by Tara Basi
Breakfast is unappealing. The black intruder has blighted my appetite. I take my seat at the workbench and carefully pick up the black envelope. It is the same shape and size as the blue envelope and, like it, has no external markings. Had they run out of blue envelopes? I drop the black stranger as if it were on fire. No, they would not have run out of blue envelopes, not after all these years. The unwanted black envelope and whatever correspondence it may contain is not going to go away. There is nothing to be afraid of. I have left the Terrors behind, and I have always been safe in my workhouse. I promptly open the envelope and read the little note inside, handwritten on heavy, vanilla-coloured notepaper.
Cease and desist from all button-making activities until further advisement. In the absence of the Terrors, it is the Judgement of the court that any buttons the judged might now create will have Disturbance Potential. At precisely thirty past five this very morning, the judged will lift the green receiver and receive a further telephonic Judgement advisement. The judged may not speak until invited to do so.
I sob like the baby I must once have been.
Chapter Two – A Black Mark
The accusation contained in the black envelope has cut me very deeply. I do not feel that it is right to accuse my buttons of such a thing. Disturbance Potential. My very essence, the reason for my existence, cannot be so rudely disparaged. Steadying my spinning mind, I turn my attention to the accusation itself. What exactly is the meaning of Disturbance Potential? My chest can hardly contain my racing heart and flapping lungs.
Unhelpfully, I can imagine that there must be many types of disturbance: disturbance of the peace, disturbance of continuity, disturbance of the expected, and its sister crime, disturbance of the unexpected. I find it difficult to imagine how one of my buttons could, for example, cause a disturbance of life. Unless one of my large, black, lacquered trouser buttons had been accidently swallowed and a poor individual’s life had been seriously disturbed. Surely, in such circumstances, I might only be accused of creating such a Disturbance Potential if I had been negligent in the description of my trouser buttons. Perhaps by suggesting they were edible? To think harder on this matter is fruitless. And there are more immediate issues to attend to.
I must calm myself and prepare for my telephonic Judgement Encounter. The first and only Encounter of my entire existence. Whilst I have never met another person, I am guided by the boxes that reside in my subconscious. There is the Red Box of rules and rituals. I imagine it to be a metal box with a single drawer filled with alphabetised cards. In this box, my Red Box, there is every rule that must be obeyed and every ritual that must be followed for every circumstance, and every circumstance has its own rules and rituals, and new circumstances reveal new rules and rituals. Already, my Red Box is seeding my mind with the protocols for the imminent telephonic Judgement Encounter.
Then there is the Glass Box of what has gone before. It is filled with an untidy smoke of many colours. This box chooses what to reveal. It cannot be commanded. A gold-edged page filled with tiny writing will float out of the smoke unbidden. If I attempt to study the page, it will revert to smoke. The page must be shyly glanced at from afar. Then, non-contiguous fragments of sentences, writ large in black letters, will float off the page and must be read quickly before they evaporate. In this way, I know my past, though it is quite unlike Red Box knowing. It is as if the smoke holds the dreams of my past that the Terrors have displaced. In earlier times, I chased after the wispy pages, curious and eager to know something of my origins. No matter how diligently I observed or patiently I waited, nothing more than random snippets did ever I find. And these crumbs of my history added up to so little and left so many questions that I despaired and ended my foolish search. Now, in my dotage, the gaps in my biography trouble me no more than the slow deterioration of my body. These are qualities, like the Terrors, that can only be accepted. They cannot be changed.
So, I do not like to think on the third and last box. It is the Black Box. The box that holds the monstrous detail of every night’s Terror. I sense, without knowing how or why, that the complete story of a single Terror would fill a thousand tomes. The Black Box is shut up tight and cannot be opened. In the late hours, in those quiet moments before nine past nine and the arrival of the Terrors, curiosity draws me to observe the Black Box. It seems to me that it throbs and strains to contain its forbidden knowledge. I fear that it leaks. And if it leaks, into what does that terrible knowing leak? It worries me a little when I seem to know more than I should.
