Seven at Two Past Five

by Tara Basi

  With care, I climb to my feet and enter my daytime home: workhouse number Seven. The inciting black envelope and its cruel contents lie on the bench. The three untouched napkins of meals, the sour milk and the water jug are all as I left them. The sight of the messenger waiting in the cave disturbs me. I close the workhouse door and hope it will not think me rude. The back of the door holds a surprise: a hanger with fresh work clothes. The carers still care for me.

  I decide to employ the services of the chamber pot first; it has been a long and stressful morning. It is a great relief. My cheeks burn; the force of the emission and the empty chamber pot together create a noise which must be audible to the midget.

  I take up my fresh clothes then pause. The poor medium-midget messenger might well be hungry. I shall offer it one of my napkin meals and some water. I open the workhouse door to find the cave deserted. I am happy the creature is gone, if only because I can travel naked and unobserved to the warm waterfall, the place where I can imagine that the warm water is the touch of the Great Artist’s golden light banishing the darkness that has crept into my day. Even if that is only an idle fantasy, it is a relief to have the physical sweat and tears of the last few hours flushed away.

  I am sane and I am innocent. This, I know. I must be resolute, pay attention and keep my courage. Who knows what will be important and might save me before the day is out? Feeling refreshed and energised, I take some breakfast and drink my sour milk.

  There is still some time left. My many button-making tools will sadly be unemployed today, though they can still be sharpened, oiled, cleaned and polished, so they are at their very best for tomorrow. And tomorrow, I hope and believe, will see a return to sense and routine.

  It takes some time to carefully attend to my instruments, from lathe to the rasp, and from chisel to the saw. Then it is time to re-robe and travel to my next Encounter. I leave a little early rather than be anxious about arriving late.

  Beyond the Odd door, the little spots of light are waiting. I set off once again into the dark. At first there is only nothing. Then, as the journey time ticks down to thirteen elapsed minutes, a pale, yellow-tinged glow impinges on the gloom. The light takes me towards a startling edifice: an enormous stone head. I approach cautiously, and since I have some time, I study the odd structure. It is many times my height and appears to be carved from a marble that has discoloured with age, giving it a sickly sheen. The bald skull is covered in black lines, dividing the cranium into segments of various size. Each delineated area is covered in indecipherable markings. It is a most peculiar sight.

  My illuminated path circles the head and ends at a ladder that reaches up to the sculpture’s ear. With some awkwardness, I arrange my Encounter gown as best I can and climb with care. At the top, I find a short passage from the ear leading into the skull. At the end is a sturdy door, which I find to be locked. It is not yet nine past nine. I wait patiently, close my eyes and breathe deeply. My emotions must be kept in check no matter what awaits me beyond the door.

  At precisely nine past nine, there is a loud click. I open the door and step inside. It is not so easy to remain calm when I behold the scene to which I am exposed. A marble floor dissects the head at earlobe height and is completely bare. The rest of the interior is as one might imagine the inside of a giant, empty marble skull might look. It is an appalling waste of space that could easily have housed many productive workhouses. A figure stands at the centre of the vacant head, wearing a white Encounter gown covered in purple question marks and spirals; it is embroidered with Doctor. Standing in an arc at some distance to the rear of the doctor are the four Marys. It is the first time I have been able to observe them clearly. The space is brightly lit, and the Marys are stationary. Three of the Marys are in black Encounter gowns with white ovals on the faces of the hoods and oversized, white ts on the bodies. Horizontal spars run across the chests, and the vertical spars extend from neck to hem.

  The fourth Mary is of a completely different breed. Where the others are black, this Mary is an insipid pink. Where they are white, she is a garish red. What sets her apart, even more than her colour scheme, is the shiny steel zips of varying lengths that randomly scar her gown. Only one seems to serve any practical purpose. It cuts across her hood where her mouth might be. This is an eminently sensible alteration to the design of the gown, though I find zips a lazy and inelegant accoutrement to good couture. Buttons are far more elegant and discreet. I wish I had such an opening. It would make breathing so much more comfortable and allow thirst to be easily quenched.

