Oddjobs 2: This Time It's Personnel

by Heide Goody

  “You think men actually notice what we’re wearing?”

  “The men will only take notice if I go in there naked, but Kathy will spot a change of outfit.”

  “Here. Hold this,” said Junior, handing over the struggling Steve as she undressed. “And what am I supposed to do?”

  “Go home. Go elsewhere. I don’t care.”

  “I’m down to my last three quid. You’re the one with the purse.”

  Senior growled. There then occurred a complex back-and-forth, like the world’s most boring juggling act. Senior took her purse, phone and keys out of her handbag and thrust them at Junior. “No, I need that,” she said, took the purse back, gave Junior Steve to hold, removed a twenty, and passed it to Junior. Junior took the twenty and gave Senior the top and the jeans (with Steve wrapped inside). Senior stuffed Steve in her purse and tried to remove her pedal pushers without revealing too much bottom. “I’ve seen it all before,” said Junior. “And I don’t need keys. They were copied by the vase.” She passed the keys back to Senior and took the gold top. Senior put the keys in the handbag, surprised herself by finding Steve there, took him out, gave him back to Junior. “I will digest your essence, snotling!” came his muffled cry in Junior’s fist as she struggled into the gold top (which had a complicated neck fastening).

  “Right!” said Junior. “So, I piss off home while you get to spend the rest of the evening with Cameron.”

  “Exactly,” said Senior.

  “I’m just the warm up guy.”

  “Sure, whatever.” Senior straightened her clothing and ran her fingers through her hair. “Is there anything I need to know before I go in?”

  “Oh, you’ll need this,” said Junior and unclipped the pendant around her neck. “Cameron gave this to me. You. Us. A gift.”

  She helped fasten the congealed spittle pendant around Senior’s neck.

  “That’s sweet of him,” said Senior. “What is this? Glass?”

  “Sure. Why not?” said Junior and wheeled away, feeling more than a little tipsy now that she was upright and in the cool evening air.

  One of the bouncers sauntered over while Ray was surreptitiously counting his cash. The club was near buzzing now. Cheap and nasty drinks were enough to fill the place, even on a Wednesday, and Ray had sold enough of the runes already to pay back the Black Barge in the morning.

  “You can’t sell that shit in here,” said the bouncer.

  “It’s cool, Naz.”

  “It’s not cool.”

  “We had an agreement,” said Ray and tucked his bulging wallet away.

  “I agreed to let you bring your freak friends in,” said Naz, looming over Ray. It was some impressive looming, given that Naz was a good few inches shorter than Ray. “I didn’t give you permission to sell – what is this shit?”

  “It’s fine,” said Ray. “It’s not even illegal.”

  Naz tapped Ray’s chest with the back of his gloved hand, a gesture to cough up. Ray got out his baggie of paper squares.

  Naz looked back to the dance floor. There wasn’t much in the way of dancing. Boys and girls who should be getting smashed and dry humping each other in the darkest corners were swaying too slowly for the music, their hands raised as though playing with the light.

  “This acid?” said Naz.

  “It’s new. It’s not acid.”

  “We still get our cut,” said Naz.

  “How much?” said Ray.

  “Some stupid cow dies on the dance floor, her spinal fluid all dried up by ecstasy, then I need compensation.”

  Ray had no intention of letting this bouncer get anywhere near his hard-earned cash. Time to move on to another club. Ray offered a rune to Naz.

  “Try one.”

  “You kidding me?” said Naz. “I wouldn’t put that in my mouth even if –”

  Naz’s conditions went unsaid as a scream went up from the dance floor. Naz turned.

  Two girls were yelling in panic and clutching at one another. One was pointing across the floor – not at anything actually in the room, Ray knew.

  “Get it away!” yelled the other.

  “It’s just a hallucination,” said Ray to no one at all. “It’s not real.”

  One of the girls retched and then spat. A tiny fleck of blue paper hit the floor. She gasped, as though coming up for air. The other girl kept screaming.

  “Your fucking drugs,” muttered Naz and then stormed towards the dance floor. “Out! Take her out!” he shouted.

