Seven at Two Past Five

by Tara Basi

  “It is now eight past seven. You are officially late for an official Encounter and will, therefore, receive a Judgement of …” The constable pauses and makes an adjustment to his hood, whereupon his blue light starts flashing, then he continues, “Wilful Tardiness.”

  The flashing light is extremely distracting and momentarily confuses me. The constable’s accusation and the meaning of the Judgement gradually crystallise in my mind and I am appalled and dismayed.

  “Constable, may I beg to disagree? Whilst I am not equipped with anything as lovely as your chronometer, I take great pains to be punctual at all times, and I believe that I took my seat in this … blue box at precisely six past seven for an Encounter scheduled for seven past seven, as you will, no doubt, have observed.”

  “Your Judgement has been upgraded to Unrepentant Wilful Tardiness.”

  While my heart’s desire is to remonstrate forcefully with the constable, I remind myself why I am seated here. It is to obtain leave to appeal. Antagonising the constable further is unlikely to be conducive to achieving that goal.

  “My good constable, I apologise unreservedly.”

  “Good constable? You cannot possibly know if I am a good constable. Are you trying to flatter, bribe or otherwise unnaturally influence a morally undefined constable in the course of their duty?”

  This is all unbearably horrible. I do not understand this bizarre world, beyond the bunk-bed-tower and the sanctuary of my workhouse, or its arbitrary rules. Am I doomed to failure? No. It cannot be the case. My efforts to prove my innocence of any and all Judgements must be unwavering.

  “I intended no such thing, Constable. I merely wished to apologise for my tardiness. Would it be possible to discuss my case? As you may know, I desire to appeal all of my Judgements.”

  The constable switches off his flashing, blue light. “Pride, sloth and now arrogance. You exhibit vices like a brazen tour guide at an exhibition of smutty art.”

  “I beg your pardon, Constable?”

  “There will be … paperwork.”

  The constable delivers the word ‘paperwork’ as though it is a warning of terrible things to come. I am having a great deal of difficulty comprehending the constable’s utterances. Time is not my ally.

  “With utmost humility and conformance to all rules and necessary rituals, I seek leave to appeal all Judgements and have been directed to your good self by my appeals process administrator.”

  The constable does not answer. Instead, he reaches under his desk and begins retrieving stack after stack of papers, too tall for me to see over while seated, and places them upon his desk. He continues in this fashion until nearly the entire surface is covered in the teetering piles. The constable has left only a narrow gap, the width of his blue folder, between the paper towers. Through this gap, we can still observe each other. The constable takes a sheet of paper from his blue folder, turns it around and slides the document across the desk towards me. In large writing, it reads:

  The appellant confirms that the appellant has been made aware of all rituals, necessary regulations and terms and conditions of the laws of appeal and swears, on pain of death, to comply with said. Seven at Two Past Five so confirms.

  I gaze at the page, dumbfounded and shocked. Death? I am threatened with death if I pursue my appeal. No. That is not what is stated. I reread the document and its meaning is clear. I shall study and follow the appeals regime. I will be safe.

  “Sign,” the constable says and slides a blue pencil towards me.

  “Indeed, I shall and willingly, though, at this time, I am unaware of the laws of appeal. May I have a little time to study the rules with regards to an appeal so that I do not, unintentionally, commit a transgression?”

  “More arrogance? How can you be unaware of the laws of appeal when you are staring at them?” The constable spreads his arms to encompass all the paper towers covering his desk.

  “These papers, they document the laws pertaining to an appeal?”

  The constable only nods. I tell myself it cannot be an impossible task. I must persevere.

  “I believe I shall need a little time, though I had hoped to complete my business by day’s end. Is there a summary of the main tenets that I might study?”

  “This is the summary.”

  “How am I to comprehend all of this material in any reasonable amount of time?”

  “You need only confirm that you are aware of the law. Comprehension is unnecessary.”

  I stare at the many paper towers, unsure how to proceed. Perhaps if I made an initial assessment of the content, I could better gauge the scale of the task. I stand up and take one tissue-thin sheet from the very top of a paper tower. Before I can begin to study the contents of the page, the constable grunts as though in acknowledgement of a silent command and, with his forearms, begins sweeping the paper towers off his desk and onto the floor in a cloud of flying pages. The constable continues in this brutal manner until all that remains is my blue folder and my ticket. I am ankle-deep in the discarded sheaves. I watch, open-mouthed, as the strange behaviour of the constable continues. Fresh paper towers are retrieved by the constable from beneath his desk until the surface is again covered.

  “The law has been upgraded. It is much improved. There have been many revisions.”

  My gaze switches back and forth, from the littered floor to the refreshed stacks on the desk, seeing but not quite believing or comprehending what has happened. Finally, I find my voice.

  “Are the laws of appeal revised often?”

  “Every hour. More often if they are subjected to undue scrutiny.”

  The extremely thin page from the earlier edition of the appeal laws is still clutched in my hand. Whatever its contents, the task of understanding the laws of appeal is beyond Herculean. I release the crumpled page, allowing it to re-join its obsolete brethren littering the floor.

  “You must sign immediately, or you will forfeit any hope of qualifying for an appeal.”