  I wonder what the prominent ts on their gowns stand for. Based on my experience with the Marys so far, the only thing I can imagine is trouble, and if so, it really should be a capital T.

  The air is unnaturally odourless, sterile and uninviting.

  “Welcome, patient Seven at Two Past Five,” the female doctor announces, or so I deduce from her tone. She waves me forward.

  “My name is Abi,” I reply as I walk towards her.

  Before I have drawn very close, she holds up a hand indicating that I should come no nearer.

  “Schizophrenia? Are you in two minds about who you are, Seven at Two Past Five?”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “You are precisely on time. A touch of the obsessive compulsive perhaps? Or is it morbid paranoia because you fear the death penalty for breaking the rules of an appeal?”

  What an unpleasant woman. And worse than her is the presence of the Marys. I am suddenly cold.

  “Doctor, I understand that the purpose of this Encounter is for a psychiatrist to confirm my sanity so that I might appeal all and every Judgement against me.”

  “What do you know of psychiatry and the diagnoses of sanity? You’re a button maker.”

  I stand up straight and pull my shoulders back. “It is true that I am only a button maker. But I have my boxes. I am aware of psychiatry as a concept.”

  “Boxes? You are a writhing little bag of psychosis, Seven at Two Past Five. So, you think any old psychiatrist can determine sanity? That’s irrational.”

  I endeavour to keep my spirits up, but I already sense this process will be no easier than my earlier Encounters with the Marys, Zero’s messengers and the constable.

  “It is?” I say.

  “Oh yes. A typical practitioner can only say that you do or do not share their worldview. If you are both insane, then you are sane. If you are sane and the psychiatrist is insane, then you are insane. It’s all relativistic nonsense.”

  I try to find a way through this latest morass of idiocy. “If, as seems very likely, we are both sane, does that not then suffice?”

  “How can you know, empirically, that we are both sane?”

  It is no use. I shall have to give myself over to the doctor and accept my fate. “How, then, is my sanity to be determined?”

  “I shall examine your Ego Quantum, which is, of course, the sum of your Real Self and your Imaginary Self in consciousness units, both negative and positive. If the overall Ego Quantum is calculated to be positive, you will be declared sane.”

  It is senseless drivel. I clench my jaw so hard my head aches.

  “Shall it be a long process? I am anxious to complete my appeal by this day’s end.”

  “My methods are very efficient. Before we begin, do you have any objections to these trainees” – she pauses and indicates the Marys with a sweep of her hand – “observing?”

  “And if I object?”

  “That would, of course, be completely unreasonable, and I would have to immediately declare you legally insane for the purposes of an appeal.”

  “I have no objections.”

  “Excellent. We shall start with word association. You will call out a word, any word, and I shall say the first word that comes into my head, and we will continue in that manner until one of us becomes bored.”

  Her instructions make no sense, though I have little choice but to comply.

  “Buttons.”

&nbs
p; “Hobby,” she answers, as though there is some association between the two words.

  “Evil hobby!” the Marys chant as one, surprising me.

  Angrily, I blurt out, “Craft.”

  “Crafty.”

  The Marys yell, “Evil button bitch!”

  Any pity I felt for the Marys when I found them crying beside the blue box is instantly dispelled. I would very much like to strike them.

  I shall confuse the witless harpies. “Chamber-pot.”

  “Dysfunctional Voiding.”

  “Dirty! Dirty! Dirty! Dirty!” the Marys scream.

  I shall try another tack. “Bunk-bed-coffin.”

  “Claustrophobia.”

  “Your Terror, our Rapture!” is the Marys’ bizarre response.

  I cannot stomach any more of this stupidity. “I believe that I am bored.”

  “Already? That’s disappointing. I thought we were getting somewhere. Very well, since you are in such a hurry, I shall offer you a shortcut to the whole process.”

  “Really? And what would that be?”

  “It’s quite simple. You diagnose yourself as insane, which is clearly a mad thing to do, and so I will be forced to concur.”

  “Then I would be barred from my appeal. I do not think that suggestion is helpful.”

