Oddjobs

by Heide Goody

  “Enlighten me.”

  “They would kill you,” said Vivian. “To many of them, your faith is a personal affront. Listen carefully, for I am offering a compliment here. You represent power and faith and solace in this physical world. You represent much of what the Venislarn intend to take from us. The Venislarn have not come here for our gold or oil, our water or air. They do not want our land. They do not want a flat screen TV, Nike trainers and a cheeky Nando’s at the weekend. They want our minds and other mental intangibles. Insomuch as we can ascribe motives and goals to the Venislarn, they want the bread and butter of the religious business: our hearts and souls.”

  “So, you agree we are the people best placed to understand and negotiate with them.”

  “In the same way that geologists are the people best placed to negotiate with volcanoes.”

  Silas put his hands in his lap. “I’m sorry you have a closed mind on this topic. Can I also remind you that I do take exception to you referring to them as ‘gods’. There is one God, with a capital gee. These Venislarn gods, small gee or not, should not be given the same label.”

  “You have raised that point before, Silas,” nodded Vaughn. “I am sure we can draft a policy statement to that effect. Wording can be crucial.”

  “The second reason there will be no ecumenical outreach or round table negotiations,” said Vivian.

  “Yes?” said Vaughn.

  “We have no money for it. As far back as January, we knew there would be cuts and the funding for this particular vanity project was struck from the yearly plan.”

  “Ah,” said Vaughn with a gnomic nod. “Tis true. Our budget is under considerable strain. And things are looking less than rosy for next year.”

  “But I read that spending on Venislarn matters is rising globally,” said Silas.

  “Yes,” agreed Vaughn, “but regional budgets are calculated individually according to the ToHo formula which essentially distributes blocks of funding based on the number of major incursions that occur within a set region. We’ve not had any such events since the Winds of Kaxeos tornado of 2005. Locally, we derive additional funding from the management of the Dumping Ground in Nechells and the storage and research facility beneath the Library but that is about all.”

  “So,” said Vivian, “if something truly terrible happens in the city, we’ll have enough money for your coffee morning with the unspeakable horrors.”

  “Here’s an idea,” said Vaughn in the tones of someone who wanted to make out that they’d just thought of it but had quite clearly been sitting on it for some time. “You know the local Venislarn community well, Vivian.”

  “I do,” she said warily.

  “The proposed ecumenical outreach could still be carried out on a ‘street’ level. In fact, don’t we have some of the samakha in detention?”

  “The Waters Crew. You know we do.”

  “Excellent,” said Vaughn. “Maybe you could set something up on small scale with them. Some kind of workshop or programme of interventions?”

  “Or a coffee morning,” said Silas, smiling.

  Birmingham University sat in green and leafy suburbia, fifteen minutes’ drive from the Library. Just from the general direction and the feel of the area, Morag suspected it was quite near to her new home, but she hadn’t sufficiently grasped the geography of the city to be sure.

  Rod parked in a staff car park beside an Art Deco gallery and put a ‘police emergency’ note in the window.

  “So, do the university know that they have a major occultist and Venislarn artefact dealer on their payroll?” said Morag.

  “They don’t even know the Venislarn exist, do they?”

  They walked through a square archway into the campus proper. Over to one side, a massive red brick clock tower stood before a semi-circle of grand domed buildings.

  “You go to university?” asked Rod.

  “St Andrews,” said Morag. “You?”

  “You know when people say they went to the University of Life or the School of Hard Knocks and they just sound like a complete arse?”

  “Yes.”

  “I went to a university so bad that I prefer to tell people I went to the University of Life.”

  Rod led her to a large shoebox building, the Faculty of Arts. “Professor Sheikh Omar is a lecturer in the department of Practical Theology,” he explained as they walked up to the first floor, “but, additionally, he runs something called the Department of Intertextual Exegesis.”

  “What the hell?”

  “It basically means he likes to poke his nose in very bad books and then write new ones.” Rod stopped at a nameless door, hammered it three times with his fist and entered.

