Seven at Two Past Five

by Tara Basi

  If I am to be kept waiting, then I shall try and find a chair or I will take my rest on the floor. Before I can begin my search, a loud, ugly scraping noise draws my attention back to the counters. The shutters are rising and disappearing into the ceiling. I am dismayed to find the Marys sitting behind glass panels. Three are sitting in odd, rigid poses. One has covered her hooded ears with her hands, another her eyes, and the third her mouth. The final Mary, the Mary-of-the-Zips and the gaudy colouring, is behaving very strangely. The zip at her mouth is open. Protruding from her brightly stained, red lips is a white stick that is burning at its tip, and grey smoke is billowing from her mouth. It appears that she is on fire, though the red and pink Mary seems remarkably unconcerned. My boxes refuse to name or explain the white stick, as though it disapproves or the knowledge is in some way forbidden. If the doctor is right and I am imaginary, then perhaps my Real Self is censoring my recollections. A ridiculous idea. Besides, in my current circumstances, the woman’s strange behaviour is of little interest to me.

  Mary-of-the-Zips beckons me to approach. Wearily, I do as I am bid. Perhaps I might learn why I have been directed to this strange place.

  I cannot help asking the Mary, “Is that burning not causing you discomfort? Why are you doing it?”

  “Smell no evil, so it is.”

  “Smell no evil?”

  “Never you mind all that. You listen here, button bitch. You give up all this appeal nonsense and get back to your box. You’ve been given fair warning.”

  “I will do no such thing. The Judgements are unjust and I will have my appeal.”

  “Will you listen to yourself? Well then, we’re gonna nail you shut in that fecking box and bury you alive. Then” – she pauses and causes the tip of her white stick to burn more brightly and releases a great cloud of smoke from her mouth – “we’re going to burn down your stinking workhouse and everything in it. Now, some security questions. What was the name of your first pet?”

  Mary’s angry words are ringing in my ears, and I find them difficult to immediately comprehend. Surely, she cannot have threatened me in the way that I think she might have. It would be an inconceivable violation. “Burn down my workhouse?”

  “That is not the name I have written down here. Would madam like to try again?”

  It is intolerable behaviour, and I cannot let it pass. Before I am fully aware of my own actions, I find that I am beating the glass with my fists and shouting, “How dare you suggest damaging my beloved workhouse? If you attempt any such thing, I shall see that you and your deranged sisters are severely punished.”

  Mary-of-the-Zips falls backwards off her stool, recovers and rushes away towards the back of the space behind the counter. She is followed by the other Marys. The women seem to be in complete turmoil. Mary-of-the-Zips seemed so assured when she was roundly berating me only seconds ago, and now she and her companions are acting like frightened little girls. With resignation that any enlightenment as to the purpose of my presence in this place must come from elsewhere, I return to the waiting point. As I arrive, a loud buzzing sound draws my gaze towards the flashing sign over the door: Now Servicing: One. That is my ticket number, the same number I had in the blue box. I try the door again and find it unlocked. Without further delay, I open the door and enter a small windowless room.

  A heavy wooden desk with much decorative scrollwork and thick, short legs carved in the shape of lions’ feet occupies most of the available space. It is a very well-made piece. The top of the desk is covered in a fine green leather. There is a large creamy blotter at the centre of the leather and a stone inkstand stabbed by long imperious quills. It is a pleasing and harmonious arrangement. That cannot be said for the figure seated behind the desk in a lovely green leather chair that neatly matches the leather of the desk. Unfeasibly, its green Encounter gown seems a little tight across the abdomen, and the gown is heavily stained by what I imagine to be assorted liquid refreshment and food spills. It is also covered in odd, gold symbols that my boxes do not recognise. How its gown came to be so stained, when I can see no obvious opening by which the occupant might be able to take its repast, is a mystery. The embroidery on the gown reads Marlon. He nods, which I assume is to acknowledge my arrival, and then gestures towards a rough wooden crate on my side of the desk. I welcome any opportunity to rest, and so do not complain that my seating arrangements seem rather at odds with the rest of the furnishings in this small place.

