by Heide Goody
“Vivian’s report is quite thorough,” said Vaughn.
“Naturally,” said Rod.
“But I must ask… Do we have any idea how this young woman —”
“Izzy Wu.”
“Yes. Ridiculous name. Do we have any idea how this young woman managed to access the Vault and wake a hibernating Uriye Inai’e?”
“Questioning her is the first thing on my list this morning.”
Vaughn made a show of looking at his watch even though Rod suspected he full well knew the time. “We have detained her for thirty-two hours and you’ve not yet questioned her?”
“We were sort of busy.”
“We’re all busy, Rod. We have a major audit of the Dumping Ground this week and I have to contend with the very real prospect that our operating budget will be slashed this year.”
“She’s not going anywhere.”
“She has rights.”
“No, she doesn’t,” said Rod.
“No,” agreed Vaughn. “I was speaking figuratively. I just don’t want her…”
“Sitting around, cluttering up the place?”
Vaughn inspected the summary closely. He had been doing so for five minutes straight. Any more and he might bore a hole in the paper. “And how has your new colleague settled in?”
“Morag? Aye. Seems to be made of the right stuff. Tagged Kevin so we could —”
“Who?”
“Kevin. The Venislarn. So we could track it to the Children’s Hospital and she shielded a young lad from it. Physically inserted herself between them. I like that.”
“Needlessly sacrificing herself?”
“Putting her life on the line for others.”
Vaughn nodded, apparently approving of this. “And did she go to the new accommodation we arranged for her last night?”
“I saw her get into a taxi,” said Rod.
“Did she have any comments on it this morning?”
Rod made a noise.
“Yes?” said Vaughn.
“She’s not yet come in.”
Vaughn made another show of looking at his watch. It was a physical tic; he probably had no control over it. “I think you’d best give her a call then,” he said. “Find out what’s happened to her.”
Morag did not wake up when her mobile rang. She had been in the process of waking up for maybe an hour or two already, consciousness rising like something dark, terrible and rotten coming up from the seabed, wrapped in seaweed, barnacles and muck, up into the cruel and revealing light.
There were things she was aware of before waking. She was on a sofa and it was a comfy sofa. She had vomited into a bowl of Terry’s Chocolate Oranges before sleep and her mouth was now a sticky, horrible, dry mess. If she moved, the hangover loitering at the back of her skull would yawn, stretch and break out its claws. But, by God, she had slept deeply and slept well and that felt good. And she had lived to see one more day than she expected and that felt better.
Her mobile was ringing. She found it in the pocket of her jacket, which she was using as a blanket. “Hello,” she said.
“It’s Rod.”
“Rod?”
“Rod from work.”
Morag made a noise and sat up. There was no bowl on the coffee table. Not one filled with Terry’s chocolate oranges, not one filled with vomity chocolate oranges. There was however a mug of milky tea on the table. Morag reached out for it. It wasn’t exactly hot but it was warm.
“Morning, Rod from work,” she said and downed the tea. She swilled her teeth with the last of it.
“I was just phoning to see if you’d settled into your new digs all right,” said Rod.
Morag looked about herself, at the dog-eared novels on the bookshelf, at the slightly creepy and entirely out of place set of pinned butterflies and moths on the wall, at the ironing board piled with ironing in the corner, at the front door, the broken security chain and the smashed wood around the lock.
“Um,” she said. “I’m here. I think.”
“Good. I s’pose, really, you ought to be here.”
She rubbed away what she hoped was sleep from the corner of her eye.
“What time is it?”
“Nine.”
“Crap. Sorry.”
“Well, I’m sure you can be forgiven. Once.”
“Sorry. Yes. Give me an hour. I think an hour.”
“Not a problem.”
