by Heide Goody
“True.”
“I know you eat green beans and aren’t averse to whacking women with colanders.”
“I did say sorry.”
“I’m over it,” she smiled. “But beyond that, you are an enigma, Richard.”
“I’m a man of mystery,” he agreed, “but, to be fair, I know even less about you. Let’s see. You like a drink.” She raised her bottled beer to confirm this. “You sometimes can’t read door numbers. You sometimes forget when you’ve arranged to have dinner with a neighbour.”
“Sorry.”
“But you were ill. Um, and you have an aunt called Vivian who, I notice, doesn’t have a Scottish accent like yourself.”
“I was raised on the Moray Firth. Vivian’s always lived in England.” There was a buzz from her phone. “Speak of the devil,” she said and read Vivian’s text.
“How’s the cleaning going?” asked Richard.
“Okay,” said Morag without much confidence.
Vivian was quite troubled by the coffee the Nadirian presented her with. It was as dark as black treacle and seemed to simmer in her cup as though it was reluctant to give up any of its heat. She wasn’t certain how the Nadirian had made it or how long ago it had originally been brewed. By the smell, she wasn’t certain what kind of milk had been added or how far it was past its sell-by date. She couldn’t even be absolutely certain that it was actually coffee at all. A tiny cat hair floated on its thick surface.
“That looks lovely,” she lied. “Thank you.”
The Nadirian gestured at a chair with an erratic hand movement and Vivian sat. Immediately, from beneath the chair, a cat wrapped its legs around Vivian’s ankle and tried to bite her shoes. The Nadirian, who was doing a complicated three-point turn to back into her own chair, didn’t notice.
Vivian made a show of looking round the flat, at the old furniture and gloomy and dusty corners. There was a glass-topped record player by the window with a stack of long players in brown wax paper sleeves beside it. On top of the Welsh dresser, the lion and lioness watched Vivian malevolently.
“This is a nice flat you have,” she said.
The Nadirian gave a wobbly but genial nod like a monarch accepting tribute from a foreign dignitary. She dug down one side of her armchair and pulled out a bundle of knitting. She began to knit without even looking at her needles. For a creature in a doddery old body, her hands showed sudden and sinister dexterity.
“You do have a lot of cats,” said Vivian.
“They breed,” said the Nadirian as though it explained everything.
“They must take a lot of feeding.”
“Cats feed themselves,” said the Nadirian. “Rats and mice and such. They bring me food too. Morsels.”
“Yes,” said Vivian.
“Would you like to see family photographs?”
“Your family.”
“My family.”
“I would like that very much.”
With pink yarn hooked over her fingers, the Nadirian pointed with both hands at a fat photo album on the table next to Vivian’s chair. The cover was embossed with a photograph of a woman in a gauzy wrap skipping along a tropical beach at sunset. Behind her, the words ‘Treasured Memories’ rose from the surf in shimmering gold foil.
“Ah.” Vivian picked up the volume reverently and placed it in her own lap. She did not open it.
She was extraordinarily mindful that she was sitting five feet away from a god and was preparing to open the god’s family photo album. Venislarn images were to be feared, as were the Venislarn themselves. A high Abyssal Rating or not, there were Venislarn images that would fracture the human psyche in an instant and tip the viewer into permanent psychosis. A Venislarn photo album was potentially a very bad thing.
“I am very proud,” said the Nadirian.
Was that a warning? A threat? Vivian took a silent but deep breath and opened the album. She looked at the first page. She was absolutely certain this was no human family.
“Ah,” she said.
A sudden flash of light blinded her and sent a spectrum of entoptic images spinning across her retina.
“Vivian is apparently taking coffee with the Nadirian,” said Nina, reading from her phone.
“That’s brave,” said Professor Sheikh Omar.
Rod looked at his tiles and heartily wished he and Vivian could swap places. Supping with a shape-shifting mind-reading god from beyond the stars seemed infinitely preferable to spending another minute trying to pluck meaningful Venislarn words from the gibberish in front of him.
