by Tara Basi
Mary, again, indulges in a long, theatrical pause. “And then …”
There is the sound of a collective intake of breath, which I find very irritating.
“Tiddly Widdly goes on the rampage. Nothing can stop it because it has Kitty Litter Woman’s superpowers. The city is devastated. There are entrails hanging from every lamppost.”
Grunge calls out, “That’s horrible!”
With a balled fist, I bang Grunge on the head.
“Ouch!” he says and rubs his scalp. At least he looks at me, but only to shrug his shoulders, and then his attention is again fixed on the Marys.
The rest of the audience is, stupidly, as perturbed as Grunge. They are groaning and clutching at their heads and stomachs. Some flinch and gurgle. One of the barristers makes a loud, retching noise. If he has vomited, then it would be exceedingly unpleasant to be trapped inside his Encounter gown.
“Shut up, the lot of you!” Mary B yells as she comes to stand over Mary C and places a foot on her throat. “The end.”
The Marys curtsy.
Thank goodness their tedious story is over. The barristers, Grunge and, to my great annoyance, Zero erupt in thunderous applause.
After a while, when the cheering, clapping and whistling has died down, a barrister asks Mary J, “And what is the lesson of this story?”
It’s a good question. If she is to waste my precious time, I should like to understand why.
Mary J turns and points at me. “She is the lesson. She is Tiddly Widdly – the Kitty Litter Woman-entrapping mountain lion – and she’s going to devour you all!”
I try to protest, but before a sound has left my throat, the barristers are off and chaotically wheeling around the room. They scatter tables and stools in all directions, while wailing and wittering nonsensically. They appear to have lost all reason. The Marys chase after the barristers. The whole unseemly, black-gowned rabble resembles nothing more than a swarm of panicking bats disturbed by a predator. I gulp. The analogy unsettles me. They believe that I am that predator. The only ones who seem to be moving with any purpose are the Marys. I can see now that they are herding the stricken barristers towards the door.
The Marys and the barristers scream as they close on the exit: “We’ll not be cat food!” and “We must save Kitty Litter Woman!” and, stupidest of all, “Death to Tiddly Widdly!” With a great final effort, the Marys link hands and, with outstretched arms, corral the barristers, and together the whole mad flock disappears through the doors.
I cannot move. My mouth hangs open, and my arms dangle limply at my side. The hall is empty except for myself, Zero and Grunge. There is a terrible silence. It does not last for very long. A horrible squealing starts up. Without paying any great attention, I see Grunge is trundling between the overturned tables, collecting the barrister’s cards. He soon returns, holding them up.
“Got your scores,” he says. “Seems they all wanted to shag you. That’s something.”
I am a little annoyed with Zero. He seems to have enjoyed the absurd Mary pantomime.
“Why didn’t you protest or try to stop the Marys?”
“Yeah! Bummer! Sorry, Ma. Got sort of caught up in the story. Poor Tiddly Widdly. Poor Kitty Litter Woman. Oh, and the lovely family.”
I stamp on his foot.
“Ouch!” Zero turns to Grunge. “Hey, my man, you know, like, what now?”
“It’s over. They’ll spread the news. No one’s going to want to represent someone who’s likely to eat them.”
Grunge’s words bring me back to my situation. “No, I won’t accept that. You did not flee. There must be a barrister who will see through this idiocy and help. Really, Grunge, do I seem to you to be a person who has a desire to eat another?”
Grunge hangs his head. “You don’t. You seem nice. Still, it’s over.”
Zero steps forward, kneels and puts a friendly arm around Grunge’s shoulder. “Hey, man, like, together we’ll never be saying never. You’ve got a plan, right?”
To my dismay, Grunge starts to shake his hanging head and then, in mid-shake, his head becomes static. “Maybe.”
“Maybe, man? Now you’re talking, man. We, like, dig maybe, man. We, like, love the maybes. Let’s do that maybe dance, man.”
“You won’t like it.”