  And then something did take the screaming girl. It wasn’t human. It wasn’t visible. It grabbed her by the waist…

  Ray could see the indents of something wet and invisible against the girl’s thin dress – coils! – and it pulled her back into the darkness.

  Suddenly, she wasn’t the only one screaming.

  Morag Senior stopped at the door of the Taj Mahal, checked her reflection as best she could in the glass, put on a brave face and walked in. She looked round for Cameron, wondering where she had seen him from outside.

  Rod was waving at her from a booth. She went over.

  Cameron Barnes sat next to Rod’s doctor friend, Kathy Kaur. Morag’s first thought on seeing Cameron was that he was tanned, looking a bit more butch than she remembered him, particularly with that pale scar running up from his collar to his jawline. Her second thought was that it had hardly been an age since they were both up in Scotland, together.

  “Cameron,” she said. “Kathy.”

  They looked up at her and she realised her stupid mistake. She wasn’t meeting them for the first time that evening. Morag Junior, the conniving minx had already been enjoying their company for several hours.

  “Yes?” said Cameron.

  “Can I just say, that it’s really lovely to see you both tonight,” waffled Morag.

  “Yes,” said Kathy. “Yes, you can.”

  Rod gave her a penetrating look. “You’ve changed,” he said.

  “Haven’t we all?” she said and sat down.

  “God, yes,” said Cameron. “You certainly have. You’ve… matured.”

  “Word to the wise, lad,” said Rod. “Never tell a lady she’s matured. Doesn’t go down well.”

  “Oh, so am I not mature?” said Kathy. The doctor’s eyebrows jiggled coyly. Morag knew some people who talked with their hands. Kathy Kaur seemed to talk with her forehead.

  “No,” said Rod.

  “So, I’m immature?” said Kathy.

  “Ah. No.”

  “I meant,” cut in Cameron and Morag realised from his emphasis that he was slightly drunk and that perhaps they were all a bit worse for drink, “that, back in the day, a week wouldn’t go by without Morag getting hauled up before Bannerman for some dolot mistake or other. And yet, down here, your colleague has nothing but kind words for you.”

  “Plasters!” declared Rod loudly.

  “Is that a kind word?” said Cameron. “It’s not in my lexicon.”

  “I need a beer,” said Morag and looked for a waiter.

  “That’s your beer,” said Rod, moving a mostly full bottle over to her. “What I meant was that’s what’s changed about you. Plasters.”

  “Hmmm?” Morag hesitated a moment before drinking the beer. By drinking from a bottle that had touched Morag Junior’s lips, was she drinking from someone else’s bottle or her own?

  “You had plasters on your hands when you went outside,” said Rod.

  “Did I? I did. I did. I took them off and binned them.”

  “But what about all the scratches?”

  “Scratches?” she said. “Yes. They’ve healed.”

  “That was quick.”

  “Yes. Yes, it was. I heal quickly. We’re renowned for it,” she said, letting the ambiguity of who the ‘we’ exactly was remain. “I’m like that superhero, you know. The one with the claws and the hair and the super-healing.”

  Kathy clicked her fingers. “Asbestos.”

  “No,” said Morag authoritatively. “He’s not c
alled Asbestos.”

  “No, that’s the thing that doesn’t burn. It’s famous for it. It’s been bugging me for ages.”

  “Has it?” said Morag, who had no idea what to do with a non sequitur like that.

  “If anything,” said Rod thoughtfully, “Asbestos would be a supervillain.”

  “What would his super powers be?” said Cameron.

  “Flame-resistant,” said Rod, “that’s a given.”

  “The ability to cause lung diseases,” said Kathy.

  “Turning up unexpectedly during building renovations and being able to close schools and other public buildings for weeks,” said Rod.

  “I wouldn’t mind Asbestos dropping in at our place. Bit of extra holiday,” she said. She looked at the menu. “Shall we order?”

  They were all suddenly laughing.

  “We’ve ordered,” said Cameron.

  Rod clapped her on the shoulder. “First day Morag started with us,” he said to Cameron and Kathy, “she leapt straight in, hunted down this Kermit-Arsehole that –”

  “Kerrphwign-Azhal,” said Morag.

