by Kerrie Noor
“Would you just read me your coordinates and cut the comedian jargon—what’s wrong with you?”
“Woody. Why, ma’am, he is an absolute scream with the waitress.”
“Assistant manager,” shouted the assistant manager.
“And he knows all about coffee, not only with milk but with toffee, caramel, and marshmallows.”
“Connections, Pete.” Mex stared into the fuzzy picture on the H-Pad. She noticed the empty coffee cups on the table. How many had he had?
Pete, high on sugar, laughed. “Who needs a plugulator when you have a pal like Woody,” he shouted into the Nokia.
“What? Plugulator? What the pickled egg has happened to your plugulator?”
Pete tapped the side of his nose, which annoyed not only Mex but also Woody.
Mex stared at Pete’s image as it fizzled in and out of view with an “oh bugger and pickled egg” from Pete as the H-Pad spat, crackled, and then completely died. Mex watched Pete’s face fade from view and cursed every single damnable Voted In, all twenty of them.
While she was making do with a last-century rechargeable appliance that couldn’t even last a journey, let alone a night, they, the Voted In, were making decisions with their fancy, extra-large deluxe screen with sensory sound.
A higher-quality H-Pad would never need recharging.
“I am heading for the café, don’t move,” she shouted at the blank screen, knowing that the only being who heard was probably the barking dog next door.
She knew she needed to get there soon; she had no idea how many coffees Pete had had, but what she did know was that he was now a liability. The most she could hope for was that a high Pete was incoherent to the masses and performing his famous splits instead of talking.
Mex jumped to attention, poised for action—just what sort of action, she had no idea. She knew she should run because that’s what she always did, but where? She put on her leather jacket, adjusted her belt, and then swore. What was the goddamn point of a belt with a flat H-Pad? She readjusted her jacket and looked in the mirror.
Incognito or obvious as a footman’s wig?
Mex sighed, she looked nothing like the women she saw last night or even, heaven forbid, like Bunnie and her “whatever” outfit. She was supposed to know what to do instinctively and she couldn’t even make up her mind about her jacket, let alone a belt. What was wrong with her? Pete was in a café somewhere; and she was still staring at her own reflection.
Now she had no choice—she had to solider on in this godforsaken place, with or without her great talent; maybe after a few runs I’ll pick up the scent, she thought as she headed into the passageway.
She walked past the glass cabinet and Bunnie’s head peered from a door marked private.
“You heading out?” Bunnie asked over the barking of a dog.
Mex stared at Bunnie’s round face. It was a pleasant, friendly face, and Mex lingered.
Bunnie opened the door wider, revealing a flowery dressing gown along with the faint whiff of something unfamiliar. Then a squirrel of a dog pushed the door open and raced out to sniff Mex.
“You wanting a coffee?” Bunnie said—she was desperate to try out her new range of Nescafé Gold Skinny Cappuccino sachets.
Mex’s hand casually strayed onto the dog’s head; she looked at her reflection in the mirror beside the glass cabinet. I’m as incognito as a fish on a bench and as obvious as one of Pete’s jokes in the refreshment rooms.
“Bunnie,” she said. “Does this jacket work?”
Chapter Thirteen—Bunnie’s Business
“A DOG BY ANY OTHER name still needs a walk.” —Bunnie’s favorite saying
Bunnie asked Mex into the inner sanctum, as she called it, the place where no one was allowed, even (according to Bunnie) Donald the cabbie. Mex followed.
The room was small, white, and sparse—nothing like Mex’s green and orange room, or like the plush red velvet decor of the hallway. It was pure-looking with bare walls, apart from a couple of large corkboards full of snapshots of people, each with a rating underneath, either a smiling or a sad face, and arrows crossing from one photo to another.
“I like making people happy,” Bunnie said.
Mex looked confused.
“I pair people up.”
Mex still looked confused.
“I am a matchmaker.”
Mex, who was staring at the photographs, mumbled something about “a lot of men” and then began to count them—they all wanted a match?