  It was a spacious office, of the kind university academics rarely got to occupy. Abstract pencil and charcoal prints filled the wall around the windows. A tall, balding man in black-rimmed glasses sat at the large, battered desk. A shorter, silver-haired man with a pink cravat about his neck, perched on the edge of the desk. They looked like Morecambe and Wise, if Eric Morecambe had been of Arab descent and Ernie Wise had been on a starvation diet.

  “As if by magic the shopkeeper appeared,” said Professor Sheikh Omar.

  It was only when he spoke that Morag realised she had met the man before. They’d sunk several whiskeys together on the way down from Scotland at the beginning of the week.

  “Maurice, be a dear and put the kettle on,” said Omar.

  The little man slid off the desk and slid away into a side room.

  “Expecting us, were you?” said Rod.

  “Just thinking about you, Rodney,” said Omar. “And this is your new colleague from across the border. The Caledonian Sleeper.”

  “We’ve met,” said Morag, shaking Omar’s hand.

  “Have you?” said Rod.

  “Was that a coincidental meeting then?” said Morag.

  “Oh, what is a chance meeting,” said Omar, “but the gods recycling the strutters and mummers out of laziness?”

  “We’re here because we think you’ve been a naughty boy of late,” said Rod.

  “You might need to be a tad more specific, Rodney,” said Omar. “I mean these…” He gestured at a set of aged papers on the desk before him. “These are mildly scandalous. This…” He touched lightly upon a leather journal. “This is beyond cheeky and these…” He picked up a box of soft toffee squares printed with a tartan pattern and a picture of an Aberdeen Angus. “Positively sinful. Do have one.”

  Rod threw a photograph of Izzy Wu on the desk. Omar ignored it and held out the box of Highland toffee to Morag. “I got these on my recent holibobs. Go on. Be a devil.”

  Morag ignored him. Rod pushed the picture across the desk.

  “This is Izzy Wu.”

  Omar made a pretence of looking at the picture. “A student of mine, as you know. Where is she now?”

  “The restricted ward at the QE hospital. Not coming out any time soon.”

  Omar pushed his glasses up his nose. “Not planning to pin this nasty business on me, are you?”

  “Pin nothing,” said Rod. “She was your student and she was up to her neck in dodgy artefacts and samakha gangland dealings.”

  “Gangland? It’s hardly Codfather proportions. Just some wide boys who like to play at being gangsters. Not my scene.”

  “No? Maybe this is your scene.” Rod tossed a DVD case onto the desk. The cover was an amateurish screengrab of a skinny dead-eyed woman being taken from behind by a glass-eyed samakha. The title was in Venislarn with an English translation underneath. To Morag’s mind, the English didn’t quite capture the desperate sordidness of the Venislarn; English lacked the juicy verb forms of the Venislarn language. Omar looked but did not touch.

  “Maurice and I prefer The Great British Bake Off, don’t we, Maurice?” said Omar.

  “Soggy bottoms,” called Maurice from the other room.

  “He’s so saucy,” said Omar.

  “We don’t think this is funny,” said Morag.


  “Then you’re not trying hard enough,” said Omar. He looked at them levelly. “I have nothing to do with this. If people were going to blame teachers for what their students get up to then there should have been more schoolmarms at the Nuremberg Trials. What exactly are you accusing me of?”

  “Bankrolling samakha porn films. Handing out deadly zahirs to local idiots. Conspiring to steal Venislarn artefacts from the government. Take your pick,” said Rod.

  “Ah.”

  “The Waters Crew have ID’d you,” said Rod.

  “So, they know me,” said Omar. “I do get about.”

  Rod tapped the DVD case. “I wonder how your bosses would respond if they knew you were involved in this kind of filth.”

  “Stooping to blackmail and threats?” said Omar. “Rodney. You’re better than that. We’re friends. Look.”

  Maurice glided in with a silver tray bearing cups of black coffee in glass cups. Maurice slid it onto the desk. Omar picked up a cup, inhaled deeply but did not drink.

  “Rodney. Morag. I am going to do you three favours.”

  “Three,” said Rod.

  “I will respond to each of the accusations you had laid before me, I will give both of you a sound piece of advice and I will tell you what you really ought to be doing.”