“See you soon.” She ended the call. She realised there was a man stood warily by the kitchen diner counter. He was broad shouldered and, if he hadn’t had been broad shouldered, would have been fat rather than stocky. Also, although he appeared to be quite young, he had one of the bushiest beards she had ever seen. He wore a brash checked shirt. If he was going for the hipster look, he had missed it by inches. If he was going for lumberjack, he had pretty much nailed it. It took Morag a few seconds to recognise that the look on his face was fear.
“I’m going to go out on a limb here,” she said. “This isn’t my flat, is it?”
He shook his head.
“It’s yours.”
He nodded.
“This is twenty-seven Franklin Road.”
He nodded.
“Flat two?”
He shook his head.
“There we go. I broke in and kicked you out of your own flat last night.”
“Yes,” he said. He was well-spoken, which kicked his hipster score up a fraction.
“I am sorry,” she said.
He gave a magnanimous shrug.
“I threw up all over your chocolate orange collection,” she said.
“Yes.”
“Very sorry,” she said. “Do you like chocolate oranges?”
“Yes.”
“A lot, I guess.”
“I do.”
“It’s the kind of thing your auntie buys you for Christmas.”
“It is. They were. She does.”
“Does she? I have an auntie.”
“Small world,” he said.
“I’m extraordinarily sorry. I’m Morag. I’m your new neighbour. Flat two.”
“That’s upstairs,” he said.
“Makes a lot of sense. I wasn’t thinking straight last night.”
“No. I’m Richard.”
“I am sorry, Richard.”
“You said. It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not,” she said with feeling. “You had to break down your own door to get back in.”
“You slept through it.”
Morag looked at the door. The security chain was just snapped. “You must be very strong.”
“I must be.”
“I need to make it up to you.”
“You must.”
“At least let me replace your chocolate oranges.”
“Sounds fair,” said Richard.
Morag became suddenly and acutely aware of herself. She was wearing the clothes she had put on the day before yesterday. Those very clothes were decorated sparingly but noticeably in biryani, Brew Eleven and vomit. She had not had a shower in a very long time.
“I’m a disgusting mess,” she said out loud.
Richard nodded.
“Thanks,” she said.
“You’re welcome,” he replied.
“I need to…” In pointing upstairs to where her flat presumably was, she realised that her little pull-along suitcase that really didn’t contain enough was still at the Library. “I need to get creative,” she said.
Morag picked up her shoes and walked to the door. There were splinters of wood from the door on the floor.
“I’m not sure I’ve expressed how very sorry I am,” she said.
“I think you have,” said Richard.
“You’ve been very calm and understanding.”
“That’s the kind of guy I am,” he agreed. She paused, stopped, turned.
“You know,” she said, “I do think the next time someone tries to break into your flat, you really shouldn’t be so calm and understanding.”
“No?”
“No. I’d really bust some moves on them.”
“Thanks for the advice,” he said.
She stepped out into the hall. “Upstairs?” she said.
“Upstairs. Not to the top. The crazy old cat lady lives on the top floor.”
“Crazy old cat lady.”
“That’s what everyone calls her.” Morag nodded and, with her little keys in hand, went upstairs.
Billy returned to Fish Town by a different route. Ways in and ways out were not the same. The way in was via a butcher''s which had unidentified offal and flies in the window. The butcher looked at him but said nothing as he passed through a bead curtain to the rear of the shop, down steps streaked with sluiced blood and onto the grimy towpath of The Waters.
Billy untied his coracle and rowed silently out. He had pimped the coracle with a purple paint job, silver trim, neon down-lighters and a kick-ass stereo with eight-inch speakers set into the coracle walls for those Friday nights when he’d cruise up and down The Waters, playing phat tunes for all the honeys.
Not now. Now, he paddled soundlessly down the length of The Waters, through geography that did not appear on city maps. He tied up at an old banana wharf, climbed the rotting stairs by the side of the low corrugated iron roof and knocked on the door.
A woman opened the door. Human, like Billy’s own mom. Sickly looking, ragged and unhappy. Like Billy’s own mom.
“Morning, Mrs Jones – ggh!” he said, ending on an involuntary gill gasp. “Is Jamie in?”