“Used to make a packet once, not now, romance is not as profitable—but easier than other things . . .”
Mex continued to stare at Bunnie’s photographs: it was true what they said about Earth women. They wanted partners? How crazy!
“Aye, things aren’t what they used to be; people want the impossible now,” said Bunnie. She sighed. “It’s a living.”
Mex counted the men. Forty-one, forty-two—unbelievable.
“When I started, it was just blowjobs and flavored condoms, so easy. I brought up all three of my kids with those takings . . . one’s a doctor of sorts, another’s in India discovering the inner child, and the other has three children, of sorts.”
Mex noticed some women were paired with other women and some men with other men—she was now completely confused.
“Aye, it’s all changed now, not what it used to be. Now it’s all waterworks and waxing—God, the waxing. In my day, body hair was thing of celebration, men loved a bit of pubic; now it’s wax this and wax that. After a trip to the salon you can’t even walk straight, it’s like having a Brillo Pad between your legs.”
Bunnie began to snigger—that was always her favorite joke.
“Now everything is larger than life and gravity defying, the internet has seen to that. I ask you, since when has . . .” She turned to Mex—whose face had the expression of a kitten staring for the first time at a fire, spellbound, engrossed and desperate to touch.
She hasn’t a clue, thought Bunnie.
Bunnie watched Mex finger a photograph; she knew there was something weird about Mex from the moment she saw her whip waving like a cat’s tail behind her.
Sheila from Bombay—as if.
Of course, Mex talking like the Queen after a serious bit of drilling from the dentist did arouse suspicion—that and the fact that when Bunnie mentioned “Coronation Street” as a sort of quick test, Mex looked blank. That really set the hairs on the back of Bunnie’s neck on end, as erect as one of her satisfied customers . . .
Bunnie eyed Mex’s trim figure. Everyone knows what Corrie is, don’t they?
Bunnie was curious, a feeling she hadn’t felt in a long time. And she was even more curious when Izzie her dog wrapped herself around Mex’s leg, and Mex, still with the look of a kitten, bent to stoke. Mex’s backpack fell from her shoulders and, just like Woody’s had, the contents scattered across the floor. Mex, engrossed in the delicious feeling of soft fur on her fingers, didn’t notice.
Bunnie stared at the contents from Mex’s bag: Terry Pratchett, an out-of-date B&B brochure, and a child’s iPad—extra-large.
Bunnie picked it up; it weighed a ton. She flipped it about and the H-Pad started to make noises like a man drowning—signal for help: unknown hands.
“What sort of toy is this?” she said.
Mex continued to pat Izzie.
“I mean, what’s all that moaning for?”
Bunnie pressed the buttons—nothing happened. Maybe it needs charging?
She looked at Mex, who was now on the floor rubbing Izzie’s tummy—a dog that would have the hand of a postman in a minute. “Who’s a pretty thing,” cooed Mex.
Bunnie walked to her “stash drawer” and pulled out a handful of chargers left behind by some of her many visitors. She began to untangle them with an eye still on Mex, Izzie on her lap.
Each charger fit, even the charger designed for the cigarette lighter in a car. The socket on the H-Pad, like putty, molded itself to whatever Bunnie push
ed in and Bunnie, like a child, couldn’t resist trying them all. She worked her way through each charger until finally the drowning-man noises stopped.
“Enough” flashed on the screen. Bunnie took the hint and plugged it in. The H-Pad purred as the lights flickered on . . .
“Well, I never,” said Bunnie.
BERYL WAS FRUSTRATED. She was cut off from Mex, a new and very unpleasant experience.
Beryl always saw Mex as a loyal supporter and a great man spy, though Beryl never let on. In fact, Beryl hid her feelings, so well that many often wondered if Beryl had a grudge against Mex. Sometimes Beryl was so cold to Mex that even Hilda felt sorry for her. But Beryl, underneath her tight-lipped commands, had the utmost faith in Mex’s talents, even if Mex’s incognito name (Sheila) was as incognito as a packet of crisps eaten in the dark.