I catch sight of the green telephone and am brutally reminded of my current predicament. Though it shall be a telephonic rather than a physical Encounter, it does not change in any way the protocols I must adhere to. As I think these thoughts, I am not calm or happy. There is a growing Terror in my heart. It is as if the Terrors of the night have found form in the day. Everything is changing, and I wish nothing more than that everything should remain exactly as it was. If I am prepared and conduct myself well, then I beg to hope that my precious routine will be quickly restored. And, tomorrow, my day in the workhouse will commence with my finding the usual blue envelope, even if the Terrors must return to my nights.
With that desire at the forefront of my thoughts, I remove the Encounter gown from its hanger and roll it over my head. I insert my arms into the sleeves and my hands into the gloves attached to the ends of the sleeves by an elasticated strip. This allows some give between the glove and the sleeve. I let the gown drop over my body so that the hem rests on the floor. It is a black garment made of thick, heavy cotton. The tall, pointed hood completely covers my face with only a narrow slit of gauze for me to see through. The Encounter gown is held away from the body by lightweight cane hoops that start at the neck and grow ever wider as they descend. I cannot see myself. There are no mirrors. I would imagine I must look slightly comical, like a cone with a hooded head on top. The Encounter gown is heavy and stifling, and I dread the idea of any kind of Encounter. An Encounter with a judge, to be accused of a crime, is a terrible thing to contemplate. The shame and horror of my unravelling continuity is sickening. Hidden away inside my Encounter gown, I weep quietly, wishing that this morning is only a new Terror nightmare and that I will soon wake in bunk-bed-coffin number Seven to begin a normal day where nothing out of the ordinary ever happens, or ever can happen. I cease my crying. It will soon be time.
Inside my Encounter gown, it is uncomfortable and it is twenty-nine past five. In exactly one minute, not a second before and not a second after, I must lift the receiver of the green telephone to my ear and listen without speaking. I worry that the thick cotton of my Encounter gown will muffle the judge’s voice and I will be unable to hear the advisement of the Judgement clearly. Or, even worse, I will mishear vital instructions or commands to speak. Shame and fear and a deep sadness are threatening to steal away my reason. I try and focus on practical matters.
In my workhouse, there are three differently coloured telephones mounted on the wall behind the bench. A red, an amber and a green telephone. I have never understood their purpose. The Red Box is clear about the use and operation of telephones, though it has nothing to say about these particular devices. Once, I lifted the receiver of the red telephone and pressed it against my ear to be mortally unsettled by the sound of a silence so deep and so profound, I felt that my very life force was being drained away. I quickly replaced the receiver with shaking hands and, thereafter, never ever again touched it.
My hands clutch and squeeze at each other as though afraid to be separated. A new worrying thought calls for my attention. The sound I will hear when I lift the green receiver will be the first sound I have ever heard that I know to have been made by someone else. I have suspected that rare sounds heard at night may have emanated from my unseen neighbours in the bunk-bed-tower, but I have never known, beyond doubt, that the noises I have heard were caused by another, rather than my own imagination or some settling of the wood in the bunk-bed-tower. An Encounter with an
other is imminent. I carefully arrange my gown, take my seat at the workbench, lift the green receiver and press it to my ear. There is a voice. There are many voices. They are speaking loudly in a strange dialect and do not appear to be addressing me.
“There’ll be an Undoing, and all us Marys, we’ll be anti-materialised for sure.”
“Stop talking bollocks, Mary C, and grow some.”
“Filthy mouth you’ve got there, Mary M. And Mary C might be right. It’s not Itself. It’s become this button-making alter-Id. Anything could set her off.”
“Mary B, you’re an eejit.”
“Ignore her, Mary B. So why can’t It fix Itself?”
“It gave evil button-maker freewill, Mary C.”
“What’s freewill, Mary B?”
“A selfish, singing bastard, you pair of skanky ballbags. Keep talking bollocks and I’m gonna nut the pair of you.”
“Language, Mary M.”
“Feck off, Mary J.”
“Telling the truth now, Mary J, I don’t mind admitting that I’m a bit confused about the whole situation.”
