by Shae Hutto
“Fair enough,” said Claire as they made their way to the door, nonplussed by the dragon’s occasional reversion to German, his refusal of her request or the odd use of the third person. “Try not to burn down the place while we’re gone.” They stepped into the familiar carpeted corridor and closed the door on the fairy tale world.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN: An Unlikely Arrangement of Folks
“To achieve great things, two things are needed: a plan and not quite enough time.”
-Leonard Bernstein
“Just being away from that chancy world makes me feel better,” said Roger happily.
“What about being away from the fire breathing dragon?”
“That, too,” replied Roger as he looked around the corridors, getting his bearings. “What’s that?” he asked. “I hear something.”
“I don’t hear anything,” replied Claire as she started walking in the direction she was pretty sure the elevator was located. “No, I do hear something. It sounds like someone talking.”
Roger drew his sword and Claire pulled her wand out of her sleeve with a sudden snapping motion. Roger took the lead and she let him as they cautiously made their way to the corner and peaked around.
“Bloody hell,” whispered Roger. “That’s a first.” They both looked around the corner at a British marine in a uniform from a couple of hundred years ago. He was marching back and forth with his sword drawn, talking to himself.
“For King and country, they said,” mumbled the officer as he paced. Abruptly he stopped, about faced and began to march toward them, eyes straight ahead. They ducked back around the corner before he spotted them. “Take the King’s shilling and see the world, eh? Question is, what bleeding world?”
“I don’t think he’s any kind of self-defense mechanism,” whispered Claire.
“Stranded, more like,” replied Roger. “How’d ‘e get in here?” They looked at each other briefly.
“Amanda,” they said in unison.
“I guess we should help him get home,” suggested Claire.
“Where would home be for this lobster do ya think?”
“England?”
“Stop acting the maggot, girl,” he replied. “Which door would his England be behind, like?”
“Heck if I know. I guess we could ask him.”
“Sure, why not?” said Roger as he walked around the corner. “Oy, bud,” he called to the marine lieutenant. “Where’s the craic?”
The marine lieutenant immediately went from a position of attention to a fighting stance as he eyed the advancing Roger warily. He held his sword in a manner that suggested he knew quite a bit more about how to use it than Roger did.
“Stall the ball,” said Roger as he held out his empty hands. “I’m not looking for someone to hop on. We just want to have a chinwag, like.”
“I can tell from your accent that you are Irish, sir,” replied the marine. “But I must confess that your words make very little sense to me.” He did not lower his weapon.
Roger rolled his eyes and sighed. “I forget, you proper English wankers are as bad as Claire,” he said and then cleared his throat. When he spoke again his accent was severely toned down and he made an effort to avoid slang that the anachronistic soldier might not understand. “We just want to talk with you. Sir,” he added.
“Then talk, if you must,” replied the marine. “An explanation of where we are would be greatly appreciated, I can assure you. And what did you mean by ‘we?’ Show yourselves!” The last sentence was yelled down the corridor in Claire’s direction. She glanced around the corner and Roger waved her on. She and Weenie stepped into the open. “Women and Irishmen,” murmured the man under his breath. “Is there no end to this madness?”
“And dogs,” said Claire, indicating Weenie.
“That was covered under Irishmen,” said the lieutenant with a smirk.
“Is my being from tha Emerald Isle a problem for ya?” asked Roger in a challenging tone and his hand went to the hilt of his sword. The lieutenant’s eyes followed his hand and the man smiled.
“Always spoiling for a fight, the Irish,” mused the man. “Now, that, I can understand. I have no quarrel with you over your benighted birth. And I apologize to you and the dog for what I said. However, if you wish satisfaction for my remark, I am your man.” Roger was caught off guard by such forthrightness. He blinked and his hand dropped from the hilt of his sword.
“That won’t be necessary, sir,” he said apologetically. “Truth is, I’ve seen enough blood lately. No need to see more over such small potatoes.” Neither man mentioned who’s blood was more likely to be seen. Behind him, Claire let out her breath slowly and relaxed, her wand dropping its tip toward the floor.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr…” said Claire as she held out her hand toward him.
