Seven at Two Past Five

by Tara Basi

  I ask Zero, “How can you find your way in such a labyrinth?”

  “Wow, Ma, another great question.”

  I am tempted to launch a verbal assault on Zero. Instead, I bite my lower lip to prevent myself from responding impetuously. Zero is walking confidently. He does not stop to consider which of the many paths that are constantly opening he should take. I must believe in him, though it is illogical.

  “There it is, Ma, the Grey Light District.”

  Zero is pointing down a branching path. Someway ahead there is some sort of crossing point where many lanes converge. Dotted around the open space are tall poles topped with grey lightbulbs weakly illuminating the scene. Leaning against the poles, or sitting on the ground, are many listless figures. They are dressed in grey Encounter gowns, which look old, tattered and much repaired, badly. I can see no embroidery. I hope they are not the solicitors we seek. Their ragged and insipid demeanour does not inspire confidence.

  “Who are they?”

  “Soliciting solicitors, Ma. Let’s go grab one.”

  We are noticed as we approach the dreadful-looking individuals. They become animated and start to call out to us, though they do not approach.

  “Fancy some conveyancing, darlings? Best conveyancing you’ll find anywhere.”

  “Listen, ducks, you’ll have the time of your death if you let me at your will.”

  “Ignore those bitches! You two look like you’re aching for some hot divorce work.”

  And so it goes on, growing louder and more aggressive as we approach. Though much of what they are saying makes little sense, I dislike their hectoring tone and unsavoury gestures.

  “Fancy some injury compensation? I’ll injure you real proper like and then I’ll sue myself. The whole deal in one neat package.”

  This is a very unpleasant place.

  “Zero, let us find the least obnoxious of these solicitors and be on our way.”

  Before Zero can answer, the three black and white Marys appear out of one passage and race across the open space, yelling all the while.

  “Flee! Run! Save yourselves! It’s her – Seven! The terrible Undoer!”

  “The merciless Purger!”

  “The selfish Ditherer!”

  “Rapture reneger!”

  “Flee, if you prefer your intestines on the inside!”

  Their Encounter gowns cling to their legs as they run and billow in their wake like great black sails. Just as suddenly as the Marys arrived, they have raced past the solicitors and vanished down another alley, still yelling, “Flee the Hell-spawn!”

  For a moment, we are all quite shocked and frozen by the unexpected intrusion. Then, as one, the solicitors thaw and begin running and stumbling headlong after the Marys. Some trip on their gowns in their eagerness to flee and fall over, but, in a flash, the fallen are back on their feet and racing away. In seconds, all of the solicitors are gone.

  “Man, that’s a bummer.”

  I surmise that what has just happened will not facilitate our search for a solicitor. “Should we not be chasing after them?”

  “Yeah! Absolutely! We could, but I don’t think they’ll be down with helping us. This is such a hassle.”

  “Surely, there must be another place solicitors congregate in this vast space.”

  “Absolutely! You’d think so, wouldn’t you?”

  “Indeed, I do think so.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “This is it: the one place. Maybe we’ll just hang out here till they come back.”

  Tick.

  I have not the time to idly wait. I catch hold of Zero’s sleeve and give it a hard tug. “There must be something we can do.”

  “Sure! There must be. Right?”

  I clap my hands to my hood and squeeze my head. This cannot be how my appeal ends. Something is tugging at my hem. I look down and step back in shock, nearly knocking Zero over.

  There is a kneeling figure in a particularly threadbare gown that appears to have more patches than original material, though it is still solicitor-grey. Its hand is outstretched in a pitiful begging manner. The gown is equipped with rag strips at the shoulders that hold the hem up off the ground. Just visible under the gown are the splintered edges of a small wooden platform mounted on castors. The person is holding a hand-sized, wooden block in its left hand, and another block is lying on the stone paving immediately to its right. The strange creature bends its back low, retrieves the second block and stretches ahead of itself with its arms. Then, with its hands, it presses the blocks to the ground and pulls itself forward. The trolley and its passenger are propelled towards me in a most unsettling and noisy manner.