  “Curvy-Azhal,” he said.

  “Just say ‘man-eating starfish’ if it’s easier,” said Kathy.

  “Hunted it down,” said Rod, pressing on unabashed. “Stopped it eating this little boy up at the hospital. Put her life on the line. We came here to celebrate.”

  “We came here?” said Morag, surprised. “I was drunk.”

  “Drunk and tired. Morag here was so drunk and tired she asked for the bill before we even ate.”

  As they laughed, Morag waved her hands to calm them.

  “Okay. Okay. Enough of making Morag look like a fool. Tonight’s not about me.” She swigged her beer and gestured across at Cameron. “Hey, how’s your mum doing these days?”

  The call had come through to Ricky Lee, an incident that could only be described as bizarre at a Broad Street night club. It was close enough to the Library of Birmingham that it was almost quicker for Nina and Ricky to walk there than drive. Ricky drove up the centre of Broad Street, sirens on, his car straddling the low brick island that ran up much of the street. Nina’s phone buzzed; a message from Morag.

  IN TOWN. FANCY A DRINK?

  Nina put a call straight back to her.

  “Drink?” said Morag.

  “The traditional Scottish greeting. Taxi!” she said to Ricky as a black cab pulled out blindly in front of them. Ricky swerved like a pro.

  “Drink?” said Morag.

  “I thought you were meeting that Cameron dude for a Highland fling.”

  “Wordplay. Hilarious.” There was the sound of heels on pavement and, more faintly, a stream of high-pitched threats and curses, like a drunken pub fighter on helium.

  “I’m actually on a call,” said Nina. “Those hallucinogenic runes.”

  “Where?” said Morag, the drunkenness in her voice gone at once.

  “Rockerfellers on Broad Street.”

  “I know the one,” said Morag.

  “You do?” said Nina surprised.

  “The one next to the Chinese casino? Yeah, twenty quid to wrestle to music in a giant darkened sauna where drink prices start at a fiver and go up steeply.”

  “Yeah, although that’s pretty much every club.” Ricky slowed, aiming for the cluster of emergency vehicles a little way ahead. “We could use your expertise if you’re in a fit state.”

  Morag laughed at that. “I’ll be sober by the time I get there. I’m just by the Alex.”

  “Then you’re only ten minutes behind us. See you there.”

  They got out, Ricky a fraction ahead of her. He was already chatting to the two cops who were blocking off the pavement. There were four police cars and two ambulances already at the scene and several dozen hysterical clubbers. Two paramedics were trying to get a woman in a pink printed T-shirt and a tutu into the ambulance but, pumped with adrenaline and wild-eyed, she was fighting them all the way. There was a violent spiral cut on her arm. Not a typical Broad Street injury.

  “Do not send any officers inside,” Nina told Ricky.

  “Four guys have already gone in,” he replied.

  Nina approached a hen party – she assumed it was a hen party; it seemed an odd time to be doing a fancy-dress fun run for breast cancer which was the only other possible explanation for their clothing choices. Nina picked a woman who seemed more with it than most, a woman with a livid bruise on her neck, precise and detailed enough that Nina could see the outlines of sucker marks.

  “What’s in there?” said Nina.

  The woman stared blankly. Nina gripped her arm.

  “What did you see?”

  “Nothing,” said the woman. “Nothing. Something took Allana.”

  “But you took the drugs,” said Nina and pointed at the wound on the woman’s neck. “What did you see?”

  “I didn’t take anything. Honest. I don’t even drink.”

  Nina looked for Ricky and spotted him in conversation with a uniformed offer.

  “Chief Inspector Lee! You need to get your guys out of there.”

  “There are members of the public in there,” he shouted back.

  “And four coppers. Get them out.”

  She went to the call log on her phone and dialled Morag.

  “I’m on my way,” said Morag, puffing.

  “People have been attacked,” said Nina.

  “If you keep the rune activated long enough then beings –”

  “People who’ve not taken them.”

  “Not possible,” said Morag and then, “Unless there’s some sort of critical mass effect if enough people activate the runes in close proximity. I’m guessing.”

