Seven at Two Past Five

by Tara Basi

  A worm of doubt is burrowing most deeply and uncovering terrible fears. If the black mark is allowed, then it will be another blemish after the Encounter with the discordant Marys, the Judgement and the black envelope. Might more follow and multiply until I am as tormented by darkness as the Great Artist? If the Terror is allowed to corrupt my day, then what does it matter how well I sleep? Or is it really nothing more than a simple black mark, a trivial punishment for a trivial crime?

  I consider all these matters carefully and with a balanced perspective. While I have many hours to compose my wretched note of remorse, mere minutes remain for me to decide firmly that an appeal would be madness and at odds with any notion of order and conformity. For to be at the foot of the bunk-bed-tower by fourteen past six, I must re-robe in the Encounter gown and leave my workhouse within the next few minutes. I hesitate.

  Finally, I settle on a course of action, and I am somewhat satisfied with my conclusion. My mind has been fractured by the events of the morning, and many hours yet must pass before this unwelcome day is ended.

  Chapter Three – Zero

  It is thirteen past six by the time I arrive at the foot of my bunk-bed-tower. I feel somewhat dizzy after the exertions of re-robing and making my way here as quickly as my body, and the Encounter gown, will allow. Its weight and constrictions are not conducive to any kind of rapid movement. My head is clearing, and the pain in my lungs is receding.

  An Encounter is imminent. I shall appeal my Judgement, or all that I am will be cast into doubt.

  I must ignore the suffocating heat and the rivulets of sweat that flood the gullies of my wrinkled skin. I blink hard and gently shake my head, hoping to clear the salty drops from my eyes. Slowly, my vision clears, though there is nothing to see that I have not seen many times before. At my back is the ladder. To my left, the Odd and Even doors. The Odd door is swinging to and fro, mightily animated by my agitated exit. To my right, the bunk-bed-tower is silent and shrouded in shadows. Everywhere else is the ever-present and familiar darkness.

  I greatly feared I would be late for the first time in my life and for such a critical appointment: the commencement of my appeal against the Judgement of Disturbance Potential. And I shall be embarking on a journey to an unknown destination.

  Seconds remain before fourteen past six. There is still time to recant. I need only retreat through the Odd door and make my way slowly back to my workhouse and accept my punishment, my black mark, and compose an apology. I stretch out a gloved hand towards the Odd door, though my feet remain anchored in the ladder spotlight. My body struggles with itself, and my mind hesitates. Time decides for me. Tick. It is fourteen past six.

  A flash of brightness snatches my attention away from the Odd door. Ahead of me, three pools of light have appeared on the ground, one after the other, forming a short path to nowhere. I am unsure how to respond to this unexpected expansion of my universe. With a heavy breath, I step into the first circle on the light path. I am simultaneously relieved and disappointed that nothing transpires. Tentatively, I step into the second bright spot. A new spot appears ahead of me, stretching the path a little further and deeper into the darkness. Ominously, the light behind me has been extinguished, leaving a dark gap between myself and the homeliness of the ladder light. It is a gap I could easily step across. Though, if I continue and the lights carry on behaving as they have, I could find myself in a sea of endless night with the ladder to bunk-bed-coffin number Seven forever out of reach. I move ahead, and the returning path to safety dies, one bright circle at a time. Gradually, the ladder light dims and blends with the shadows, abandoning me completely. The separation from everything I have ever known chills my heart. I waver. My legs soften like button metal in my workbench furnace, and I drop gently to my knees. I look back over my shoulder. There is only darkness behind and only darkness ahead. My fingernails, despite my gloves, bite my palm. I fill my lungs and climb slowly back to my feet. My legs stiffen like cooling metal, and I know I cannot turn back. I am innocent. I continue, albeit a little unsteadily.