Mrs Jones gave him a shrewd look. “You’re up early, William.”
“Early bird catches – ggh! – the worm, Mrs Jones.”
She made a noise, closed the door a fraction and then shouted. Jamie – Jay-Jay – appeared blinking his big big eyes.
“Whut time is it, B? Ggh!”
“We got work to do, dog,” said Billy.
“What kind of work?” said Mrs Jones suspiciously.
“School work,” said Billy.
Mrs Jones knew they were up to something – there was no school in Fish Town – but she said nothing. Jay-Jay put on his cap and attempted to dodge his mom’s kisses.
“Ggh! Bring your bat,” said Billy. Jay-Jay had a wicked aluminium baseball bat that had yet to be christened.
“What’s he need that for?” said Mrs Jones.
“Sports,” said Billy.
Flat two was, as advertised, furnished. It looked like a page from an IKEA catalogue circa 1995. Closing the door behind her, Morag stripped off her outer layers and made straight for the bathroom. There was a shower, there was a bath, there were towels but there was no soap, shampoo or any personal grooming products at all. It was a flat, not a hotel.
Morag searched the kitchen. There were a number of sprays and bottles under the sink that would probably be effective cleaners but would also probably burn off her skin or cause her hair to fall out. She selected washing-up liquid as a poor substitute for soap.
Morag showered and dried and emerged smelling like a lemon-fresh kitchen.
She put her blouse and underwear in the tumble dryer in the unscientific hope that a dose of dry heat might remove the sweaty smells. She then turned her attention to her jacket and skirt. In desperation, she returned to the kitchen cupboard. Mr Muscle Advanced Power promised to tackle tough kitchen grease and, buffed in with a scouring pad, turned a number of light stains into larger and darker stains on her jacket sleeves and deadened some of the B.O. Power Force Window & Glass washed away some unpleasant trails but its ‘vinegar cleaning action’ brought those B.O. smells right back.
The Triplewax car wax was a mistake, just a mistake.
She had entered the flat looking like she’d had a fight in a curry house and smelling like an alcoholic bag lady. She left the flat looking like she’d borrowed her clothes from a car mechanic and smelling like a petrochemical factory.
She checked her reflection in the mirror on the first floor landing.
“Look like an old boot,” she told herself.
There was a shuffling sound from up the stairs. Morag peered up but saw nothing.
Morag spotted an elastic band in the landing window shelf and used it to tie back her lank hair. Next to it was a short bottle of pump action spray. It featured a picture of a jaunty ginger cat.
“Ideal for treating anxiety and stress in pets.”
She gave an experimental spray. It smelled a bit herbal, a bit earthy. It was a lot better than eau de chemical works. She doused herself liberally, put it back in the window and headed down and out.
Morag, following her phone’s instructions, walked around the tree-lined perimeter of a grassy park and towards the nearest train station. When she stopped on a bridge to get her bearings, a cat brushed up against her leg and meowed.
Morag sighed. She wasn’t a cat person, but it was good to know that she was doing her bit to relieve the anxiety of Birmingham’s pets.
The Waters Crew met under the Heath Mill Lane bridge, seven coracles bunched together into a single raft. The last of the morning mist still clung to The Waters. Pupfish yawned and gulped for air.
“What is it then?”
Billy eyed him coldly. “You in a hurry, dog?”
“I’m just saying, B. You got us all up early and I’m – ggh! – eager.”
Billy gave him a slow nod. “Eager? Aight. It’s good you’re eager because today’s the day.”
“What day?” enquired Jay-Jay.
“Our day. Our moment, dog. I’ve just had a message from our contact. One of our – ggh! – people has been taken by the feds.”
“Man, that’s whack,” said Kid Fry.
“Nah, it’s all part of the plan. They ain’t got nothin’ on her. But we need to sever some links, cut some bitches loose.”