  “And do we have to cross your palm with silver?” said Morag.

  “Just remember,” said Omar. “Remember who your friends are.”

  “Go on then,” said Rod. “Give us your penneth worth.”

  Omar smiled and put his cup down. “These specialist cinematic efforts really aren’t my style. You know this. A fool of a fish called Jay-Jay tried to flog me one the last time I was on Daganau Vei but I said no. Billy the Fish had his own distributor. Jay-Jay was just trying to make a bit on the side. The zahirs weren’t from me. I have my own charms and enchantments but why would I want to pass them onto my own students? It’s hard enough to get them to achieve their grades without turning their brains into caviar. As for stealing from you.” He sighed happily. “There’s no point going to all that trouble when eBay is only a finger-click away.”

  Rod made an unhappy noise. “Fair enough. I’m not saying I believe you though.”

  “Such a cynical Yorkshireman, aren’t you? I do wonder if it’s something in the water. Advice now,” said Omar. “Rod, you want to find Billy the Fish’s distributor. His name is Gary Bark.”

  “Gary Bark. Never heard of him.”

  “He’s registered. You’ll find him. Morag, advice for you, sweetheart.”

  “Yes?”

  “Take the afternoon off. Life’s too short.”

  Morag felt his words touch her coldly and, for a moment, all colour drained from the room. She abruptly realised that the abstract charcoal drawings on the wall weren’t abstracts at all. They were all careful renderings of pieces of human anatomy, very close up and medically precise. She wavered momentarily on her feet. Rod didn’t seem to notice.

  “Now, what you really ought to know,” said Omar. “Maurice here is not only a master of the coffee pot and an immaculate pastry cook, he also has a gift for augury, specifically haruspicy. The reading of entrails, Rodney.”

  “At least it’s not tea leaves.”

  “Don’t poke fun, you naughty boy. When Humphrey – such a fat ginger tom – brings in a dead pigeon, there’s almost nothing Maurice can’t read in its remains. Such a skill. Last week, he pulled out the lottery numbers from the remains of my Balti lamb special.”

  “I get it,” said Rod. “What does the future hold, Mystic Meg?” Rod was looking at Maurice but it was still Omar who spoke.

  “There will be a major Venislarn incursion in the next two days.”

  “Uh-huh. Where?”

  “Here,” said Omar. “Birmingham.”

  “What kind of incursion?

  “Maurice is less certain on that point. But it will either be Zildrohar-Cqulu or the Nadirian.”

  Rod nodded doubtfully. “So, gods walking the earth, huh?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Twaddle.”

  “The entrails never lie,” said Omar.

  Maurice gave a tiny cough.

  “Apart from that time in Marrakesh,” Omar agreed, “but you were suffering with Delhi belly, dear. And perhaps had had one too many banana daiquiris, if you don’t mind me saying. You’d never catch me making such a fool of myself,” he said to Morag. “Clean-living vegetarian that I am. Boring? Perhaps. But at least I’ve got all my own teeth.”

  Rod picked up the DVD and the picture of Izzy Wu. “Any further questions?” he asked Morag. Morag shook her head. She had not quite yet recovered from the peculiar turn Omar’s words had invoked in her.

  “For the record, I think you’re full of shite, professor,” said Rod.

  “Such a colourful turn of phrase,” said Omar.

  “Don’t be surprised if we’re back again real soon. And you’d best hope that your cock and bull prediction comes true.”

  “I don’t hope. I fear. Gods can be bad for business.”

  On the stairs on the way down, Rod asked if Morag was okay.

  “You went an interesting shade of grey back there,” he said.

  Morag shrugged it off. “I’ve been hearing a lot of dark talk today.”

  “Earlier, you said you were going to die today.”

  “Mmmm.”

  “Care to tell me about it?”

  “Well…”

  Ahead, Morag saw a figure leant casually against the concrete pillar of an archway, watching her. He had ginger hair and, if not for that, she might not have recognised him with his clothes on.

  “Listen,” she said to Rod. “I’m not feeling too good. Truly. Would you mind if I caught up with you later?”