  The constable leaves me little choice. In a small act of defiance, I sign my name as Abi. He recovers the signed page and returns it to the blue folder. To my consternation, the constable then reaches for his blue light and sets it spinning and flashing.

  “Your signature, naturally, attracts a Judgement of Challenging a Judgement. Your appeals process administrator will advise you on the next steps.”

  With that pronouncement, the constable switches off his light and moves his chair to one side so that he is hidden behind the paper towers. I swallow, take a breath, then stand up and peer over. The constable has his head on his knees. I am reluctant to leave without gaining something more from this Encounter.

  “Constable, if I may, could you please explain to me how I came to receive the Judgement of Disturbance Potential?”

  “The constable has been called away on urgent business. No one is available to deal with your inquiry at this time. Please take a ticket and wait for your number to be called.”

  I pick up my ticket, which is still resting on the desk, and hold it high in my hand.

  “Constable, with all humility, I observe that you are still seated behind your desk, and I already have a ticket: ticket number one.”

  Immediately, the constable’s head and upper body reappear in the paper-tower canyon.

  “You must hand over that ticket. Our business is concluded.” The constable reaches across the desk, snatches the ticket from my hand and tears the little square of paper into tiny flakes. “There are many others waiting. Next! Ticket number two! Show yourself.”

  The constable is as muddled and deranged as the Marys. We are alone in the blue box and only darkness waits outside. I take another ticket and hold it up.

  “I have ticket number two. Would the constable please answer my question?”

  “Will you then leave?”

  “Immediately, if you will but enlighten me on this one matter.”

  “Without my morning coffee, I find I am unable to … manufacture convincing e
vidence. In such circumstances, sans caffeine, I should defer all evidential manufacturing activities until the caffeine deficiency has been remedied; otherwise, I risk creating unconvincing evidence. It is exactly the same with your buttons.”

  “How are these matters, beverages and Judgements, related? In any event, I do not imbibe coffee.”

  The constable’s hand moves, in a threatening manner, towards the blue light on top of his head. “Leave immediately or you will incur a Judgement of Queue Jumping.”

  I decide that I shall leave. Any elaboration by the constable would likely only consist of more nonsense, and I have had enough Judgments for one morning. Although Zero’s messenger has not inspired confidence, perhaps Zero himself will prove to be a voice of reason.

  Outside the blue box, the spotlights are waiting. I lift a foot to step forward and stop. The noises I had first heard emanating from the rear of the blue box are now clearly the unmistakable tones of the Marys. The angry women are engaged in furious exchanges in low whispers that I can clearly hear, but they are no more intelligible than their previous asides. I stop to listen, remembering that the judge is a Mary. I may learn something useful.

  “You said evil button bag would give up, Mary J. Isn’t that so?”

  “Patience, Mary B, patience.”

  “Feck patience, Mary J. Shall we not just smack her in the face, like? With a lead pipe, like. Send a message, so we would.”

  “What message would that be, Mary M?”

  “One that says to herself, ‘Feck off back to your stupid box-bed and get praying for them Terrors,’ Mary J.”

  “We are of love, Mary M.”

  “Mary J, I’d fecking love to smash her face in, so that’s alright then.”

  “Mary M, you remember your vows now.”

  “Me fingers were crossed, so they were, Mary J.”

  While the Marys squabble in ever louder whispers, other stranger noises start up, and my curiosity and desire to learn more from the judge leads me to follow the sounds to their source at the rear of the blue box. To my astonishment, I find four slight figures all clothed in Encounter gowns. Three are of a black and white design. The fourth features pink and red. Those in black and white appear to be engaged in fisticuffs with the one in pink and red. I am noticed. The Marys freeze in assorted pugilist poses. I decide to seize my opportunity to question the judge.

  “Good day. I am very pleased to make—” I start.

  “Save yourselves! Run, hide! She mustn’t catch us,” one of the Marys screams.

  The women dart around the corner of the blue box and out of my sight. From their continued commotion, which I can clearly hear, they have come to a halt as soon as I can no longer see them. What very odd behaviour.

  “We shouldn’t be running. You lot, hold her down, and I’ll do a high-stepping jig on her face.”

  “Mary M, have you no understanding of the situation?”

  “Mary J, no, I don’t, not at all. It’s all fecking madness, so it is. Let’s just bash the bitch.”

  “Mary M has a point. Isn’t that right, Mary C?”

  “Mary B, you should know better. We can’t be seen by herself. It’ll create paradoxicals and raspberry ripples in the egg timers between the spaces.”

  “Mary C, the shite that comes out of your mouth.”

  “We can’t be risking an Undoing. And if there’s another one of them awful Purges, there’ll be standing room only. Who knows what’ll happen if she goes on appealing.”

  “It’s shite, Mary C. It’s all shite.”

  “Mary J, could she find out her true name? Is that possible? Because then we’d be royally buggered.”

  I follow and catch up with the raving Marys.

  “Evil old button hag is chasing us! Run! Run for your very existence!”