  “If you’re insane, then I can cure you using my unique licko-lobotomy procedure and declare you sane.”

  My body tenses. “My boxes suggest that licko-lobotomy is a meaningless term.”

  “It’s very new. Would you like to know more?”

  I give the doctor a slow and hesitant nod.

  “Marys, explain the licko-lobotomy to our box-brained button maker, and I shall see how well you’ve understood this morning’s training.”

  As one of the Marys says, “A smallish-to-largish piece of your skull will be removed,” my inclination is to turn and run, now, while I can.

  The Mary with the zips steps forward, and I take a step back.

  “As a licko-lobotomy expert, I shall lick your brain all over, searching for the taste of madness, and if I find any, I’ll bite out the crazy bits.”

  She steps back in line, and the doctor applauds wildly. “Aren’t they wonderful trainees? Exactly right, ladies. Well done.”

  My stomach does a small jig. “It sounds very dangerous and unlikely to be effective even if I were insane.”

  “It’s only dangerous if the taster has a cold or hasn’t eaten breakfast. None of you ladies have a cold and you’ve all eaten breakfast, right?”

  The Marys nod vigorously, and I am far from reassured, even if I knew which part of the doctor’s question they were affirming.

  The doctor seems happy enough. “See. And if you’re already insane and the taster gets a bit carried away, there’s no real harm done. I mean, how much brain power can button-making require?”

  My teeth grind as I take a step forward. “I’d like the assessment, Doctor, and please proceed with speed.”

  “Aren’t you even a little bit tempted to try a licko-lobotomy?”

  “No.”

  “Very well, I shall employ mesmerism. You must remain at that distance and slowly circle me, reversing direction when you reach your starting point. Please begin.”

  My face reddens with embarrassment, and I feel like a child, though I do as I am commanded and start to walk around the doctor, first one way and then the other. At least the Marys are silent.

  “Now, my trainees will sing a lullaby while you continue your measured pacing just as you’re doing now.”

  The Marys start to shriek a tuneless dirge. Without thinking, I clap my hands over my ears, and yet I can still hear the absurd words that accompany their caterwauling.

  Come here, Seven, Marys’ in the swing,

  We ain’t too hip, about that new button bag,

  We ain’t no drag,

  Marys’ got a brand-new button bag,

  Hey! Hey! Marys put tight, out of sight.

  The monochrome Marys are moving in a syncopated manner, while Mary-of-the-Zips has come to the front and is gyrating in a way that suggests her under garments are ablaze.

  To be heard, the doctor resorts to shouting. “I shall now fall asleep. Once the snoring becomes raucous, you are to gently wake me.”

  The doctor falls silent. How the doctor can possibly sleep in this unconscionable din is beyond my reckoning. I walk on patiently, assuming she will pretend to sleep. To my great surprise, the doctor does indeed begin to snore and loud enough to be heard above the Mary cacophony, though I would not yet say that it was raucous. It seems I should wait a little longer. All at once, the doctor begins making a noise that might emanate from a large animal choking on a slightly smaller one. I lightly tap the doctor’s forehead through her hood and quickly retreat. The Marys cease their unsightly jiggling and fall silent. I am very thankful.

  The doctor shakes her hooded head. “That was extremely enlightening. I have tallied the positive and negative consciousness units for your Real and Imaginary Selves. Unquestionably, your Imaginary Self is utterly sane, though it has only an infinitesimally small proportion of your total Ego Quantum. Your Real Self is, in layman’s terms, completely bonkers. As I understand the legal situation, only your Imaginary Self is appealing. I, therefore, conclude that Seven at Two Past Five is legally sane, enough.”

  “No! Licko-lobotomy! Licko-lobotomy! Licko-lobotomy now!” the Marys scream as one.

  “Quiet, or you shall all be disciplined and not in the good way,” the doctor commands.

  The Marys immediately fall silent.

  “I am extremely grateful for your swift and positive analysis, Doctor. Though I have a question, if I may?”

  “Who doesn’t?”

  “How can I be imaginary if you are not?”