  Something moves in the shadows, something misshapen, which wears the darkness like a cloak. My scream is strangled before it can make itself fully known, the shock freezing my lungs, and I release a pathetic, high-pitched squeal. I step backwards, just behind the last spot of light. Thankfully, a new bright spot does not illuminate me. The three white spots remain. I am comforted by the covering of the same darkness which shrouds the unseen monster. Could the shadow be Zero, my appeals process administrator? Is this to be my first physical Encounter?

  The thought tangles up my intestines and leaves my limbs trembling uncontrollably. My distress is compounded by an unpleasant smell of something burning, though there are no flames or glowing embers visible to me. The shape has not moved. It could be a large individual in an Encounter gown, though the shoulders are oddly contoured. It is hard to discern any detail. There are only shades of darkness against a background of more darkness. The light path is not leading me towards the figure; it is standing to one side of my direction of travel. My feet leave the ground when the dark stranger unexpectedly begins to sing.

  Seven was a biddy who thought she was a loner,

  But she knew it couldn’t last.

  Seven left her home in the bunk-bed-coffin tower,

  For some appeals repast.

  Get back, Seven.

  Get back to where you once belonged.

  And just as suddenly, a silence falls and the looming shape is gone. The darkness is uniform again. Only a faint smell of burning lingers. It sang with the voice of a young woman that was melodic and sweet, even though the figure appeared large and bulky. The meaning of her song is not clear to me. Was she urging me to abandon my appeal and return home? That, I cannot do. I will not do. I must press on. The whole Encounter was obviously a mirage brought on by fevered stress and must be ignored.

  The stepping stones of light march on ahead. Thankfully, the darkness is uniformly black, empty, odourless and silent. And there is nothing ahead that might indicate a destination. After many minutes of walking, something appears, and it is not a comforting sight. It is so disconcerting that I come to a halt and clutch at my chest. There is a patch of doorway-sized, deeper and rougher blackness ahead that is randomly pricked with a few tiny points of chill light. As I draw closer, the little sparks are extinguished leaving only a forbidding doorway. It appears to be roughly fashioned from dry mud by some clawed creature. The surface is uneven and riven with deep scars. Tentatively, I reach out and touch the muck.

  I am consumed. I snap shut my eyes. I am regurgitated. I gasp, staccato. I am on my hands and knees. I hear a sound.

  A voice, young and sweet, calls out, “Ma!”

  It is a warm and comforting sound. If it has meaning, it is unknown to me. I am reassured. Slowly, I open my eyes and screech uncontrollably. The night Terrors. Terror all around! My eyes snap shut.

  “Ma! Ma!”

  The sweet sound is calming, though the memory of the sights I have just seen fill my shuttered eyes, and that memory is horrifying. I must calm myself and consider. It cannot be the Terrors. I am awake and not floating on high. My hands and knees are firmly planted on a solid, if rough, floor. And someone else is here with me. That is not the way of the Terrors.

  I slit my eyes. I can barely supress a scream. I bite my tongue and steady my thoughts. Nervously, I survey my surroundings. I am inside a grotesque box, whose walls, floor and ceiling are constructed from a foul-smelling slime that has been greatly agitated and has now congealed. It has left every surface covered in ugly swirls, rough valleys and ridges. The resemblance to the Great Artist’s canvas is shocking. As with the Terrors, I can sense that every element is part of a single indecipherable image that reeks of an unquenchable malice. Though there is light, albeit a faint one, its source is not immediately obvious to me. The door, if that was what it was, has disappeared. On unsteady legs and protesting knees, I climb upright and search the scene for meaning
. It is not the Terror, yet it reeks of that horror.

  “Ma!”

  It is the soothing sound. My companion had slipped from my attention, chased away by the shock of the ugly room I find myself in. I am unsure where the sound is coming from. No one is visible. Is my Encounter simply this: being alone and comforted by a single syllable, repeated over and over again?

  A movement startles me. Something is rising from the floor, a baggy, shimmering light that is not of the filth. I move away till my back painfully collides with a corner of the ugly box. Still, I try to retreat from the unknown and menacing shape that is being birthed by the floor. It is a formless nothing and then, unexpectedly, an obvious form starts to take shape. It is an Encounter gown, one that is far too large for the wearer. Empty sleeves lie still at the sides of the gown, which is collapsed on the floor with most of its lower rings compressed into a thick layer of folded cloth. The hood has fallen over and lies forlornly against the back of the wearer’s diminutive head. A small child appears to be wearing an adult’s Encounter gown.