  He studies my gown.

  “Seven at Two Past Five. A moment.”

  He opens a drawer and removes a single folder, which he places on the blotter, then opens it and carefully examines a page of close printing.

  “I see that you wish to apply for a loan.”

  “I am sorry to say that you are mistaken, sir. I have made no such application. My priorities and interests relate to an appeal against unjust Judgements.”

  “Isn’t that a crime, to suggest that a Judgement is unjust?” says Marlon. “Never mind. That’s none of my business. Your application tallies with your statement, and there’s no mistake. Your appeals process administrator, Zero, has applied for a loan on your behalf to fund your appeal.”

  “Really? I apologise. I was unaware of this matter from two perspectives: one, that an appeal incurred a cost and, two, that Zero had taken it upon himself to apply for a loan without prior consultation with myself.”

  “Nonetheless, you can’t appeal without adequate funds.”

  “If that is indeed the case, then it seems I must apply for a loan. I must advise you, sir, that I am unfamiliar with all practical matters monetary, though my boxes have supplied the theory.”

  “Excellent. You’re just the type of slightly barmy client we prefer. What collateral will you be pledging?”

  “I assume, by collateral, you are referring to something of value which I might deposit in return for the loan?”

  “If words were collateral, Seven at Two past Five, you would have an overabundance.”

  “The only items of value in my possession – indeed, my only possessions – are the contents of bunk-bed-coffin number Seven and my workhouse, also number Seven.”

  Marlon turns to other pages in the folder before him, studies them for a while and then sighs in a way that does not fill me with optimism. “Unfortunately, the value of your possessions is not sufficient for the size of loan Zero has requested.”

  How discouraging to have come so far and then to fail on such a trivial matter as having insufficient funds to pay for an appeal. “Is there no other way in which I might be granted a loan? I would be happy to make buttons to secure a loan.”

  “Pay with buttons? What a novel concept. The wretches down below accept that currency. Not up here, dear. Besides, you are barred from button-making until the Terrors return or your appeal is successful, and, even then, there is the matter of your sentence for the many Judgements you have incurred. I fear your button-making days may be over.”

  My breathing turns ragged, and I can feel my scalp tighten and dampen. “Please, is there no other way?”

  He raises one hand to his chin and strokes it slowly. With the other, he rubs his belly with a gentle circular motion. After what seems to be minutes, but I know to be seconds, he delivers his verdict. “I could carry out a wealth assessment. You may have wealth potential. There is, of course, a fee, which might be met by pledging the contents of your workhouse.”

  “All of my tools, my bench, my stool?”

  “And your yellow-flower chamber pot.”

  “How shall I make my buttons?”

  “If no new assets are identified, then your button-making days will be at an end.”

  “That would be unacceptable, intolerable. I cannot envisage such a situation. Please, sir, is there no other way?”

  “Consider the consequences if you cannot pay for an appeal.”

  Despite my best intentions, I cannot hold back the tears. My heart is ripped with grief. I am so distraught that I lay my head on
my forearm, which rests on the desk, and sob loudly.

  “Madam, you will incur a Judgement of Malicious Vandalism if you don’t stop your tears falling on my desk.”

  Marlon is no better than Mary-of-the-Zips. He is a bullying, insensitive monster, and his threats cannot be tolerated. I raise my head and bang a fist on his desk. “How dare you threaten to steal the contents of my workhouse, deny me the ability to craft buttons and threaten me with such an obviously spurious Judgement? I insist that you provide me with the loan as requested and without delay.”

  The startled Marlon rears back in obvious shock at my outburst.

  “Madam, please, I’m simply following due process.”

  “The Terror will never return if you deny me, and you will bear the consequences.”