Billy hunkered down low. The Waters Crew leaned in. “Jay-Jay. You and Death Roe are going to take out the jeweller. Quick, fast, now.”
“Fasho,” said Jay-Jay.
“Ain’t I going?” said Pupfish.
“You’re too – ggh! – dumb. You’ll only fuck things up.”
“I ain’t dumb.”
“Dumb as your hood-rat mom,” said Jay-Jay.
“Hey.”
“Your momma’s so dumb, the smartest thing to come out of her mouth was my dick.”
“Man!” whined Pupfish but now Fluke joined in.
“Your momma’s so dumb – ggh! – she thinks seaweed is marijuana for fish,” he said.
“Enough,” said Billy.
“Pup, your momma’s so dumb, she tried to kill Daganau-Pysh by drowning him,” laughed Jay-Jay.
A large, flat silent bubble broke the surface of The Waters. Everyone watched the ripples roll out across the dark surface. A joke too far.
“Enough,” said Billy with quiet forcefulness. “Today, we step up to the mark. It’s not just about the cheddar, homies – ggh! It’s about power. It’s about becoming names. Legends.”
“Like Tupac,” said Fluke.
Billy ignored him.
“Jay-Jay and Death Roe, the jeweller,” he said. “The rest of you, I need you down at the film studio.”
“Me and my swinging dick about to become movie stars.” Tony T grinned wide.
“We – ggh! – don’t have a zoom lens that powerful,” said Fluke.
Billy took out his knife. It had a thin filleting blade, as long as his forearm.
“I saw this movie about the Japanese mafia.”
“Yakuza,” said Skinny Pete.
“Right. And, when one of them screws up, he has to cut off his finger, like to say sorry – ggh! – and give it to his boss.”
All eyes were on the knife.
“No one’s gonna screw up, are they?” said Billy.
“No way, dog,” said Jay-Jay.
“Good.” Billy put the knife away.
“Fish fingers,” said Fluke but he wasn’t laughing anymore.
“True dat,” said Pupfish.
Rod picked up the phone while looking through the catalogue of the Vault’s contents. Over three thousand items listed, including the freshly returned Kevin, and no knowing yet what else the idiot protestor had disturbed.
“Campbell here.”
“Rod. It’s Morag.”
“Everything all right?”
“I can’t get in.”
Rod held back a sigh. “We could have really used you today. Hit the ground running, er, again. But if you’ve genuinely not recovered from yesterday then –”
“No, Rod,” she said. “I am here, outside. I just can’t get in.”
“Can’t?”
“This security guy…”
“Bob.” Rod growled. “Stick the daft bloody apeth on.”
There was an inaudible exchange and then the phone was passed over.
“Let her in,” said Rod. “Don’t care, Bob. Let her in.” He shut the catalogue in exasperation and just waited for the man to just stop talking. “On my authority, Bob. Rod. It’s Rod. You know it’s me. I will come down there and slap you silly if you do not let her in now.”
He stood up, preparing to make good his promise, and then stopped abruptly.
“Cats? What do you mean, ‘cats’?”
Out of the lift, Morag went straight to the reception desk. “Lois, I need my suitcase from yesterday.”
“Morning, bab.”
Lois tried to appear like she wasn’t looking at Morag’s soiled clothing. She wasn’t very good at it.
“Suitcase,” said Morag.
Lois nodded. “Now, I put it somewhere very safe, didn’t I?” she said cheerily.
“Good,” said Morag.
“And in a mo I’ll remember where that was.”
“Kind of got a major wardrobe malfunction here.”
“It doesn’t look that bad,” said Lois.
“The fact you used the word ‘that’ and said it in a silly voice tells me it does look that bad,” said Morag.
“It will come to me,” said Lois. “But I do have your ID card. Here. No more trouble getting in.”
“Morning,” said Rod, sweeping through. “Morag, we’re interviewing in room three. Now, if you can.”
“Lois is getting something for me.”
“She can bring it through, can’t she?” He looked directly at her.
