by Heide Goody
“Diluted, isn’t it?” said the stockyard worker.
“The devil’s in the details,” said Ingrid. “I should imagine that one day, we will get another thirty thousand litres back from Port Talbot.”
“And you are continually watering it down to boost revenues.” Vivian did not approve.
“The Dumping Ground is the Birmingham mission’s primary source of revenue, Vivian. It pays for everything else. If we didn’t do this, we wouldn’t have the Library, the Vault, anything. This is standard practice.”
“It is dishonest.”
Ingrid put her hands on her hips in a determined pose which was moderately undermined by the fact she was dressed in bright yellow plastics.
“I’ll tell you what’s dishonest: Birmingham selling itself as a centre for reclamation and research. On paper, this place and the Vault are meant to be international beacons for Venislarn research. With the miniscule budget we get, this place is containment, nothing more.”
“It is still dishonest,” said Vivian.
“It’s quite clever,” said Nina. “Have you ever considered putting in an expenses form for the services of a tree surgeon when you inspect them —”
Ingrid raised her clipboard. “Got the invoice right here.”
“Dishonest,” said Vivian. “You have no moral compass, Nina, so your opinion does not count.”
“Whatever you think,” said Ingrid, as Nina’s phone began to ring, “this is the way of the world. We make ends meet by bending the rules. And we’ll be sending weird branches to here, there and everywhere until container six-five-five contains only the homeopathic memory of a tree.”
It was Rod calling.
“Yo,” said Nina.
“Nina, are you at the Dumping Ground with Vivian?”
“Uh-huh. Having an argument over how many branches you have to take off a tree before it stops being a tree.”
“That’s a bit zen.”
“That’s what the guy here said.”
“Um, I wonder if you or Vivian could answer a question for me. I’m trying to locate a distributor of occult artefacts called Gary Bark. Sheikh Omar says he’s registered but I can’t find any record of him.”
Nina stuck out her bottom lip and shook her head. She looked at Vivian.
“Gary Bark? Independent occultist. Ever heard of him?”
As Vivian shook her head, the stockyard worker said, “Gary? Who’s after him?”
“You know him?” said Nina.
“One of our haulage drivers. He lives in Dudley, but he’s been off sick the last four days. Not heard from him.”
Nina put the phone back to her ear. “I think we’ve got your guy. What’s he supposed to have done?”
Morag and Drew were drinking in the Birmingham University Students’ Guild bar. It actually had a nice pub-style vibe and Morag would have liked it more if they weren’t surrounded by pretty twenty-somethings who made her feel positively middle-aged. Drew had offered to buy her a drink. Morag had asked for a juice and then remembered she was due to die later and ordered a pint of lager.
“I don’t particularly like being out with other redheads,” she said once they were sat down in a booth.
“Prejudiced against your own kind?”
“I don’t like being a redhead out with other redheads. It just makes us stand out more, like we’re in some special club. Seeing all those people in the court today… One day there’ll be one too many and you’ll reach some kind of ginger critical mass.”
“Nuclear ginger-geddon,” said Drew.
“Exactly.”
“Actually, I like it. The court, I mean. When everyone is ginger, no one is ginger.”
“Ginger power,” said Morag, fist raised.
“You’re making fun of me.”
“Fun of it. Ginger isn’t a racial group. It’s not a ‘thing’. We don’t have a proud and rich history. We don’t have a shared language or culture. I’m not aware of Ginger History Month or Ginger Pride marches.”
“Really?” Drew lounged back in his seat, nursing his bottled beer. “You have to be told something is a ‘thing’ before you’ll accept it’s a ‘thing’? We’re all identified by our labels. If you have a label, you make it your own. If you’re black, be black. If you’re straight, be straight. If you’re transgender, transethnic, otherkin then that’s what you are.”
“Excuse me? Otherkin? No, wait. Transethnic?”
“Sure,” said Drew. “Transethnic.”