Beryl arrived at her chambers that morning feeling perturbed. She had decided to fight back and beat them at their own game. She wasn’t sure who was playing what with whom, but there was one way of finding out: the beverage room. The Voted In were always in good spirits there.
Beryl walked in as they were experimenting with their new Moroccan spice blend.
They stopped mid plunge and stared. Beryl had never entered the beverage room before. Drinking caffeine with others was not something she liked to do, even in the early days. It was the small talk; Beryl never knew what to say past “how are you?” and “pass the milk.”
Beryl, over the frothing of milk, muttered a “greetings.”
She talked in her best “I am your safest bet” voice about how she had watched “our Mex” “trek into the bowels of Glasgow—while Pete languished in a Starbucks nowhere near the proposed coordinates,” and asked, “why?”
The milk frother looked up. “It was you who sent our esteemed man spy, not us.”
“And Pete,” said another, “is hardly languishing.”
Hilda appeared. She leant against the doorframe with her trench coat tight around her waist and a “this’ll be good” smirk on her face. Beryl with her back to the door didn’t notice.
“And this Woody,” said Beryl. “Why are we still following him?”
“It was all her idea,” said the voice by the sink, nodding to Hilda. One of the others flicked her with a tea towel.
Beryl turned and started. Hilda held her gaze, her square frame wedged in the entrance like a tombstone.
“And that’s another thing,” said Beryl, “this . . . charging up on Earth . . .”
Hilda pulled a here-we-go-again face.
“You should be ashamed of yourself.”
“Hear, hear,” said the voice by the sink.
“I mean, this theory of yours—”
“Theory?”
“That Earth’s atmosphere just loves our batteries.”
Hilda’s immaculate hair didn’t flicker once: “Oh, that.”
“Yes, that.”
Hilda let out a small chuckle as she strode further into the kitchen. No one said a word as her square heels clicked on the marbled floor—even the milk frothing stopped. “Beryl’s making a drama out of nothing.”
“It is a load of pickled eggs,” said Beryl.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Well, I do.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Really.”
“Surely not. I mean, can it be that difficult to charge things up—to acclimatize to Earth and all its pollution?” Hilda gestured to Beryl. “Perhaps it is you who should be ashamed of yourself.”
She looked around the room, making eye contact with all who had the gumption to face her, while Beryl stared at the cleaning roster over the sink.
“How long does it take to juice up an H-Pad?” said Hilda.
Silence.
“Anyone?”
“She has to find one first,” muttered the voice by the sink.
“What?”
“A juicer.”
“Juicing up,” said Hilda, “is merely a figure of speech.”
Beryl sighed. Why did I believe her—Miss Know-It-All from nowhere special? Trying to outsmart Hilda was as impossible as keeping the attention of a footman.
Chapter Fourteen—A Woman’s Best Friend
“A BARK IS NEVER WORSE than a bite.” —Bunnie’s second-favorite saying
Mex, with Izzie under one arm and a toastie in the other hand, started to rearrange the photos—the same photos Bunnie had spent all morning working on—and she was getting grease everywhere.
Bunnie pulled another photo from the bin. Izzie barked.
The H-Pad had been charging up for just over three hours, and in that time Mex had demolished three cheese and onion toasties, told Izzie about her arrival on Earth—which didn’t take long, detail was not Mex’s strong point—and rearranged Bunnie’s photographs by pretty much tossing out most of the men.
Bunnie was not impressed. “Will you stop with the photos,” she snapped. But Mex didn’t hear, or didn’t want to. She fed a corner of her toastie to Izzie, who licked it, along with Mex’s fingers. Bunnie watched, speechless—what was this woman’s secret? Izzie had always been so un-pick-up-able.
The H-Pad lit up, flashing green, blue, and then red, followed by a poor-quality fanfare of trumpets, causing Bunnie to jolt.
“Here ye, here ye,” said the H-Pad.
“That’ll be Herself,” said Mex, handing Izzie the rest of her toast. “She does like an entrance.”