“Sure, we will, man. Sure, we will. Where to, man?”
“Don’t thank me yet, boy. Where we’re going ain’t for everybody, especially undecided types like her. You’ve been warned.”
I do not want to be too hopeful, but the alternative is not to hope at all, and so I will try. “Thank you, Grunge, for your maybe.”
Grunge grunts then applies his blocks and away he rolls. Zero and I follow. As the way ahead darkens, so does my mood. The burdensome sack is back and filled with broken glass. A bitterness coats my tongue. My lungs are racing, though we are moving sedately. My brow turns cold and damp. Something worrisome lies ahead. I feel as brittle as the imagined shards of glass raking my back. I will be strong, at least until I snap.
Chapter Eleven – Confessional
Grunge drags us down soiled walkways. They have slippery and sticky paving and ripe and thick air. Few flames light the path. The walls whisper. We are not welcome. Black eyes watch from the darkness. My solicitor’s blocks clump. His wheels squeal. Our way squeezes in. Grunge is a shadow ahead. Zero is a ghost behind. And I am the shade in between.
“Grunge, where are we going? Will it be far? I do not like this dreadful place.”
Wispy Grunge does not answer; he snorts and trundles on.
Zero rests a gloved hand on my gowned shoulder and, even through these cotton barriers, his warmth soothes my tension. “Got to have a barrister, Ma.”
Zero is right. My fear matters not. We have come far. We have far to go. We can go no other way. The little light we had is exhausted. Darkness buries us and my eyes capitulate. I follow Grunge’s thumps and squeaks. His percussive and shrill clatter leads us on into the blackness. With my hands, I see. My fingers trace the greasy wall. They find air, an opening, a new branch in the hidden path. Grunge has turned. I follow and pull Zero after.
There is a sound: harmonious and soft. Someone is humming, low and slow from out of the darkness. I recognise the seductive voice of my mysterious serenader. She has followed me to the Inns of Court. Her inscrutable words might be important. Thankfully, Grunge’s wheels have fallen silent. I listen carefully, hoping that, this time, I might discover some meaning.
Do you, don’t you want a tribulation,
I’m ready for my coming, but you keep me waiting,
Tell me, tell me, tell me, come on tell me the answer,
Well you may be a Judger, but there ain’t no Rapture,
Look out eschatology, eschatology,
Eschatology, ooh,
Silence falls like a felled tree. She is gone.
“Zero, did you hear? What does it mean?”
“What, Ma? Did you say something, Ma?”
“The song, Zero – didn’t you hear the song?”
“Sorry, Ma. Like, I didn’t hear anything except for Grunge’s wheels.”
His horrible screech is undiminished. I only imagined a quiet Grunge and a song? Real and unreal have become muddled. Sightlessly, I trudge on.
At first, there is only more nothing. Then, there is something: an orange ball, orange-sized, hanging in the dark, blurry and indistinct, growing bigger as we close in until I am standing underneath the glowing globe. Now it is melon-sized, flecked with muck and hanging over a tortured door. Grunge tortures it some more. He beats it with his block. A slot opens. A slot shuts. The door surrenders. In Grunge goes, accompanied by a cacophony of wheel squeaks and trolley creaks. An unsavoury atmosphere escapes through the open door and poisons me with dread. I have grown roots and cannot move.
Zero whispers, soothingly, “It’ll be okay, Ma. We have to follow Grunge.”
I turn away from the threshold and push past Zero, driven by a wild fear tha
t urges me to flee. He catches my arm and turns me to face him. He is brightly illuminated by the orange ball, which hangs just beyond his hood’s pointed tip. His head is framed against a bright circle of flaming light. Zero’s appearance reminds me of the figures in the portrait of the dour people on the big boat with the many animals that Priest had shown me. It is not a good omen.
“Zero, this is not a place for me. I feel a great fear.”
Tenderly, Zero puts his arms around me and draws me to his chest. “Ma, we can go back if you want. But to appeal, we have to go on.”