  “We can go get a drink somewhere. Sit down until your colour comes back.”

  “No,” she said. “I think I do need a bit of time to myself. Maybe I’m coming down with something.”

  “You sure?”

  “Sure.”

  Rod didn’t argue.

  “I’m going to follow up this Gary Bark character,” he said. “It’s probably a wild goose chase but we’ll see. Give me a call when you’re ready to get back in the game.”

  Morag waved him off and then walked towards the redheaded man in the archway.

  The Dumping Ground’s official name was the Venislarn Material Reclamation Centre. Specifically, its truly official name was Birmingham Freight Forwarding and Storage and operated under the guise of a cargo container storage centre but, to those in the know, it was the Venislarn Material Reclamation Centre. But everyone called it the Dumping Ground because it was shorter, snappier and properly reflected the chaos, filth and uncertainty that ruled the place.

  The Dumping Ground was hidden away in the Nechells area of Birmingham. It was bounded on one side by the River Rea and on the other by the brick viaducts that brought westbound trains into New Street station. It was further encircled by twenty-foot-high metal fencing topped with coils of razor wire. Finally, the inner area was lined by a veritable castle wall of cargo containers, stacked four high and creating a thirty-foot barrier against prying eyes. Within the metal fort, the Dumping Ground was superficially what it pretended to be: a container yard. Forty acres of compacted dirt, space for over a thousand containers and tankers, all managed from a prefab office by the rail terminal that ran onto the site. The deeper reality was quite different.

  Dr Ingrid Spence wore a yellow biohazard suit with the hood down. Unlike most biohazard suits, this one was painted with a variety of catch-all protective wards (including, Nina noted, the words ‘please don’t eat me!’ in Venislarn).

  Vivian consulted the clipboard. “Six-five-five. The weird tree of Chippenham.”

  Ingrid threw the stiff bolts on container 655 and the stockyard worker helped her haul the doors open. Nina shone a torch on the gnarly twisted object inside.

  “It’s a tree,” said Ingrid.

  “It’s
weird,” said Nina.

  They began to shut it up again. “Wait,” said Vivian.

  “What?”

  “Is it all there?”

  Nina frowned at her. “It’s a tree. It’s there.”

  “But is it all there?”

  “Meaning?”

  “What if, for example, a branch had been taken from it?”

  “It’s still a tree. It’s still the weird tree of Chippenham. Are you concerned that someone somewhere has now got a weird branch of Chippenham?”

  “Whatever properties this tree has —”

  “It weeps blood and drives people mad,” said Ingrid.

  “— then these will also be possessed by the branch.”

  “But it’s still a tree,” said Nina. “I mean, how many branches would you have to snap off it before it stops being a tree?”

  “That’s zen, that is,” said the stockyard worker. Ingrid closed the door.

  “To answer your question, no, it’s not all there,” said Ingrid. “There’s a weird branch in Hull and another in Bristol.”

  “Explain.” Vivian waited.

  “Standard practice,” said Ingrid. “Look, over here.” She walked over to a trailer tanker, spray painted with the number 430. “What’s this supposed to contain?”

  Vivian flicked through the papers. “Diluted shrol’iek plasma. Thirty thousand litres.”

  “We were originally sent this by the Highlands team, Loch Morar. We billed them for reclamation, transport and storage and they were able to pay for most of that from central budget. Now, let’s say we get too much stock in and have to move thirty thousand litres of diluted shrol’iek plasma to Port Talbot. We have to pay for it but can reclaim most of that from central. Not that we use such vulgar terms as profit but we’ve now made a profit equal to the amount that we’ve been able to reclaim from central.”

  Vivian wasn’t impressed. “You are simply shuttling the same tanker back and forth and claiming central government funding for it.”

  “Oh dear, no,” smiled Ingrid. “They’d spot that. I said we’d taken thirty thousand litres from Loch Morar and send thirty thousand litres to Port Talbot. I didn’t say that we’d got rid of the Loch Morar shipment. There’s thirty thousand litres here and thirty thousand litres in Port Talbot.”