“It’s like this, Mary B. Imagine your husband’s holding you down while the babysitter stabs you through the heart with a screwdriver, and then they bugger off together. Now, compare that with your beloved saying, ‘I’m just off for a pint, honey-bun,’ and then running off with said babysitter. You see now, don’t you, Mary B?”
“No, I don’t see it at all, Mary J.”
“Mary J, the shite that comes out of your mouth.”
“You’re a disgrace, Mary M. And I’m doing my best, so I am. Anyways, time’s ticking on. Who’s doing the judging?”
“Can we have husbands now, Mary J? You know, like proper ones?”
“Shut the feck up, Mary C. Mary J, I’ve had my hair done. I’ll not be wasting a tie-dye perm. I’ll do it.”
“Are you sure, Mary M? And will you mind your language now?”
“Well, it’s me or one of them two morons. Unless you’re up for it, Mary J?”
“Oh no. You’re qualified, and your hair is looking nice, so it is. But, Mary M, it’s got to be done proper, like.”
“Then shut your face, Mary J, and give me that fecking phone.”
Individual words I understand but cannot comprehend their juxtaposition. Babysitter. Is that someone who sits on babies? Or someone who trains babies to sit. Neither seemed likely. All is confusion in my mind. The meaning of their barbed and angry exchanges is incomprehensible to me. Nevertheless, protocols must be adhered to, and I remain silent, even though my sorrow has only deepened, and my eyes, again, fill with tears.
“Seven at Two Past Five, acknowledge your presence and prepare to receive a Judgment advisement.”
How surprising. The lone voice now emanating from the green telephone appears to be that of the coarse Mary M. If it is M speaking, she is unrecognisable. Seven at Two Past Five? Am I being directly addressed?
“I … am.” My voice sounds horribly squeaky and unsteady to my ears, and not at all of a suitable timbre for such a serious occasion.
“The judged must speak up or be held in contempt.”
I pause, clear my throat and give a little cough. My nerves must be overcome. It is important that I speak clearly and unambiguously. I have practised for such a moment so very often and for so very long. I must not fail now when so much may depend on what I say and how precisely I say it. “I am the occupant of bunk-bed-coffin number Seven, who leaves for my workhouse at Two Past Five, though I am named Abi.” The tone is much better.
“Mary J, she’s bollocks mad. Abi, is it? Are we not wasting our time?”
“Mary M, you shut your mouth and get on with it, or you’ll be saying Hail Marys till your tongue falls out.”
“Seven at Two Past Five is confirmed as the name of the judged,” said the one who called herself Mary M, and whom I was to call, according to protocol, ‘my Lord’. “The judged is advised that the Disturbance Potential is of a trivial nature, and that if the judged will apologise and re-embrace the Terrors, the judged will receive a black mark and that will be the end of the matter.”
It is a great relief to hear that the Disturbance Potential is trivial in nature, whatever name the judge has chosen for me. The latter part of the Judgement is less appealing, at least without knowing more.
“My Lord, your words are a great comfort. As my Lord might surmise, the accusation of a Disturbance Potential has been difficult to comprehend, and my fear has been very great. I hope my Lord will allow me to understand matters a little better by permitting me to examine a few issues which still trouble me in more detail?”
There is no answer, only a long groan, suggesting that the judge is in some discomfort. I wait patiently for the judge to recover and respond.
“The judged may ask relevant questions of the judge, if they are succinct.”
My confidence in speaking is growing. I must seize this opportunity to ask each and every question that is in my mind. Nothing must be missed. “I am unfamiliar with the black mark that I shall receive after I apologise; can my Lord please elaborate? Will it be possible for me to know the exact nature of the Disturbance Potential and how it was made possible, so that I might take more care in the future? And …” There is another loud groan, followed by an elongated sigh. I pause. There is only silence, and so I continue. “And finally, if it is not too much trouble, can my Lord tell me what opportunity I might have to appeal this Judgement? Particularly as I am reluctant to encourage the return of the Terrors and fail to comprehend, no doubt through ignorance on my part, the relationship between the Judgement and the Terrors. And I do not believe that the Terrors are under my control to embrace or reject.”