“Mrs Grey is a brave woman,” said Professor Sheikh Omar. “A fiery woman. I think if I were ever of the inclination to marry…”
From a chair in the corner, Maurice gave an amused snort.
Rod looked at the board. Omar had already criss-crossed the board with such gems as karken’at, gharri, byach-id and drasn’eech. By comparison, Rod had only managed to play eh, fer, eh (again) and, his best play and six-point scorer, drat.
Omar leaned forward over the desk. “I wonder what is brewing in that capacious cranium of yours, Rodney.”
Rod gave a sudden bark of realisation and laid down three tiles.
“Muda!”
“Indeed,” said Omar and immediately laid jaer’khu on a Triple Word Score.
“Flaming hell,” Rod muttered under his breath.
“Come on, Rod. You can do it,” said Nina, ignoring all evidence to the contrary.
“Oh, aye,” he said sourly. “I’m just lulling him into a false sense of security.”
He grabbed four tiles at random and laid them out to stretch to a Double Word Score. Omar studied the resultant word.
“Hraa?”
“Aye. That’s right. Hraa,” said Rod.
“And, Rodney, what’s the meaning of this word?”
“This word? The original meaning?”
“Mmmm.”
“It’s the name we give to those, um, flange things… on the ends of…”
“It’s the measured degree of muh’yakhe licence given to a rhen-dho courtier in exchange for filial sacrifices,” said Nina, reading from the dictionary.
“Like I said,” said Rod. “Flanges.”
“Very well,” said Omar and considered his next play.
“And this one?” said Vivian.
The Nadirian peered at the photograph. “That is the white cat.”
“I can see that. Does it have a name?”
“It is the only white cat I have ever had so she didn’t need a name.”
“And what is this she is wearing?”
“It’s the field uniform of a captain of the Wehrmacht.”
“Of course, it is. I can see that now.” Vivian turned the page. More cats. It was an entire album devoted to her cats. A very small number of them were undressed, but the majority had been kitted out in various outfits. They continued the military theme. From the tall bearskin of the Grenadier Guards to the feathered helmet of an Italian Bersaglieri, each was rendered in lovingly knitted detail. Vivian flipped to the last page of the military section to find an Imperial Stormtrooper cat. She frowned at the mistake, but of course the Nadirian would be unconcerned with the difference between fiction and reality.
The Nadirian picked up the Polaroid photo she had taken of Vivian, gave it a final shake and held it out for Vivian to see. It was not a flattering image, Vivian judged; and, like a savage tribesperson, she felt that the creature had somehow stolen part of her soul by taking it.
“It is a good likeness,” said Vivian politely.
“It will go in the collection,” said the Nadirian. She put the picture on the table and the Polaroid camera back down the side of her chair.
The evening light that had seeped around the drawn curtains was completely gone. The only light in the room came from a table lamp with a cloth shade printed with a painting of a coach house, complete with a horse and carriage. The old woman peered at her knitting in its yellow light.
“Would
you like to hear something?” said Vivian.
“Like music?” said the Nadirian.
“A poem.”
The Nadirian’s round face scrunched up in a peculiar expression.
“People don’t tend to read poems anymore,” she said and then shook her head at her knitting as though it had suddenly become too much for her and put it down.
“It is an unusual poem but I do like it,” said Vivian.
Vivian took a piece of paper from her purse. It was actually a receipt from a cash machine. She knew the Uriye Inai’e prayer of supplication by heart but the paper served her ruse. The Nadirian gestured for her to read and settled back.
“Uriye Inai’e. Uriye Inai’khi rhul’eh,” Vivian recited. “Qa-qa urh lhau-ee. Uriye Inai’e. Zhay te ayvh-ee shau.”
The Nadirian gave a grunt and laced its gnarled fingers together over its round belly, its eyes closed. Vivian repeated the prayer.