  “What you looking for? Criminal? Immigration? No? Then it’s got to be apostasy, if them stuck-up Marys are involved. Am I right?”

  His rough tones and unsettling manner of locomotion are quite frightening. While I should perhaps feel some sympathy for the poor afflicted fellow, I find myself backing away from his noisy clunking and squealing wheels. Then I stop myself and take courage. “Are you a solicitor?”

  “No, I dress like this because I can’t afford Armani. Course I’m a bloody solicitor.”

  His language may be coarse, but I am relieved that we have found what we came for. “Then, we would very much like to engage your services.”

  Zero agrees. “Yeah, man. So grateful you didn’t, like, scarper with your buddies.”

  Our potential solicitor spreads his arms wide. “You idiot. Do I look like I’m built for speed? If there wasn’t a lady present, I’d run over your toes.”

  “Chill, man, it’s cool. No offence vibes, like, intended.”

  “I am Abi, and this is Zero,” I say. “How are you called?”

  “Grunge of Cringe and Grunge, though Cringe, sadly, is no longer with us.”

  “Poor Cringe. Like, what happened, man?”

  “Time’s been hard. You gotta eat, don’t we?”

  Zero makes an odd noise. I shudder and then decide I must have misunderstood. In any event, I have no desire to seek elaboration. “And what happened to you, Grunge?”

  “Mary M.”

  I am appalled. “Mary M did this to you?”

  “Yeah. We were, like, in a relationship. It was great.”

  “It was great?”

  “Oh, yeah. The best. Then she got mixed up with the wrong crowd and now she’s running with the Marys. I hate those damn, everything’s-black-and-white Marys.”

  Grunge is obviously deranged. It did, however, remind me that the dreaded Mary M, she of the zips, was not amongst the Mary pack. It makes me nervous to think she might be lying in wait for us elsewhere.

  Tick.

  My thoughts turn back to more immediate matters. “As I said, we would like to engage your services.”

  “Obviously, with them Marys involved, I’ll have to charge you extra, and I’ll be wanting salt on my sand and sugar in my seawater.”

  Grunge is obviously very, very deranged. “That will not be a problem.”

  “Yeah, man, we’re down with that.”

  Grunge nods enthusiastically. “So, what’s the beef?”

  “Well, man, it’s an appeal scene. Assistant Clerk of the Court got all the details under Seven at Two Past Five. Right now, man, we’re on the clock and need a barrister. Gotta wrap this all up before nine past nine tonight.”

  Grunge rolls away from us. “An appeal? Are you crazy? Appeals are illegal. That’s a serious crime.”

  “It’s cool, man. We’re, like, officially qualified.”

  “Really? I’ve never heard of an appeal being sanctioned.”

  “Yeah, man! Like, this is a special case. You ask my buddy, the assistant clerk of court.”

  “I will, but first I’ll need a deposit.” From under his gown, Grunge produces a cracked and chipped chamber pot with an ill-fitting lid and holds it out towards us.

  “You’re, like, joking, man, right?”

  “What? No. Buttons, ten nice
ones.”

  “Like, my word is my James and John bond, man, and her word is the word.”

  Grunge shakes his head. “Ten buttons or get yourself another solicitor. Oh look, there aren’t any.” He lifts the lid on his chamber pot and holds it out towards Zero.

  I quickly turn away, hoping not to catch sight of anything that the pot might contain. I listen as Zero struggles to loosen a button, and then there is a rip and a tinkle, then another rip and a tinkle, and then eight more before Zero has finished paying. At the sound of the last rip and tinkle, I turn back and, thankfully, Grunge has replaced his lid and is stowing his chamber pot under his gown.

  Then he says, “Take a number fifteen bat to the Pots Chambers. I’ll meet you there, if it all checks out.” He applies his blocks and trundles off with much rattling and squeaking.