  The threat is meaningless, even to me, but it is the only one I can conjure in the moment. He clutches at his face, and I detect a tremble in his midriff that radiates out across his body in every direction, as though something has erupted there. Have I alarmed Marlon?

  “Please, madam, there is no need for … unpleasantness. Really, I am sure we can reach an accommodation, though there are rules that I cannot break.”

  I could well understand that he may be bound by rituals. “My needs are clear, Marlon. Please propose an acceptable solution that does not threaten my very reason for existing.”

  “Madam, I cannot authorise a loan without a positive wealth assessment. If you’ll pledge a thousand buttons, I’ll carry out the assessment, though I can’t guarantee the outcome.”

  “I am more than agreeable to your proposal. Please explain exactly what a wealth assessment is.”

  “A wealth assessment is designed to analyse and assess the existing and potential strengths and assets residing in individuals, and to recognise where internal and external barriers exist. I will then identify learning needs, options for action and opportunities for collaboration and partnership, all within the context of an individual’s needs, aspirations, capabilities and skills, as well as organisational purpose. In the final stage of the wealth assessment, I will propose individual learning, exploitation and leverage plans. These are grounded in explorations of new approaches, skills and mindsets which consolidate strengths and enhance or develop capabilities.”

  “I find your explanation to be a meaningless arrangement of words and, therefore, unintelligible.”

  “That’s one of the method’s great strengths.”

  “Exactly how is the assessment to be carried out, and, very importantly, will it take long?”

  “We employ the very latest multi-dimensional, pressure-sensitive, digit- and palm-analysis methodologies. While it would be impossible to say exactly how long a thorough assessment might take, it is usually between three and five seconds.”

  “And when this process is complete, shall I then be eligible for the loan that I require to pursue my appeal?”

  “If your wealth potential exceeds your liabilities by a sufficient margin, bearing in mind that you’re already in debt to the value of a thousand buttons.”

  “Please proceed as quickly as you can. Your explanations and elaborations are becoming increasingly meaningless and confuse rather than illuminate my circumstances.”

  “I’m pleased to hear that. Now, if you’ll give me a moment, I’ll assemble the necessary equipment.”

  He places a long, badly-made wooden box on one side of his desk. It has an open face displaying a row of many small cogs, each edged with the digit zero. At the centre of the desk, he sets a battered tin globe, supported on a pencil attached to wooden block. He then arranges a net of frayed wires dotted with tiny multi-coloured lightbulbs over his hood. Carefully, he connects one wire from the net of bulbs to the base of the tin ball and runs a separate wire from the ball to the wooden box with its row of zeroes. The whole contraption is unconvincing. It resembles something a journeyman of little skill might have constructed rather than a serious instrument of measurement.

  Marlon rests his hand on the globe and utters the words, “Testing! Money, money, money!”

  To my surprise, the little lights adorning his hood flicker and glow for a second.

  “We are ready. Before we begin, a little administration. What is your date of birth?”

  I find the question unsettling. My boxes refuse to open. The Glass Box of coloured smoke flashes brightly but is otherwise uncommunicative. I am unwilling to consult the Black memory box. “I do not know.”

  “Really? Don’t you know how old you are?”

  The answer comes to mind immediately. “I do. I am very old.”

  “That’s a rather imprecise answer. I shall assume you’re old enough. Now, please stand. Good. At the appropriate moment, place your hand on the wealth-o-meter,” he explains, pointing at the tin ball. “If any wealth is detected, the wealth-o-matic-enumerator” – he indicates the long wooden instrument – “will indicate the quantity. Please do not place your hand on the wealth-o-meter till my expertise-elaborator is fully engaged, as indicated by a steady pulsing.” Marlon places his fingers on the temples of his hood and whispers, “Money, money, money!”