The open mic took place in a small function room at the rear of the pub. A short stage had been set up and tables and chairs were scattered around in a Parisian café style. Two middle-aged bikers sat drinking beer at one table. A pair of youngsters played on their phones at another. A woman in a long flowing outfit and a Joni Mitchell haircut sat tuning her acoustic guitar by the fire exit. An audience of five, six including Morag, who was already preparing to tell anyone who asked that, no, she wasn’t with the man with the bagpipes.
A beanpole of a man came onto the stage with Richard in tow.
“Good evening everyone,” said the beanpole into the utterly superfluous microphone. “Welcome to talent night at the British Oak. First up, we have…”
“Richard,” said Richard.
“Richard,” said the beanpole. “And he’s got bagpipes and five minutes tops.”
The beanpole backed away and left the stage to Richard. Richard nervously approached the microphone. He licked his lips and blew into the bagpipes to inflate the bladder. And then stopped.
“What do you call a dog with no legs?” said Richard. “Anything you like. He’s not coming.”
One of the youngsters scoffed. Morag smiled supportively. Richard pressed on.
“Man goes in a pub. The barman says, ‘What are all these mangoes doing in here?’”
One of the youngsters muttered. “Get off,” said one of the bikers.
“Is that what your wife says to you?” said Richard.
The biker’s mate laughed and elbowed the other in the ribs. Richard gripped the microphone. “My parents used to laugh when I said I wanted to be a stand-up comedian. Well, no one’s laughing now, are they?”
A youngster swore softly at the terrible joke but she was grinning nonetheless.
“My parents never liked me. For my seventh birthday, they bought me an abandoned fridge.”
There was a smattering of chuckles.
“I can’t even get a job. I went for an interview with a blacksmith. He asked me if I’d ever shoed a horse before. I said, ‘No, but I once told a donkey to piss off.’”
There was laughter in the room. Genuine laughter. Morag blinked.
“After the accident, I woke up in hospital,” he said. “I said to the doctor, ‘Doctor, I can’t feel my legs.’ The doctor said, ‘I know. We cut off your hands.’”
Even the heckler raised a chuckle at that one.
“Keep laughing,” said Richard, “or I will be forced to play the bagpipes.”
The Nadirian snored loudly once, then settled down, chin on chest, and was still. Vivian paused in her recitation. She sat still for a full five minutes and simply observed.
The creature seemed to draw in on itself as it sank into its torpor. The wrinkles on its face deepened and it looked even less human than before, more muppet than woman.
Eventually satisfied that it was indeed asleep and dead to the world, Vivian closed the photo album of cats in hats and carefully put it aside. She took out her phone, sent a quick text off to her colleagues and then stood to leave.
It was at that moment she recalled that there was a cat wrapped around her ankle and attempting to eat her shoe. Vivian gave her foot an experimental shake but the furry little vice wasn’t going anywhere.
Some choice words rose to Vivian’s mind. She kept them to herself and made for the door, dragging the cat behind her like a ball and chain.
Nina’s phone buzzed. Rod shot her a filthy look and then, apologetically, turned it into an exasperated gesture. Nina silenced the phone.
Rod had six tiles: four X’s an E and a Z. There were no more letters in the bag, he was sixty-seven points behind and he suspected Omar would be out on his next go. Rod knew he wasn’t going to win but he had to go down fighting.
“That was Vivian,” said Nina. “She has placated the Nadirian with a prayer.”
“She’s done what?”
“She’s hypnotised it, put it in cryo, whatever,” said Nina.
“That’s great,” said Rod. “Just let me concentrate.”
“But it’s all dealt with,” said Nina. “Zildrohar-Cqulu is in Hull and the Nadirian’s been put into hyper-sleep. Crisis averted. No incursion in Birmingham tonight.”
“You wish to abandon the game?” asked Omar, disappointed.
“Hell, no,” said Rod.
“Oh, he thinks he can still win,” the professor grinned.
Rod studied the board. There were few places left to go. Frankly, he might as well go out in a blaze of glorious stupidity. He began laying tiles across the latticework of letters.
“What’s this?” said Omar. “E-I-X-X-E. Eixxe?”