  “We gotta get that dude some oil, Ma.”

  I am more interested in the Chambers and getting there. “What is this number fifteen bat that Grunge referred to?”

  “It’s like this, Ma. Inns of Court is like mind-blowingly big. No time for walking everywhere. So, we, like, take the bat.”

  “The bat?”

  “The bat. Follow me, Ma.”

  Zero leads me along more grimy alleys till we find ourselves in another open space surrounded by sharply angled, featureless buildings that seem to be leaning in accusingly. At the centre is a raised wooden platform, and standing on it is a figure in a cracked leather Encounter gown. As in the case of the solicitor, the gown has no embroidery. All around him are strange harnesses made of a similar leather. The only light is from a few torches. We climb a short flight of steps onto the platform and approach the leather-clad figure. As we draw closer, I cough and choke. The leather is giving off a particularly pungent odour that burns my nostrils.

  Zero asks, “Are you, like, the bat man, man?”

  “No, I just love the smell of bat shit.”

  “Ha ha! Yeah right, man. Cool! Yeah! We’re, like, looking for the bat fifteen trip.”

  “Regular service is every fifteen hours. Express is extra.” The leather-clad figure’s voice is as dark, cracked and dry as his gown.

  I have to ask, though I know that I shall regret it, “When exactly is the next number fifteen bat due?”

  “Fifteen hours after someone asks me that question, and you’re the first in a long time.”

  “We require an express service,” I snap, without waiting for the loquacious Zero.

  “Sure. No credit. Payment up front. Five buttons each,” he says and holds out his leather-shorn hand.

  It is as well that Zero is so generously bedecked with my buttons if this is, as it seems, the currency of the Inns of Court.

  “Really, man? Wow! That’s, like, a bit steep. I mean, like, there’s two of us. Don’t we get a discount?”

  Tick.

  I turn to Zero and rip one and then a second handful of buttons from his gown and pay the bat man. Zero clutches at his robe as though I had torn the flesh from his bones.

  “Wow! Harsh!”

  I feel somewhat guilty. Zero’s squeals express a plaintive hurt.

  “I will fashion you as many buttons as you may require when my appeal is concluded.”

  “Cool, Ma! Needs, like, must. Right?”

  The bat man bustles around, examining his harnesses, until he finds two which satisfy him. He straps Zero in first.

  “Careful of the buttons, man. Wow, man, that’s, like, way too tight. Man, I can’t breathe.”

  “You want to fall and splat or arrive intact?”

  “Tighter, man, tighter.”

  Leather man turns his attention to me.

  “Please be careful of my Encounter gown and its embroidery,” I say. “It has been with me for a very long time and I have grown rather fond of it.”

  He nods and then starts to strap me in. I hold my breath; his aroma is overpowering. Thick leather straps pass under my arms and over my shoulders. Then they are tied to similar bindings that run across my back and my chest. Suspended below my arms are two long, sturdy straps ending in loops. Following the example of Zero, I place my sandaled feet in the loops, which has the effect of pushing the bulk of my gown behind me to protrude like the black fin of some monstrous fish. I worry that, in this state, I may not be appropriately prim. Looking over at Zero, I note that I cannot see anything untoward and am reassured.

  The bat man adjusts the length of the foot straps so that there is no slack between my shoulders and my feet. Two large loops of stiff leather protrude from the tops of my shoulders and climb high above my head. He gives my harness and then Zero’s a final tug and appears satisfied that they are properly fitted.

  The bat man picks up a strange metal horn ending in bellows and works them vigorously. I am expecting to hear a loud blast of sound. Unexpectedly, the only sound I can hear is coming from my own thumping heart.