“Lieutenant Gardner,” replied the marine (pronouncing it as leftenant) as he kissed Claire’s hand, much to her surprise and embarrassment. “HMS Surprise. At your service, miss.” The name of the ship rang a bell. Claire and Roger exchanged glances.
“I assume you know my brother, Nick and our friend, Amanda?” asked Claire, already certain of the answer. Gardener’s face showed his recognition instantly.
“We are acquainted,” he acknowledged. “In fact, they closed the door on my retreat, leaving me to fend for myself in this purgatory. I don’t think it was malice or cowardice that influenced that decision, though. Had they not done it, they surely would be dead and my captain as well. Assuming, they are still alive, even now.”
“I don’t know about this captain berk, but Nick and ‘Manda are alive and kickin’, to be sure,” said Roger with amusement.
“I think we can be of some help to you, lieutenant,” said Claire.
“I would be most grateful. Would you by any chance have some water? I’ve been without for, well for an unknown time. But it seems like days. Minutes stretch into hours here with the strange light and no sun or clocks.”
Roger started digging in his backpack and passed the puzzled lieutenant a bottle of blue Gatorade. He looked at it in confusion, obviously unsure how to open it or whether he even wanted to. In exasperation, Claire grabbed the bottle, opened it and took a swig. She handed it back to the marine who took an experimental sip. His eyebrows rose and he chugged the Gatorade in a couple of seconds.
“Pure ambrosia,” said Gardener with a satisfied sigh.
“Lieutenant,” said Claire. “Do you know what door you came out of?”
“Loo-tenant?” mused the marine. “You speak like a bloody Frenchman, er woman.”
“I have been trying to tell her for months that she can’t speak for beans,” remarked Roger from behind Claire. She ignored him. Gardener and Weenie both raised an eyebrow at the byplay but neither remarked on it.
“Funny thing, that,” said Gardener. “It was hard to miss. Blackened wreckage of that metal monster and all. But after the queer little thingy cleaned it up, the door sort of, well, it moved.”
“They do that,” remarked Roger.
“Can you still find it?” asked Claire.
“Perhaps. I doubt it would matter, however. Several times I tried to open it, yet the mechanism refused to budge. I believe it to be broken. I mean no offense, but neither of you seem to be capable of applying more physical force than I.”
“It’s not a matter of force, lieutenant,” said Claire, refusing to pronounce an ‘f’ in the word when she knew darn well there was none. “Take us to the door and we’ll see about getting you home.” Gardener gave a polite little bow and turned around in the corridor. After a brief moment of thought, he strode purposefully off down the hall. The trio followed him, an odd procession jingling and rustling with the gear of war and survival. They turned one corner, then another. The lieutenant stopped and faced them.
“It has vanished,” he said stoically.
“Perhaps it isn’t here,” replied Claire. “But that doesn’t mean it isn’t somewhere. It’ll turn up. In th
e meantime, I saw the elevator down that last corridor. You’ll just have to come with us, lieutenant. For the time being.”
Gardener gave another polite bow. “Your servant,” he said.
“Just keep that sword in its scabbard,” she warned him. “I don’t need you to get on the news for making terroristic threats or something.”
“Or for not existing,” said Roger quietly.
It was clear the lieutenant had no idea what they were talking about but he limited his reaction to non-verbal communication, mainly involving his highly mobile eyebrows. He followed them back the way they had come. Weenie wondered why they had turned around when their destination was just around the next corner. If dogs could shrug in resigned confusion, he would have. They arrived at the elevator and Claire pressed the call button.