  “This woman says her friend was ‘taken’.”

  “It’s not a gateway,” said Morag. “At least not a two-way gateway. Those particular runes are lost. Something could potentially reach through… not reach through exactly but pull someone back.”

  “Right.”

  “Nina. It can only work one way.”

  “Okay.”

  “No getting them back.”

  “Gotcha. One way trip to hell. See you soon. Maybe.”

  “What do you mean –”

  Nina ended the call and went to the night club entrance. A police officer put a hand up to stop her. He was a tall chap – everyone was taller than Nina but this guy was taller still – and looked like he lived to tell people where they could and couldn’t go.

  “You can’t go in, miss.”

  “Jesus.”

  Nina was used to being stopped outside clubs and bars, the price she paid for her youthful good looks. This had to be the first time she had been stopped going into a club that was literally hellish.

  “Ricky!” she called.

  Ricky looked over.

  “You’re going in?”

  She nodded.

  “Wait there. I’m coming with you.”

  “Why? What good will you be?”

  His wounded look made her smile.

  “But…” he said. “The things in there…”

  She shrugged. “YOLO,” she said, gave the cop on the door a look until he stepped aside and then went in.

  Knives had no effect on the monsters. Neither did bullets. Tony T had discovered this the hard way.

  When the muda went down and the invisible glun’u-te started picking off the humans on the dance floor, it was like watching a fire take hold. There was an initial moment of surprise, the flaring up of something new, and then the undeniable excitement of seeing it spread outward, destruction in action, followed by the realisation that this might be adn-bhul dangerous and a wise samakha should already be heading for the nearest exit. By then, it was too late to simply run for it.

  A man in a blood-soaked shirt ran towards their booth then suddenly changed course as something unseen wrapped itself around his ankle, hauled him away and slammed him against a wall.

  “Ggh! This is bhul-detar!” Tony shouted, put his hand down th
e crotch of his tracksuit and pulled out the final defence pistol he kept in his pants. Death Roe tried to tip their table over to form a barricade and discovered it was bolted to the floor. His muscles straining, the big guy uprooted it and tipped it over anyway. Fluke, who had certain priorities, managed to rescue one of the fishbowl cocktails just in time.

  “There!” shouted Pupfish, pointing at nothing. “There!”

  Death Roe swung his knife speculatively at thin air.

  “Can’t see muda! Ggh!” said Fluke.

  A bar stool rose into the air. Tony fired at an empty space just below the stool. Glass shattered somewhere, the stool remained raised.

  “There!” yelled Pupfish. Death Roe swung. Tony fired. “There!” screamed the idiot Pupfish and then something took him, hooked him around the waist and hauled him back, not across the room but away and out of this world, as though the scene before them was printed on a curtain and Pupfish had been dragged into its folds.

  “Pup!” yelled Fluke.

  Tony was angry now. He was scared for sure but he was adn-bhul angry now too. These pabbe-grru shaska were attacking his crew and ruining the best night out they’d had in months. Nonetheless, Tony T hadn’t risen to the position he held now by picking the wrong fights.

  “Fire exit!” he shouted, waving his gun at a green running man sign.

  “Where’s Pup?” cried Fluke.

  “Fire exit!” yelled Tony and shoved him.

  Death Roe cleared the way, barging aside a wandering human and kicking through a cluster of chairs to get to the door. He slammed up against the door. It opened several inches and then stopped. The metal handles were chained together.

  “Bhul!” snarled Tony, placed the nose of his little pistol against the padlock and fired. The ricochet ripped a shallow cut along Tony’s thigh and smashed Fluke’s fishbowl. The lock remained untouched. Not even a scratch. Tony roared in pain and frustration. Roaring didn’t come easy to samakha – it was more like a goat bleat than a big cat roar – but he roared all the same.

  Something whacked Death Roe across the head and sent him sprawling. And then Tony saw Jeffney Ray, cowering beside a pillar not ten feet away.

  “Shod-doi!” spat Tony and grabbed Ray. “Ggh! This is your doi fault, muda ben ai!”