“Not finished,” said Rod.
“E-I-X-X-E-Z-E.” Omar frowned. “What? You’re not thinking of…?”
Rod placed another X on the board. As his finger came up, the tile flipped, as though it had a magnet in its base. Rod picked it up and placed it again. It scooted away from the board square, repelled by some force.
“Are you playing silly buggers, Omar?”
“Quite reasonably, the universe is taking exception to your word choice.”
“Eh?”
“Forces beyond those that govern our physical world fear you are planning to spell the final word of unmaking.”
Rod put the tile down and held it there with his forefinger. “The forces can fear what they like,” he said. “They’re not stopping me winning.”
“You don’t know the final word of unmaking, do you?” said Omar.
“I know all the words, mate. Nina, get ready to check this one in the dictionary.”
“Er, Rod,” said Nina, “it’s not going to be in the dictionary. It can’t be.”
“It’s not a real word.”
“The – and I should point out it’s an entirely theoretical word – the final word of unmaking can never be written or said. If it is, it… unmakes.”
“Unmakes what?”
Her eyebrows waggled at him irritably. “Everything, Rod.”
“Oh.” He shrugged. “Well, maybe I haven’t got it here. Maybe I can’t spell it. How many letters has it got?”
“Eleven,” said Nina.
Rod had two tiles. With them and the spare E on the board, that would make an eleven-letter word. He put down his final X and found that he had to hold that one in place with his finger also.
“Enough,” said Omar. “Venislarn Scrabble is only for those who treat the game with the respect it deserves.”
“You want to quit?” said Rod.
“I didn’t say that,” said Omar. “I’m merely telling you to stop.”
“I’m only going to stop when the game is over.”
“You’re being childish now, Rodney.”
Rod smiled. He was starting to lose feeling in his fingertips. If he didn’t know better, he would think that the two letter tiles were vibrating rapidly in their bid to escape. The other letters on the board started to slide away. Rod had to use all the fingers of his good right hand to hold the line in place.
Rod picked up his last til
e.
“This could be the final letter of the word of final undoing.”
“The final word of unmaking,” said Nina.
“That too,” he said. He looked Omar straight in the eye.
“I’m going to play it. I don’t know if it’s the word of thingy-thingy. It’s Russian roulette for me because I just don’t know.”
“You are playing Russian roulette with the world,” said Omar. “Nina, tell him he’s being stupid.”
“YOLO,” she said.
“There’s nothing to gain,” said Omar, panic seeping into his voice. “Your crisis is over. There’s nothing to be won or lost.”
“Pride.” He held the tile with his thumb over the letter and brought it over the board. His fingertips were hot now. The board around his unfinished word seemed to be fading… Then he realised that the vibrations were sanding away the cardboard. And was that a whiff of smoke coming off it?
“Stop now,” Omar insisted. “You’ll not only destroy the world but ruin a perfectly lovely weekend in Barry Island for Maurice and me.”
“Bugger Barry,” said Maurice from the corner.
“Just admit defeat, professor,” said Rod and started to bring the letter down. The vibration in his fingers travelled violently up his hand to his wrist but Rod was now in comfortable territory. Whereas linguistic mind games utterly threw him, physical endurance and pain management were right up his street. “This letter really doesn’t want to be put down,” he said.
“Listen to the universe,” said Omar.
“The universe has never listened to me.” Rod pushed against the ethereal forces that were trying to keep the letter away.
The desk creaked under the pressures. The tile in his bandaged left hand tried to break loose, pressing up against him like a football held underwater.
“Your pride will destroy everything!” shrieked Omar.
“My pride?” grunted Rod. “Or yours?” He brought his elbow up to apply pressure for the final push.
“Enough!” yelled Omar, as he gripped the edge of the board and yanked it from the table. Letters flew in all directions. Several ricocheted loudly off walls and windows. A picture frame shattered. When the force opposing Rod vanished, his hand drove straight into the desk, splintering the table top and sending an agonising jolt through his recently amputated digit. He recoiled with a roar.