His strong arms and the steady beat of his heart are more comforting than his words. It is enough. Tapping my forehead lightly against Zero’s chest, I nod my agreement. With Zero at my back, I cross over and enter whatever place this is that Grunge has brought us to.
Gloom replaces darkness, revealing nothing that is distinct. Little candles, sparsely placed, shed little light. Grunge’s crying castors are the only sound, and those reverberations are quickly dampened by a low smoke-stained roof of knotted wood. The floor is the same and so, I suspect, are the shadow-cloaked sides. The flickering candlelight suggests unlit compartments with benches lining the walls. I sense unseen eyes watching us from the shadows. Gaseous shapes slide deeper into darker realms at the back of the booths. The unnatural movements are unsettling, and I feel a slow panic crawling up my spine.
“That you, Grunge? Why you all Pointy? Who are they?”
The rough voice, surprisingly un-muffled, is coming from an unseen speaker hidden away in one of the cubicles.
Grunge answers without stopping, “Ain’t no social call; this is legalising business.”
A different and displeased voice of equal clarity shouts out, “Legalising or not, shouldn’t be bringing no Pointy people here.”
From the other side of the room: “Why ain’t you out Indulging like you’re supposed to be?”
These outbursts are accompanied by many murmured yeahs and whispers of “Pointlessness rules”. They rumble around the room like the noise of a box of buttons falling from my bench.
Grunge clatters to a halt. “Won’t tell you again. I’m legalising with a client, and I’ve got Judgements aplenty for anyone that interferes with an officer of the court.”
The room falls silent, and Grunge immediately shatters it by striking out with his blocks and spinning his greaseless wheels.
Zero and I follow Grunge. A counter with stools emerges from the fog. Grunge bangs the counter front with a block. The sound is harsh, shocking, and echoes with disquiet. An unhurried figure comes. Its outline, at first, is barely visible. Then I see what is coming, and I know the true horror of this place, and it is unbearable. I bite my fist through my hood. Almost toppling, I twist away and lurch towards the door. My mind seeks to escape more quickly than my stiff body can accommodate. Grunge catches my gown. Zero catches my arm, and, together, they haul me back. My struggles are ineffectual. My gut is in my throat. My thoughts will not settle; they spin in fear and only demand that I take flight. I tug and pull, strain and twist, yet Zero and Grunge easily hold me fast. With low moans, I wordlessly plead.
Grunge is unapologetic: “I said you wouldn’t like it.”
I fall to my knees and encase my head in my arms. I am too afraid to look up. “This is a monstrous place.”
“Ma, chill, it’s alright. You’re safe.”
Zero does not understand. “My gown! My gown! I cannot be de-gowned. My very reason will leave me, Zero. It will desert me.”
Zero kneels and touches my cheek. “Ma, you can keep your gown.”
All of the day’s macabre and senseless occurrences are suddenly weighing upon me like a forest of bunk-bed-towers planted on my back.
“It is not enough, Zero. I cannot face an un-gowned. Behind this gown, and seeing only others who are gowned, I can imagine that none of this is real. I can believe that it is only a daydream, a temporary hysteria brought on by a passing sickness. Without gowns, it will all become too shockingly actual. I could not bear it, Zero. I will shatter.”
“Ma, keep your eyes closed. Hold my hand.”
I snatch his with both of mine, shut my eyes and crease my brow.
Grunge greets someone. “Barkeep!”
A new voice: “That you, Grunge, under the Pointy?”
“Course it is. Who else you know got blocks and wheels for legs? Damn fool!”
“What you want? You know the rules: we don’t serve Pointy; don’t matter who’s underneath.”
“Ain’t here for the beer. Tell the barrister that Grunge has a client for a confessional.”
“You sure about that, Grunge? Barrister don’t like clients. Remember last time?”
“Never mind all that. This is different. Get the barrister.”
“Okay, Grunge, but you’re cleaning up the confessional if it all kicks off.”
