke.”

  Prudence touched the edge of the Bloody Big Book. “You’ve read everything in here, as you wrote it. You must have read every joke there’s ever been.”

  “I suppose I have,” said Vivian.

  “But that’s the one you picked as ‘your’ joke?”

  Vivian sniffed. “I like it. It’s clever.”

  Prudence tilted her head. “I don’t know. I think I prefer funny to clever.”

  10:04am

  Nina found it hard enough to concentrate on a world being ripped apart at the seams by unfathomable demons. It was harder still doing so with the constant voice of Steve the Destroyer in her ear.

  She and Pupfish were warily shadowing the battered tank vehicle that Rod insisted wasn’t a real tank but sure looked like one (It had tracks! It had a big gun on top! Of course it was a tank!). With almost no buildings remaining in the city, only the curve of the landscape gave any sense of place. In this wind-whistling, smoky wasteland, Nina reckoned that this slope must be Corporation Street, and down there somewhere was the remnants of New Street Station and the Grand Central shopping centre.

  A shadow whipped overheard. Pupfish tried to track it with his rifle sights but it was too fast.

  “So can I?” said Steve over the comms.

  “Can you what?” said Nina.

  “Give a donkey peanuts.”

  “Why would you give a donkey peanuts?” said Nina.

  “Are you not listening, fleshling? The donkey has got behind the bar and pulled down a packet of the salted nuts.”

  “Can we keep comms for essential communications only?” said Rod.

  “The King of Crimson, who is a chattering no-nothing, says donkeys do not eat peanuts,” said Steve.

  “Does the donkey have a nut allergy?” said Nina.

  “How would I know, mortal? How would I know?”

  Nina shrugged, even though the gesture was unseen. “Give the donkey the nuts. If Mr Grey has an allergy, he won’t eat them.”

 
; “And if it is a regular donkey with an allergy?” demanded Steve.

  The armoured vehicle lurched and almost stalled against a pile of white rubble.

  “Essential communications only!” seethed Rod.

  “Donkey deaths are not a priority matter to you, eh?” said Steve.

  “Not right now,” said Rod. “We’re trying to sneak up on wherever Morgantus is hiding and you two are blathering about nuts!”

  “Tell him, not me!” said Nina.

  “Movement!” declared Yang in Nina’s ear, a split-second before Nina saw it for herself.

  A mass rolled up the hill towards them. It was white and pink. There were cuts in its flesh where it had scraped and gouged itself on the rough landscape. It was covered in stone dust which powdered its wounds. It looked like a mound of meat rolled in flour. It was rolling towards them.

  “Morgantus!” Nina shouted and ducked sideways into the shadow of the nearest rock.

  Pupfish froze in surprise and awe. The vehicle turret twisted, just before Morgantus struck it. No one had the presence of mind to fire.

  The bulk of Yo-Morgantus momentarily swamped the vehicle before rolling on and away. There was a cry of disgust and alarm from Yang.

  Pupfish remembered to fire as Morgantus streamed away up the hill. Nina couldn’t see if he’d hit it.

  “That’s definitely him,” said Rod.

  “In a hurry to get somewhere,” added Nina.

  The armoured vehicle slowed and tried to turn in the space between rubble piles. The turret swung and the mounted cannon fired. It was an impressive boom.

  “Did you hit it?” Nina called. There was no reply.

  She had to scramble to be sure she was out of the way of the turning vehicle.

  “We’re pursuing,” said Rod.

  “All of us?” said Nina.

  “Rear hatch,” said Rod.

  As the vehicle lurched to face the departing god, the square door in the rear of the vehicle popped open. Yang was there.

  “Come on!” she yelled.