“Um…?”
Drew put his drink down so he could use his hands to gesticulate. “So, transgender is where you’re assigned one sex at birth but you identify as another.”
“And transethnic,” said Morag, “is… When you’re born white but you feel black on the inside?”
“Yes. It can be across broad racial groups or between different nationalities and cultures.”
“Like when everyone declares themselves to be Irish on St Patrick’s Day.”
“You’re making fun again.”
“Sorry. And otherkin? I will do my very best to keep a straight face and, if I don’t, I’ll let you buy me another beer.”
Drew gave her a playful warning look. “Otherkin, I think, grew out of the elf community.” He stopped. “You’re smiling.”
“Nicely,” she argued. “I’m showing interest. You were talking about elves.”
“The online elf community.”
“That’s a real thing?” she said deadpan. “Not made up?”
“They’re people who self-identify as elves.”
“Pointy ears. Hats with bells on.”
“Elves. There are people who feel they are elves.”
“But elves aren’t real.”
“They know that. But that’s how they self-identify. And other people identify with other non-human beings. Demons, dragons, vampires. And the umbrella term is otherkin. I’ve even met some Venislarnkin.”
Morag’s laugh forced its way out noisily through pressed lips.
“You laughed!” said Drew.
“I call bullshit,” she replied.
“No, it’s true.”
“Humans who think they’re Venislarn on the inside? I’d like to see how that one plays out when the Soulgate comes.”
“It’s definitely true.” He looked confused. “I’m fairly sure it’s true. My memories…”
“Yo-Morgantus?”
“And my mistress,” said Drew. He turned his head and pulled aside the hair at the back of his neck to reveal a circle of puckered flesh the size of a ten pence piece.
“What’s that?” said Morag.
“Sensory feedback. She just plugs into me when we’re at it and –”
“Oh, you’re her… lover.”
Morag knew it happened but she couldn’t picture sex between a human man and a ten-foot armoured spider woman.
“Lover. Plaything. Yeah, that,” said Drew.
“The Handmaidens of Prein. That’s a once-a-month thing. Lunar cycle, isn’t it?”
“It’s more astrological really.”
“Huh. I don’t know many guys who’d be happy with sex just once a month.”
“It’s quality not quantity, Morag,” he smiled. “When we’re together, it’s unbelievable.”
“But the August Handmaidens of Prein,” said Morag, curious, “aren’t they the ones that, when they’re about to come, they kill their lovers?” She made a tentative head slicing motion with her hand.
“Clean off,” Drew agreed. “But it’s a cumulative thing. When they bond with a lover, each time is more powerful than the last. It can be dozens of times before she finally…”
He drank his beer.
“Yeah, but your time must be coming soon,” said Morag.
He shrugged. “Do you know what? I’m looking forward to it. I feel what she feels. It’s so adn-bhul amazing, I would rather she killed me tomorrow than I never get to be inside her again.”
“O-kaaay. A little too much detail now. Y
our round,” she said.
He didn’t argue.
It was not yet dark outside but day was edging into evening.
“She ate up most of my childhood memories in our first six months together,” said Drew when he returned with drinks. “She and Yo-Morgantus.”
“That’s terrible,” said Morag.
“You can’t miss what you can’t remember. And she implants new memories all the time, like it''s some kind of practical joke. Currently, my earliest childhood memory is of me doing something utterly degrading with the neighbour’s dog.”
“And she planted that memory?”
“How would I know?” he said. “Cheers.” He tapped his bottle against the rim of her glass. “Whom the gods would destroy, they first make mad,” he said. “Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Now, that’s an implanted memory. Doubt I ever had that kind of education.”
“How do you know?”
“Exactly. Drew’s probably not my real name. I spent a month thinking my name was Ron Weasley. I remember at different times thinking I was a girl, a delusional psychotic on a psychiatric ward, and any number of animals. At least I have memories of those things.”