“Mary J, do you hear herself? Stuck up cow. ‘Appeal,’ she says. ‘Appeal!’”
These strange asides might as well be in an unknown language for all the sense they make to me, though the anger and irritation is obvious. Despite my distressing predicament, I wonder why all the Marys are so disgruntled. While I wait for an answer, there are noises that sound like heavy blows and much scuffling before the judge continues.
“The judged should familiarise themselves with the meaning of the word ‘succinct’ before testing the patience of the judge any further. In short, an ugly black mark will be made on the panel at the end of bunk-bed-coffin number Seven to remind the judged of their crime and encourage the return of the Terrors. And, upon said Terrors’ return, the judged may resume their button making. The judged will apologise by leaving a note on their workbench. More the judged does not require to know.”
I would disagree. There is very much more that I would like to know. I wait patiently for the judge to tell me how I might, if I so choose, overturn the accusation. There is only silence.
“My Lord, you mentioned the possibility of an appeal?”
At first, the only response is a long moan.
“If the judged chooses to challenge this Judgement, then the judged will receive an additional Judgement of Challenging a Judgement. Mounting a challenge would be fruitless and will likely garner further criminal Judgements and ever harsher punishments. However, if the judged chooses this wilful path of criminality, then the judged will place themselves at the bottom of the bunk-bed-tower containing bunk-bed-coffin number Seven at exactly fourteen past six this very morning, suitably attired for an additional Encounter with Zero, your court-appointed appeals process administrator. This Judgement advisement is ended.”
“You did well there, so you did, Mary M.”
“Course I did. My legalising is top draw. Anyway, do you even know what the feck that was all about?”
I am too distressed to listen further to the Mary babble; the Judgement has been delivered and it is sour and deeply upsetting. I replace the receiver of the green telephone with a trembling hand and am left alone in my misery and turmoil. I must duteously follow the advisement of the judge. Would it be so terrible to live with a black mark at the end of my bunk-bed-coffin over my
foot-locker box? If the Terrors returned, my nights would only be as they have always been and as I have always endured. Everything could be as it was if I would only write a simple note of apology.
I stand up and begin pacing back and forth within the narrow confines of my workhouse. At every turn, my muscles knot a little more, my empty stomach turns, increasingly unruly, and the thump of my heart sounds ever louder in my ears. The implications of the Judgement prick at my mind like a hot needle. Until I have apologised and until the Terrors return, I am to be barred from making buttons, my only joy and sole purpose. Does one, an apology, necessarily lead to the other, the Terrors? That is my only hope.
It is not just my material world that is in turmoil. This morning’s disruptive events have riled my subconscious. My dreadful Black Box is unsettled. It groans and strains more than ever. How can I know the implications? The Black Box is best ignored, as always. Besides, more immediate matters are looming.
It is now fifty past five and I must direct all my efforts to composing my heartfelt note of genuine regret. I am not enthused. Why? What causes my hesitation? Is it pride? Pride in my craft? A stubborn unwillingness to accept that my button-making skills, in the absence of the Terrors, are flawed, my efforts unsatisfactory? Is my pride a mere vanity, a delusion of little value, corrupting in its influence? It is difficult to think. I am trembling.
There is something I must do before I do anything further. It is a small joy to emerge from the suffocating and uncomfortable Encounter gown and return it to its usual place with the wish that it will remain unused for what remains of my life.
I take my seat on my treasured, three-legged stool, face the bench and open my sketchpad, used for drawing preliminary button designs, at a clean page. I pick up a newly sharpened pencil and prepare to write my note of apology. My pencil point floats over the empty sheet of paper, neither descending nor retreating. I wipe away the tears and reach a firm conclusion, only to reach a contradictory conclusion seconds later. A further minute slips away. Another element of the Judgement distracts me from placing the tip of my pencil on the pad. The ugly black mark. What form will it take? Does it matter? I imagine it as a black X. Not too large. Perhaps the size of my hand. There is certainly space on the back panel of my bunk-bed-coffin above the foot-locker for such a mark. Is that really so terrible, to wake and see it every day and be reminded of my crime and the pride that I will lose?