“Her Leadership is about to address the situation,” said the H-Pad.
“You answer,” said Mex. “I am busy.”
“Busy—how can you be busy?” said the H-Pad.
Bunnie looked from the H-Pad, flashing like a traffic light backwards, and then at Mex.
“Just pick it up,” said Mex to Bunnie.
Bunnie, mumbling something about whose house was it, stared into the contraption. Bunnie’s plump white face flashed onto the Operator’s screen five times bigger than life size, scaring the Operator.
“Who are you?” said the Operator.
“Who the hell are you?” said Bunnie.
Chapter Fifteen—DJ
“HEARING IS NOT BELIEVING and believing doesn’t always require hearing.” —Anon, scribbled under the table in the room with the view
In Dunoon, DJ, who had picked up the plugulator, was confused. He had spent the whole night with the plugulator—or head mic, as he called it—on his head for a laugh. He wore it while he and his two “Wham! impersonator” pals wandered from one pub to another singing Wham! songs and taking it in turns to stuff socks down the front of their trousers. And as the night wore on and the pubs closed, DJ George and his Wham! pals ended up in the back of a caravan snoring, wrestling, and—in the case of one Wham! man—procreating: with socks on.
“Wham! one” had bumped into his ex and taken her to the caravan. And, as neither had found any replacement for the other, they decided to use the spare room in the caravan to remind them of old times and rocked the old five berth like there was no tomorrow. Well, as much as possible when you’re heading into your forties, two stone heavier than you should be, and tanked up on half a dozen ciders, a chicken tikka and the leftovers of two garlic naans.
The second Operator in command, via the plugulator, had watched with way too close a view.
The Operator stared at the door of the spare room as it swung rhythmically open and shut with a bang in time to the raging wind, flashing a view of Wham! one’s bare arse, also pulsating to the raging wind, with his trousers around his ankles. The noises ranged from high-pitched squeals to growls and more while DJ George and Wham! two watched reruns of the World Cup—they had seen Wham! one’s pulsating arse many times before.
“Come on, yer bastard!”
The sounds and songs were completely unfamiliar to the Operator, and before you could shout “wake me up before you go-go,” the Operators had called all her fellow Operators to watch, even those on a break or n
ot due in until tomorrow. And as the room filled, so did the noises they made. By the end of the night, when Wham! two was snoring and Wham! one was trying for a home goal yet again, DJ George began to listen to noises from the plugulator.
At first, DJ George thought he had stumbled onto Radio Belfast. Then he thought he was hearing voices and had gone “schizoid”—until he realized he could adjust the volume. Finally, he came to the conclusion that he was listening to a gaggle of women who had no idea how to listen. Who spoke like he had never heard before—full speed, like an antipodean who had lived a very long time in South Africa and had smoked a ton of dope.
Then, as Wham! one and Wham! two plus the ex finally fell into a snoring slumber, DJ George realized he couldn’t find any on and off button; it was cheaper than he thought.
He had heard the name Pete often. Is the great magician called Pete? He was curious because, as far as he was concerned, no one had actually ordered an acrobatic, magician-type disappearing act, and yet he had flashed in and out and stolen the show.
Eventually DJ George shouted into the dark in desperation, “Pete’s not here!” and threw the whatever it was across the room; it bounced back, and then he heard a Shhh.
DJ George realized that the plugulator was not some cheap head mic after all.
THE OPERATORS WATCHED Wham! one, Wham! two, and DJ.
“Males behaving like rabbits,” said an Operator. Others mimicked more disgusted noises, telling each other how lucky they were not to be on Earth with all its testosterone-pumping flesh and football, but they continued to watch. In fact, it was so absorbing that for a while the Operators forgot why and who they were watching.
“Have you deleted those files yet?” said the third in command.
“Err. No, not yet. We are still trying to work out how to without leaving a trace.”
Truth was they got so caught up in the rocking of a caravan they hadn’t had time to read the manual for demolishing without evidence.