  After a moment, the little lights that cover his hood do indeed start to pulse rhythmically. He looks quite absurd. I giggle quietly. Remembering my situation and my instructions, I place my gloved hand on the globe. There is an enormous bang, and a cloud of white smoke fills the room. I can see little, though I can clearly hear Marlon squealing loudly, and then there is much crashing and bashing followed by loud coughing. I fall onto my seat and lower my head to escape the worst of the smoke’s suffocating effects. My heart is galloping. I lift my head as the billows steadily rise and then disappear altogether through a previously unnoticed grill in the roof. Marlon appears out of the thinning smoke. This time, despite a nervous tremble, I cannot supress a giggle. His net has caught fire and severely singed his hood. All that remains are a few tangled wires hanging around his neck. His gown is covered in shiny splinters, which I assume are the remnants of the many tiny bulbs. Threads of white vapour rise from his gently smouldering hood like the escaping ghosts of little snakes.

  “What have you done to my wealth-o-meter? And my beautiful desk?” Marlon wails.

  I am unaware of having done anything, although where there had once been a tin ball, there is only a puddle of metal, which is scorching his lovely desk.

  “I demand compensation. You will be bankrupted. A loan is completely out of the question.”

  I now regret succumbing and laughing at Marlon. My heart and lungs judder wildly. “What of my wealth assessment? You have not yet disclosed the results.”

  “Are you mad? You are clearly incompatible with our systems. Get out!”

  “What of the numbers displayed on your wooden instrument? Are they not of consequence?”

  Marlon turns his attention to the smouldering wooden contraption, which, nevertheless, displays a series of clearly legible digits. “That’s … it can’t. Who are you? Really?”

  “I am Seven at Two Past Five, more correctly known as Abi.”

  “Your wealth potential is beyond reckoning; you have overloaded my wealth-o-matic-enumerator. How is that possible?”

  “I am unfamiliar with all and any of these matters and can offer you no explanation other than that your machinery is poorly made and is likely prone to failure. I am, of course, delighted that my loan application will be approved.”

  Marlon does not appear to be listening. He is holding up a long, narrow strip of paper that his wooden box has extruded. It is punctured with many little holes. He passes the strip between the fingers of his hands and is holding it up to the light to scrutinise the perforations.

  “Sir, my appeal is a very urgent matter. Can you please confirm that my loan has been granted?”

  “It’s impossible to believe and yet my instruments are never wrong.” The bemused man, bedecked with the white paper strip and still lightly smoking, slumps into his seat and falls silent.

  “Plea
se, sir, can you elaborate? I am somewhat confused and anxious to avoid any unnecessary delay.”

  My question appears to bring him back to his senses. He leans forward and peers at me intently through the scorched gauze of his hood. “You are an exceptionally selfish and monstrously greedy individual – normally our ideal type of customer. But you, madam, exceed all bounds of acceptable behaviour.”

  “I am? I do?”

  “You must be aware that your Terrors are an artform adored and venerated by the multitudes. The Terrors have enormous value. By wilfully withholding them, their value increases immeasurably. But at what cost to your admirers who suffer their absence terribly?”

  “Art? My Terrors?”

  “Of course, you shall have your loan, and Zero will be informed. However, you shall also have your much-deserved Judgements: Withholding Gratification and Excessive Wealth.”

  “Selfish and greedy?”

  “Your lack of compassion towards your faithful investors is … offensive. Get out!”

  In a daze, I do as I am commanded and unsteadily exit Marlon’s office. The new Judgements seem incidental and inconsequential compared to the assault on my character. If I am the uncaring monster that Marlon and the Marys assert, then maybe I do not deserve an appeal. Perhaps I only deserve to be buried alive and my workhouse burned.

  Outside, the hall is empty and the shutters are down. I have so many questions about the Terrors, the Judgements, my world and all the mad and hateful individuals who have come to disparage and denigrate me. Only Zero’s messenger has shown me the smallest of kindnesses. I can only hope that Zero himself is equally compassionate and can explain the truth of my circumstances.