  “Ma!”

  The child could only be addressing me. I have no understanding of what it is struggling to say. My mind is abuzz with tumbling thoughts. What is a child doing here and how am I to address a child? The little one must be as frightened as I am.

  “Child, are you alone?”

  “Ma?”

  It seems the child does not understand my question. The infant has an extremely limited vocabulary. While I am somewhat anxious for this strange creature’s wellbeing, I am also concerned that it is unlikely to be of much practical help with my appeal.

  I approach the child. Its gown is randomly and sparsely festooned with assorted buttons that appear to serve no purpose. They glimmer and twinkle in the gloom. Suffering some discomfort, I bend over and peer at one of the buttons. They are my very own buttons. The shock sends me stumbling backwards. How have my buttons come to be here?

  I regain my footing and steady my nerves. After a deep breath, I return to the child and resume my examination. Where my Encounter gown is embroidered with Seven at Two Past Five, this gown has a single word: Zero. It seems an unlikely workhouse departure time or the number of a bunk-bed-coffin.

  The child remains remarkably still, only swaying slightly from side to side, while I continue my examination. As I draw even closer, it drops a blue envelope onto the floor. I cannot help but smile. It is identical to the blue envelopes containing my beloved button orders. Unlike my button orders, this envelope is not unmarked. It bears my name, Abi. Carefully, I unseal the envelope and remove the vanilla card it contains.

  The judged may only appeal if they are qualified to do so. The judged must seek qualification from authorised notaries, commencing with the constabulary at precisely seven past seven this very morning. If the judged is successful, the judged shall return to the appeals process administrator for further instructions.

  Zero

  The note is surprising in two distinct respects. Firstly, that I would be required to qualify for an appeal. It worries me greatly that my appeal process might not be completed before nightfall. I cannot bear the thought of losing a further day of button crafting to this mayhem. My second surprise, regarding the note, is that Zero, the monosyllabic child, has the capacity to compose it. Or, as now seems likely, it is not a child. Possibly, an articulate midget with a speech impediment? Then, why is the poor creature’s Encounter gown not properly tailored for its stature? And why is it wearing my buttons? Is the creature cruelly reminding me of my beloved creations and the terrible Judgement? Indeed, it might not be Zero at all, only a messenger sent by Zero, and, for some unknown reason, it is wearing Zero’s oddly buttoned gown. Perhaps to convey the authenticity of the messenger? All is confusion. Only the tick of time is constant. I must continue apace.

  “Zero, can you please tell me where I shall find the constable from whom I must seek qualification?”

  “Ma!” the child, or midget, says and lifts a little arm, dripping with sleeve, and points over my shoulder. Quite unexpectedly, the doorway has appeared, the same doorway with the pin-prick points of light that had swallowed me whole and deposited me in this surreal representation of the Terrors. I hesitate. It would not be right to leave the child, if it is a child, unattended in this bizarre and frightening space. I shall bring it along and perhaps the constable will be able to keep it safe. To my bemusement, the little person has gone when I turn back to fetch it. It is no great surprise. It had, after all, appeared just as mysteriously, apparently rising out of the solid floor. The messenger has, no doubt, returned to Zero. Tick. A painful reminder that time is passing and my appointment with the constable is scheduled for precisely seven past seven. It is a hurtful arrangement in that I have no idea how long it might take me to arrive at the appointed place.

  It is fast approaching fifty-nine past six. I prepare myself and carefully reach out and touch the black door. Immediately, I am back in the dark, standing in one spot of light with two more pointing the way ahead, a mode of navigation that is now familiar to me. I waste no time and set off as briskly as I am able. The spotty illumination leads me on through the blackness and has no difficulty keeping ahead of my clumsy footfalls.