“Roger, I’ll flip ya for who gets to drive this time,” she said. Roger didn’t reply and she turned to see why not. Roger was staring down the hallway. At the other end, precisely opposite their elevator door was a door of a type she had never seen before in the corridors. It was an iron gated door, like old fashioned elevators she had seen in movies. Roger was transfixed by the sight of it. “What is it, Roger?” she asked. Behind them, her elevator dinged softly and she heard the doors slide gently open. The marine tried to hide his shock at the self-opening doors, but she heard his slight gasp of astonishment as well. Claire ignored the sounds from behind her. She slipped her hand into Roger’s and asked him again. “What is it?”
Roger dug his free hand in his pocket and pulled out an old iron key. He held it up to the flat light of the corridor. It glinted dully, if that was possible. Something undefinable about the look of that key made it just seem to go with that old timey elevator door. Claire had an inkling what it might be.
“Is it your elevator, Roger?”
“I haven’t seen it in a very long time,” he whispered in awe and anguish. “I never thought to again, to tell the truth.” They stared at the door for a few seconds as it sat there, looking forbidding and promising at the same time. Gardener came over and stood next to them. He seemed to sense the tension of the moment and didn’t say anything. Claire leaned over and kissed Roger gently on the check, squeezed his hand once and let go. They both knew that this was no magnanimous offer by the corridors. It was another self-defense move. It was attempting to reduce their intrusive presence by offering to let Roger go home. Deep down, they both knew there would be no coming back for whoever got in that elevator.
“Go, you retarded spud eater,” she said gently. “God knows when it’ll appear again. It’s your way home. Go.”
Roger took one step toward the elevator, his elevator, and turned halfway to her, anguish over his decision written plainly on his weathered face. He seemed unwilling to abandon her but the battle looked like it was all but over. She could see him mentally steeling himself to get in that elevator.
“I’ll come back, I promise,” he said, knowing that if he got on that elevator he might never return. Weenie whined in protest and Gardener squatted down to pet him.
She nodded enthusiastically. “Of course you will, Roger. We’ll meet back here in just a little bit.” She fought to keep the tear she felt filling her left eye from spilling over. Her bottom lip did not quiver. “Go on,” she prompted.
Roger took a step toward his elevator, then another one. The third step was much quicker and by the fifth he was running. She watched as he opened the iron grate and then she turned, unable or unwilling to watch him get in that box, perhaps to vanish from her life forever. She fought down a sob.
“Come on, loo-tenant,” she said gruffly as she grabbed his collar and pulled him to his feet. “You too, Weenie.” It got worse when she thought about how she and Roger had found and named Weenie. He was most definitely not a weenie dog. They named him Weenie because they found him in the Halloween world. She grinned despite herself. She and Weenie hauled Gardener into the elevator because he had no idea what an elevator was or why they would need to get in a tiny little room. She selected the lobby floor and closed her eyes. Weenie’s madly wagging tail hit Claire in the thigh over and over and Claire couldn’t help but think Weenie was being a butthead. The doors slid shut with a whish and a clang. Claire opened her eyes and looked up at the unfamiliar sound. There was a sword caught between the doors. For a moment, the doors didn’t want to open again, but then, reluctantly, they did; sliding back open to reveal Roger standing there with an apprehensive look on his face. He stepped in and stood beside Claire.
“It’ll keep,” he said as the doors slid to a close again.
Claire wrapped her arms around him and buried her face on his shoulder, unwilling to let him see that she was crying. Roger put one arm around her and held her to him.
“I say! Good show, old boy,” remarked Gardener enthusiastically from behind them. Then added, “I don’t wish to alarm you, but this coffin we’re in appears to be moving.” Claire muffled a teary giggle in Roger’s jacket.
“It does that from time to time,” remarked Roger. “What’s your plan, Mavourneen?”
“Maybe I’ll tell you if you tell me what that word means,” said Claire. Roger appeared to think about it and shook his head with a grin.
“I guess we’ll wing it,” he said.