“You’re messed up,” said Morag and spoiled the sentiment by smiling.
“Human condition,” said Drew.
“I’m not sure I’d let that happen to me.”
“Maybe it already has. Yo-Morgantus touched you.”
“So?”
“That memory of the otter on the beach. Are you sure that memory’s even yours?”
“You… saw that?”
“I know what my lord wants me to know.”
“That memory was real,” she said.
“As long as you’re certain.”
“I’ve had that memory since childhood.”
“You remember having it since childhood.”
“But it happened.”
“I didn’t know you had otters in Scotland.”
Morag stared fixedly at the table and tried to put the memory of the dying otter in the context of her childhood. Could she remember why they had come to the beach that day? Could she recall other events from the same time? Her mum with her sister on her knee, her dad with the binoculars… Did those events match the chronology of her life?
The gulf of years and the two beers inside her made it impossible for her to remember clearly. She gave up. “Were you sent to kill me?” she asked Drew. “Or are you just here to screw with my mind?”
“Kill you?” Drew seemed genuinely surprised.
“Kill me. Your mistress sent you.”
“No,” he said plainly. “When I saw you today, I was… attracted to you. I wanted to see you again. So, on an impulse, I decided to follow you.”
“Attracted, huh?”
“People can be attracted to each other. You are an attractive woman.”
Morag cleared her throat, which had become suddenly uncomfortably tight. “Okay, you’re being embarrassing.”
“Embarrassing?”
“If you’d rather I called you creepy, I can do that.”
“So you’re not attracted to me, Morag Murray?” he asked.
She had a flash image of his naked body and felt betrayed by her own body’s response to that image.
“Again,” she said, “with the embarrassing slash creepy.”
“Sorry,” he said cheerfully. “I’m still not sure why you think I’d want to kill you.”
“I’m due to die today.”
“That’s a bummer.”
“Yep,” she said, drinking. “So, when a man apparently has an irrational urge to come find me, I’m going to be sceptical. Maybe she planted that urge in you.”
“Very good,” he said. “I wouldn’t know. We all have irrational urges. We can’t say why we feel compelled to do certain things. We can’t comprehend the biological drives that govern our lives.”
“Sex is weird,” said Morag.
“The weirdest,” agreed Drew.
“You know, there have been times when I’ve been, you know, doing it, and… You know that thing when you suddenly see yourself – objectively – and you think, ‘what are we doing?’ Legs all everywhere. Frantically sticking.” She made hand gestures.
“Tab A in slot B?” said Drew.
“Exactly. It’s crazy. And I just burst out laughing.”
“In the middle of sex?”
“Well, yes.”
“And how many long-term boyfriends have you had?”
“And now I’m thinking, maybe Yo-Morgantus totally messed with my mind with that one touch. Maybe that’s just what I think sex is. Objectively, it seems entirely ridiculous. Makes as much sense as wanting to stick your finger in someone’s ear or lick their eyeball.”
“Okay, enough with the cheap philosophy,” said Drew. “I think this place is rubbing off on you.”
“The pub or the university?”
“Either. Both. Pub philosophy or undergraduate philosophy, I can only take so much. The way I see it, if this is your last night on earth and you’ve got an urge to do something, heck, go and do it.”
Morag blinked. “Are you saying we should have sex?”
“Actually, if it was me I’d go play knock-a-door-run, set off fireworks in the street and do a mountain of cocaine.”
“Interesting selection.” Morag sipped at her pint.
“But, sure,” said Drew, “why not have sex with me?”
“Worst chat-up line ever.” Even as she said it, Morag realised it wasn’t true.
“It’s not a chat-up line. It’s a question. It’s your last night. Why shouldn’t you have sex with me?”
“You want reasons?”
“Yes.”
Morag drank while she thought about it.
Rod rang and then knocked and then rang again. Then they waited a full minute.
“He’s not there,” said Nina.
“Or he’s not answering.”