  The little light there is dims, and I feel a great downdraft buffeting my gown. With some effort, I keep my feet. Zero reaches out and takes my hand. I am reassured. Then I recall how stupid Zero can be. I fix my eyes upon the boards of the platform. I know something is coming for us. I know it cannot be a bat because the boxes are quite clear about bats. They are small, nocturnal creatures, no bigger than my hand. I cannot resist looking up, and I am speechless and breathless and my face is bloodless. The monstrous bat that is coming for us is obviously a species unknown to my boxes. They know now. The giant creature, remarkably smoothly, takes our harness loops, one in each claw, and lifts us up. I note with relief that we have taken the correct bat. A large one and five, in white, are scrawled across its enormous, hairy, black abdomen.

  We soar straight up and, in a tick, we are hurtling across the rooftops in the direction of the great pyramids. Zero is screaming and waving his arms about as though his flapping is contributing in some way to our forward propulsion. I feel remarkably calm. Since our crisis in the lift, I have become reconciled to events. Where I can, I will bend all of my might to achieving justice. Where my efforts and anxiety can make no difference, I shall be tranquil, observe and learn as much as I can of this world. Zero is obviously of a different persuasion. He has stopped flapping and is, instead, clinging to the loops of his harness very tightly and screaming a little less loudly. I find that I am smiling. It is a wonderful feeling to fly above the dismal rooftops, even if it is in the clutches of a big bat. This method of transportation is exceedingly comfortable. There are no winds to buffet us. The bat progresses smoothly, and, in our position under its thorax, we do not feel the downdraft from its giant, black wings of skin and bone. Despite our speed, it is a remarkably quiet and serene mode of locomotion. Only the rapidly approaching pyramids, which I can begin to see more clearly, give me any cause for concern. And then it occurs to me and I shriek in horror, “Zero, we must alight immediately!”

  “What, Ma? What?”

  “Stop screaming and listen to me. We must land now!”

  “Why, Ma? Why?”

  “Do you not understand? Those down below! They can see! Underneath! It is unseemly! We must land!”

  “We’re not, like, naked, Ma. It’s cool.”

  “It matters not what lies beneath an Encounter gown. This manner of transportation compromises its very purpose and upends protocol. We must alight.”

  “Wow! Yeah! Right! But, like, it’s okay, Ma. Local folks, they never look up. It’s a bat-shit thing.”

  “You are certain?”

  “Yeah, Ma.”

  Zero’s reassurance is comforting in one respect, but it opens up a new source of anxiety as I note our position under the bat. I resolve that I too will not be looking up. The joy of the journey is now lost and I am anxious for it to be over.

  A short while later, the bat engages in a downward spiral towards an open space and another wooden platform on which another leather-clad figure is standing. Our bat lowers us most carefully onto the platform and is immediately gone. A shaking Zero drops to his knees. I take a deep
breath at the approach of the leather-clad figure. He burns my nostrils as much as his colleague did. In fact, I would be very hard pressed to tell the two apart. Deftly, he removes both our harnesses.

  I ask, “Where is the Pots Chambers?”

  He points at one of the buildings bordering the space. It looks no different to the structures we left behind. It is a featureless collection of slab walls arranged at sharp angles.

  “Thank you for your help. We are most impressed with your bat mode of transportation.”

  “I prefer buses myself. Not the open tops mind. Not with all these bats flying about.”

  “Really? Should we perhaps use an omnibus the next time that we wish to travel?”

  “Buses are for legalisers and bat people. You’re a legaliser, or you got a bat, you can get the bus.”

  “Zero, my companion, is an appeals process administrator, though I myself have no connections with the justice system other than by way of unjust Judgements.”

  “Admin isn’t proper legalising. Doesn’t qualify.”

  I remember that Zero’s gown is still covered in a very large number of buttons. “Are bats very expensive?”

  “You can’t buy a bat. They choose you.”

  “And how does a bat choose one?”

  “They drop an enormous amount of shit on you.”

  An image forms in my mind, inciting a whole-body tremble and a stomach burble. “I believe that the bat mode of transportation will perfectly meet our needs for the remainder of the day. Goodbye and thank you.”