  Tick.

  It is already three past seven. It would be terrible if my efforts to appeal should fail at the very first hurdle and for the worst possible reason: tardiness. Even the pride in my timeliness is in imminent danger of being lost.

  Tick.

  The countdown to my failure is precise and rapidly approaching. Risks must be taken. Bending protocols and trusting that I am unobserved, I hitch up my Encounter gown, allowing my frail legs somewhat greater scope for movement, and strive to travel faster. The perspiration that had dried during my Encounter with Zero’s messenger is flowing freely again and is obscuring my vision. Is there a light ahead? A faint blue light? Encouraged, I renew my efforts to reach the blue light in time.

  It is five past seven. I have arrived at a very strange object. A large blue box with a flashing blue light atop it. It is somewhat taller than myself and each side appears similar in length to my bunk-bed-coffin. There is a door in the side of the box I am facing. And odd noises are coming from the rear of the blue box. Perhaps I am meant to go towards the sounds, and yet the light trail has ended at the door.

  Tick.

  No time.

  Breathing very heavily, I choose the door, pull it open and step inside. The interior is as small and as cramped as I might have surmised from its external dimensions. The space contains a single desk of poor construction and considerable age that spans the width of the box. The interior walls are as blue as the exterior. There is barely room for a single chair on my side of the desk.

  On the other side sits a large figure in a blue Encounter gown, though it differs from mine in more than colour. Instead of the hood ending in a point, it is topped by a glass dome containing an unlit blue lamp. The figure gestures with a blue-gloved hand at the seat. Gratefully, I accept the offer and, as discretely as possible, lift the rear of my Encounter gown and lower it carefully to envelope the chair, and then I lower myself slowly onto the seat. The large blue-gowned person does not speak. Instead, the individual gestures again. This time it indicates a circular, metal container, that I had not previously noticed, attached to the wall. Protruding from the base of the container is a piece of paper. The figure on the other side of the desk pinches a forefinger and thumb together and signs that I should tug at the little piece of paper. I do as I am instructed and a small piece comes away in my hand. It has a single word printed on it: one. The constable, whom I surmise the figure to be, is staring at the plain blue ceiling and seems uninterested in any further interaction. I wait patiently, glad for a moment to recover my composure. While the constable is mysteriously engaged in some form of meditation, I study the thick, blue folder on the desk. It is labelled. I squint my eyes and try to decipher the upside-down printing. At first, the writing is illegible, and then, all at onc
e, I am able to read the label: Judgements: Seven at Two Past Five. I suffocate a sob. The constable is unmoving and continues to study the ceiling. Tick. It is seven past seven.

  “Next. Ticket number one. Who has ticket number one? Speak up. Show yourself.”

  The unexpected outburst by the constable startles me, and I am confused. To what is the constable referring? The constable’s hooded head turns from side to side in an exaggerated manner, as though he is scanning a distant vista rather than the limited confines of this blue box. Without stilling his head movements or looking directly at me, he gestures sharply at the little piece of paper in my hand.

  “Is this, perhaps, the ticket that you seek? If I may ask, what is it a ticket for?” I say, holding up the tiny piece of paper with the number one printed on it.

  “Name?”

  The constable no longer seems interested in the ticket. I lay it carefully on the desk, in the event that it should be required at some later time, and carefully consider my answer. It seems to me that it would be fruitless to assert that my name is Abi. In all matters related to the Judgement, the title embroidered on my Encounter gown is the only official answer that appears acceptable. In which case, the answer and the question are superfluous. The name on my gown is clearly visible. I decide not to debate the matter with the constable.

  “Seven at Two Past Five.”

  The constable scans his desk, as though searching for something, before finding the only thing upon his desk. The blue folder. With exaggerated movements, the constable opens the folder at the first page and examines it with great care, using his gloved finger as a pointer, then turns his attention to a large watch fastened to his wrist over the sleeve of his Encounter gown. The constable shakes his head slowly and makes a loud tut-tut sound.