Gary Bark’s dilapidated house stood on the corner of Bath Street and Bilston Street in Dudley. The lights were on in the Beacon Chippy & Pizza across the road and the smell of chip fat wafted across the road.
“I’m hungry,” said Nina.
“If I was as skinny as you I’d be hungry too.” Rod considered the door.
“You going to do some kung fu or Krav Maga on the door?” asked Nina.
“You can’t Krav Maga a door,” said Rod. “And no.”
He opened the side gate and went round to the rear of the house. He peered in through the kitchen window.
“Can we get chips?” said Nina.
Rod lay down on his back by the kitchen door, put his arm through the cat flap and felt his way up the inside of the door.
“You’re not going to fit,” said Nina.
Rod ignored her, found the key in the back door and unlocked it.
“Kung fu would have been more impressive.”
Rod brushed himself off and opened the door. There was crusty and uneaten cat food in a bowl by the sink and a fusty stink in the air.
“Single men,” said Nina, her nose wrinkling. There was a faint noise from further in the house.
“Television?” said Rod.
Nina shrugged.
“Mr Bark?” she called. “Gary?”
There was no reply. “Look,” said Nina.
Rod turned away from the fridge door, on which someone had left a note that simply read ‘474’. A pile of brown cardboard boxes stood in the corner of the kitchen. Nina had flipped the top one open and now held a familiar DVD.
“Mr Bark!” she called again. “We’d like to talk about your fish porn collection.”
Rod went out into the hallway and, following the sounds, went into the living room. “Flaming heck!” he exclaimed.
“What?” said Nina.
“Come have a look,” he said. “Just watch you don’t tread in anything.”
Morag had not had much time in which to plan her last night on earth, but she launched into it with glee and aban
don.
They took a taxi into town. The uCab driver did not speak once, even when asked to wait outside a Digbeth warehouse while they bought themselves tasteful neon hula skirts to wear. The taxi dropped them off at a city-centre hotel bar where they bought the entire cocktail menu, drank half, and gave out the rest to anyone who would have them. They walked down New Street and persuaded a street vendor to apply henna tattoos to their stomachs and buttocks. They went into the Bull Ring where Morag bought herself a calabash tobacco pipe and, at Drew’s suggestion, a pair of smart balance hoverboards upon which they chased each other around the shopping centre until security chased them out. They then sat outside the doors of a nearby church and tried, and failed, to get the pipe to light. On hoverboards, they raced through the evening debris of an outdoor market and, in some Chinatown area, ate Korean barbecue, drank Japanese beer and lost the last two hundred pounds of Morag’s bank balance in a Malaysian casino by nine o’clock.
“Now,” Morag said, clutching the front of Drew’s shirt for support more than anything else. “Now, we can have sex.”
“You sure?” said Drew. “You’re kind of drunk.”
“Only kind of?” said Morag. “Then we must pick up more booze on the way back to mine. Before we get to mine. It’s a dry village, you know.”
The living room lights were off, but Rod could see well enough by the glow of a dozen TV screens set up in a curved bank in the bay window. Cables ran from the screens to a desktop computer, a stack of DVD players and a pair of tripod-mounted camcorders. One camera pointed directly at the single armchair in the room. The other, positioned behind the armchair, pointed at the bank of screens.
On most of the screens, Rod saw videos of samakha-human naked nastiness that had clearly been recorded at Billy''s fish grotto. But two showed live feeds of the room he was standing in. One was the armchair. He could see his own midriff and hand on that screen. The other screen, larger than the rest and directly in front of the chair, showed live video of the bank of screens itself (including the one in the middle (which contained a smaller image of the bank of screens (which, naturally, contained an even smaller image, (and so on to infinity)))).
Rod stepped towards the screens and into thickly-congealed gunk that squelched underfoot. Looking down, he saw that the chair''s cushion and arms, and the surrounding floor were covered in translucent white slime.