  Again, the Marys merely dart around the next corner of the blue box. With growing annoyance, I determine to follow the Marys and demand answers. It is useless. They are exceedingly nimble and easily outpace me. I soon find myself back at the front of the blue box. I lean on my knees to recover my breath. The Marys are rudely laughing, no doubt at my feeble attempts to give chase. I straighten up and resolve to confront the screeching harpies. How dare they mock me, a frail old woman who has injured no one? Then I realise that the Marys are not laughing. I had misheard. The women are sobbing and screeching like lost little girls. It is a heart-wrenching lament. Straightaway, I resolve to help the Marys in any way I can. Cautiously, I peer around the corner of the blue box, hoping not to alarm them further. On seeing me, their wailing only doubles in intensity and off they run. I am shaken by their naked grief and extremely disturbed. Were they once ordinary bed-tower folk, like myself, before they became trapped in this labyrinth of Judgements and appeals and ultimately lost their minds? Are they a melancholy foreshadowing of my own fate? While the Marys have my sympathy, my fate is still my own, and it need not be the same as the Marys. And yet, a Mary had somehow become a judge.

  The spotlights beckon. I am afraid, afraid of where the terrible path I have unwittingly taken will lead me next. Can Zero save me?

  Chapter Four – Sanity

  It is thirty-seven past seven and I have, most thankfully, been returned home, back to the welcoming light over the ladder. I search the small, illuminated space and can spy no sign of Zero or Zero’s midget-messenger. I am too exhausted to think about what might come next. I embrace the ladder and rest my head upon a rung. My eyes close and, momentarily, I am at peace; I imagine sitting at my bench working metal, glass, shell, bone, leather and wood into beautiful button shapes. The creation of every button is an absolute delight. I adore the smell of the materials, particularly the dark tones of supple leather and the sweet, woody aromas. All the bedlam and babel of the morning is momentarily forgotten.

  Tick.

  With a sigh, I release the ladder and pass through the Odd door. The familiar sights of the tarnished steel, cracked tiles and polished brass are reassuring.

  I arrive at my old friend: the stone room beyond the waterfall with its five workhouse doors. For an instant, everything appears as it always has, and in another instant, I can see that it is not. Zero’s midget-messenger is sitting on the floor, still adorned in the same outsized Encounter gown festooned with my buttons. My heart sags. I had hoped for a few moments of solitude and sanity. There is a blue envelope lying on the floor in front of the messenger. Like the first message from Zero, it is addressed to me, Abi. There is something kindly in the use of my name, rather than the coldness of Seven at Two Past Five.

  I approach and bend gingerly to retrieve the envelope. This close to the messenger, I believe I notice some changes in the midget’s appearance. It is, surprisingly, somewhat taller than I remember. Does Zero have a number of messengers of varying heights, conceivably ranging from mini-midget to giant-dwarf? And there are even more of my buttons attached to its gown.

  “What are these enigmatic signs and symbols, my buttons, your variations in height? Speak plainly, little fellow.”

  The messenger shrugs, I think. Its movements are barely visible under the voluminous gown. I rip the blue envelope open and study the contents.

  The appellant’s sanity must be verified by a suitably qualified psychiatrist before the appeal can be progressed. An appointment for the assessment of the appellant has been arranged for precisely nine past nine this very morning.

  Zero

  The envelope and the vanilla card drop from my hand and flutter gently to the floor, and I follow them down as if my gown were filled with smoke and is collapsing under its own weight. This is madness. How many more indignities must I face? I would welcome a strict appeals regime that I can follow. This anarchic randomness is unbearable. I curse the cost of the Terrors abandoning me.

  A foreign sensation, a mix of warmth and tingling that I do not recognise, envelops my hand.

  “Don’t cry, Mummy.”

  Startled, I look up. The messenger is speaking in a light tone, almost musi
cal. It is holding my gloved hand in its small fingers through the sleeves of its Encounter gown. I find myself trembling. In all my life, I have never been touched. The corporeal feeling of being un-alone is peculiar, yet it comforts me. The messenger gently squeezes my hand and repeats itself, and this time I hear the words.

  “Don’t cry, Mummy.”

  I snatch my hand away. “I am not your … mummy. Why would you say such a monstrous thing?”

  “Mummy, rest. Mummy, don’t cry.”

  I decide that this medium-midget might have good intentions, but it is as deranged as the constable and the Marys. It would be pointless to argue. Maybe it knows something useful?

  “Where is Zero?” I ask it.

  “Me Zero, Mummy.”

  I take a deep breath. It is obviously not an officer of the court. The creature had suggested that I should rest. Is there time? “When must I leave for my next appointment?”

  Instead of answering, the medium-midget points at the vanilla card lying on the stone floor. Had I missed something? I pick it up and there is nothing else written on the face of the card that I had not already read. With little expectation, I turn it over.

  Journey time to the next appointment: thirteen minutes.

  Finally, news that brings some relief and not more misery. It is now forty-five past seven. I have some time. My bladder and stomach remonstrate with me. One is overfull and the other is empty. If there is to be a pause in proceedings, then I should try and eat something and maybe remove the burdensome Encounter gown in the privacy of my workhouse, even if only for a few moments, and breathe unhindered. The messenger is still and silent.