  “What makes you think I’m not a figment? And that lot,” says the doctor, pointing at the Marys, “have never struck me as being very realistic.”

  “Then, who is the imaginer?”

  “Why, your Real Self, of course. As well as being bonkers, it has a wicked sense of humour.”

  “Your explanation is exceptionally unhelpful.”

  “That’s good to know. Now, there is the matter of your Judgement.”

  “The Judgements I am to appeal?”

  “No, the Judgement I must deliver of Evading Yourself.”

  “I am confused, Doctor.”

  “That’s not in doubt. Your Real Self is evading its responsibilities. That cannot continue. The Terrors must return, a choice must be made, your Selves must be re-joined in harmonious coexistence and the Ego Quantum rebalanced.”

  My body shakes, my fists are tightly clenched and my desire to scream almost overwhelms me. I have garnered yet another Judgement, and I am accused of being imaginary. Every turn in my search for justice is more perverse and galling than the last. At least my appeal goes forward and the Marys are thwarted. It is a small victory.

  The doctor waves me away. Infuriated, I spin around and march vigorously towards the door, which I fling open. Once outside, the door closes behind me and I have to pause and catch my breath. Carefully, I descend the ladder and note that, down below, my guiding lights are waiting for me. As I step off the last rung, from up above comes a terrible shrieking. My gaze is drawn upwards. The Marys are assembled around the top of the ladder, wailing and weeping. What am I to make of these women who are, by turns, hateful and pitiful? There is no more consistency in their behaviour than there is in the behaviour of any other denizen of the justice system.

  They scream at me, “Why are you so cruel?”

  “And to so fecking many.”

  “Have you no heart, woman? No shame? No pity?”

  “Come away! She’ll not win. She cannot! All of creation depends on it.”

  Chapter Five – Wealth

  I ignore the wail of the reproachful Marys, straighten my back, look directly ahead and travel on. My day’s end is fast approaching. I had anticipated that I would be return
ed home to meet with another Zero messenger. Instead, the path leads deeper into the darkness that lies beyond the giant head. The clamour of the accusing Marys is quickly left behind.

  I am discomforted by not knowing the time of my next appointment and if I am already late or have ample time. I strike out with a moderate pace, not wishing to become unnecessarily overheated and soiled again. It would be grossly unfair to be accused of lateness for an appointment of which I am unaware, though it would not be greatly surprising to be just so accused, for almost anything seems capable of happening on the path to justice.

  I follow the lights through the featureless night for many, many minutes, until I spy a golden glow in the distance. As I close on the yellow brightness, it is, of course, nothing ordinary which presents itself. It is another ostentatious construction, seemingly designed only to confuse and intimidate me. Ahead rests a giant gold ingot. There is only one feature in the smooth surface that I can discern: a double door, apparently also made of gold. The path takes me to the door. I steal myself for the lunacy I shall surely find when I cross over the threshold. As anticipated, another bizarre scene assaults my senses.

  A path, constructed from short red ropes running between golden poles, snakes left and right across a large empty floor, eventually ending at a sign I cannot make out. Ahead of the sign are four counters that are shuttered with heavy metal grates. Next to the counters is a plain wooden door. Above the door, another sign in red letters is flashing. It is also too far away for me to read. At the entrance to the roped path there is something uncomfortably familiar: a round metal container, out of which extrudes the edge of a small slip of paper. It is identical to the dispenser I found in the blue box. I clench and unclench my fists. My path is very clear. I take a ticket. It is number one. Slowly, I make my way along the ridiculous path, which requires me to walk in a straight line parallel to the counters, turn as I reach the wall and walk the other way. In this circuitous manner, I make my way to the end of the path and find myself facing the counters and the doorway. Every sign is now clearly legible. The sign on a pole before the counters tells me to Please Wait Here for the Next Available Associate. The message in flashing red lights above the door is equally confusing: Now Servicing: Zero. Am I to take it that Zero is here and waiting for me behind the door? I try the handle, but the door will not open. I turn my attention to the counters; there is lettering on the metal screens, and it is the same message painted on each: Closed for Training in Customer Infuriation. What an odd thing to be trained in.