The doors slid open to reveal a darkened lobby. Not only were there no lights, but no sunlight came through the doors, either. It must be night, thought Claire. Roger put on his sunglasses. They stepped out onto the soot stained marble floor and turned to face the doors that were swathed in police tape. Claire’s phone started making notification noises. By the sound of it, she had numerous missed calls, texts, emails and Facebook messages. Claire pulled out her phone but instead of checking her messages, she asked Siri what mavourneen meant. She couldn’t spell it and Siri couldn’t understand what she was saying. She got definitions for ‘moldering’ and web results for ‘mother name,’ which meant nothing. She growled in frustration. Gardener laughed.
“I was stationed in Wicklow a few years back. Mavourneen means ‘my darling,’ in those savage’s native tongue” said Gardener happily. “Some of the sods refuse to speak proper English like a Christian.” Claire took a moment to absorb the information. Roger looked a bit anxious behind his shades, like he didn’t know if he had much longer to live.
“Roger, if you don’t kiss me this instant, I will absolutely punch your lights out,” insisted Claire.
“I had the feeling there was some urgency,” objected Lieutenant Gardener.
“Shut it, you,” said Claire as she pulled her hair back out of her face where it had frizzed out to partially cover in its habitual way. “Well?” she asked.
Gardener and Weenie turned their backs politely and made their way toward the exit doors, the marine staring in wonder at all the electric lights visible outside in the dark.
A little bit later, Claire gently broke the kiss that was as good as she had expected it to be. She firmly pushed Roger back a few inches and took a deep breath to clear her mind and her nose from the heady smell of him. “Can I ask you something?” she asked.
“Anything,” answered Roger.
“Am I prettier than Amanda?”
“What?” he croaked in surprise.
“Wrong answer, Paddy,” she said, only half joking.
“My dear, there is no comparison,” he said with a grin. She frowned, seeing the loophole.
“Roger, by all that is holy, I will end you,” she promised in a low and dangerous voice. “You will tell me that I am prettier than Amanda, right now.” Roger was painfully aware of how close he was standing to someone he had personally seen treat several people with extreme violence.
“You are prettier than Amanda, right now,” said Roger dutifully. Before she could violently end him, he added. “Ok! Ok! Just kidding, mavourneen. She’s got nothing on you, I swear. She’s got a head like a bag o’ spuds.” Claire seemed mollified by his last remark.
“Very well,” she said in a voice
full of satisfaction. “But you may not call me ‘mavourneen,’ until this whole thing is over, alright? It clouds my judgement.”
“Now about that plan, redser?” prompted Roger.
Claire pulled out her phone and started scrolling through Facebook requests. “There is a junior in the jazz band who has the hots for me. He sent me a friend request a while back but I never responded. I’m hoping it won’t take long for him to answer a message.” She typed for a few seconds. “Now we have to wait for him to…” She was cut off by her phone giving a message notification. It was the sound of Homer Simpson saying ‘Doh!’ “That was quick,” she said. “He must really like me.” She typed for a bit again, aware that Roger was turning red in the face. She handed the phone to Roger. “Here,” she said. “Take a pic of me full length in this riding outfit. That’ll get him here quick.”
“In me bollox I will!” he said indignantly. He barely kept from dashing the phone against the pitiless stone floor in anger.
“Ok, sorry,” Claire said meekly as she took her phone away from Roger before he could destroy it. “That was a bit uncalled for. It’s not necessary anyway. He’s already on his way here.”
“What’s this muppet look like, what’s got the glad eye for you?” asked Roger with ill-concealed irritation.
“He’s tall,” she said but added hastily, “but skinny and with bad acne. But he can play a mean saxophone. Which is all we care about.”
“You’re going to take him with us into the corridors?” he asked incredulously.
“I don’t see much of a choice,” said Claire. “We have to find someone who can play a sax. Without someone to play it, it’s freaking useless.” They walked to the exit doors behind Gardener and Weenie who were still staring out. Neither seemed all that eager to go outside.
“He just agreed to drive out here to see you in the middle of the night?” probed Roger, his green-eyed monster showing.
“Boys are weird. And stupid,” said Claire matter-of-factly.
“What exactly did you say?” demanded Roger.