I am shaking as I listen to the bizarre conversation between Grunge and the barkeep. My potential barrister sounds most dangerous. As the barkeep’s footsteps fade away, Zero helps me to my feet.
“I’ll lead, Ma. Which way, Grunge?”
“Follow the bar to the end; there’s a small door. That’s the confessional.”
“Grunge, I cannot, not if the barrister is un-gowned.”
Grunge is stark. “The barrister will be in a Pointy. Rules of the confessional. That’s the least of your worries, old woman. No barrister, no appeal, and you’ll be nailed up. Don’t rabbit on; be brief. You’ve been warned.”
I hear the footsteps of the returning barkeep. My barrister has been summoned. With my head bowed and eyes closed, I let Zero lead me on. Behind me, Grunge resumes his conversation with the barkeep.
“Well, you got my buttons?” Grunge asks.
“Yeah.” I hear the barkeep slap what sounds like a large cloth bag filled with buttons onto the counter.
“And the list?”
There is the rustle of a sheet of paper. Then, in a low whisper, “Some beginning to think you’re not delivering, Grunge. They’re losing faith.”
“Ain’t that exactly why they’re here? Tell ’em to buck up. No buttons, no Indulgences.”
Their words fly past me with as much meaning as a gust of wind. My heart is cold and my legs are leaden. After a long, dreadful walk of so few steps, I hear Zero open a door, and then he carefully guides me into a small space. My foot catches something. I reach out with my hand. There is a stool at my feet. I sit.
“Ma, I’ll be right outside.”
The door closes. I squint. It seems safe, so I open my eyes wide and find I am in an oblong, wooden cubicle, smaller than an upright bunk-bed-coffin. To my right there is an opening covered over with a tight lattice of thin wooden strips that it is impossible to see past with any clarity. To my left is the door through which I entered. On a shelf beneath the latticework there is a single candle. Ahead and behind are only bare boards, stained dark with age and burning wick.
A door opens. I jerk back, struck rigid with fear. Thankfully, it is not my door. I release a breath only to suck it back down. Behind the lattice, a shadow moves, a stool scrapes and my candle shivers.
A breathless question escapes my lips: “Barrister?”
There is only a breathless answer. A faint shadow nods beyond the wooden curtain.
My careening thoughts refuse to be wrestled into submission, and I am unable to phrase sensible, practical questions. I remember Grunge’s advice on how to converse with the barrister. I shall speak plainly and from the heart. All I can do is confess my needs like a child. The words escape my mouth, unfiltered and with little control: “I am Abi. I am proud. I am judged. I will appeal the unjust Judgements. I am old and a button maker. Nothing more. To say otherwise is unjust. Marys hound me. Many accuse me, many judge me and many persecute me. This, too, is unjust. I implore you: aid me. Aid me. Aid me. That would be just.”
Silence. Silence. Silence. Only silence. Is there anyone there beyond the woven wood? Did I only imagine the shadow da
nce and the sounds of a door being opened and closed and of a stool being sat on? Was it only an echo of my own actions?
“Tell me more,” the barrister says.
My stool legs scratch the wooden floor as I pull back. The silence is broken, and it is both a relief and frightening. “More?” What more? How more?”
“Your real name would be a good start.”
Does the barrister require my justice name? I will not be labelled with numbers like a quantity or a thing. “It is not Seven at Two Past Five, if that’s what you mean. It is not.”
“Seven is a number, a cursed number, not a name. Tell me your name.”
The answer elicits conflicting emotions. I am most pleased that someone in the justice system has finally admitted that my workhouse and bunk-bed-coffin number is not my name. Less pleasing is the allegation that my numbers are cursed. The voice of the barrister is pitiless, and their obsession with my name confusing.
“Abi, as I have said. Abi is my name.”
“No, your real name.”
My interrogator is unrelenting. I plead for understanding. “It is Abi. Only Abi. It has always been Abi.”
“A contraction for …?”
Such obstinacy. “Please, it is only Abi. There is no more.”
“Abigail? Abrielle? Abriella?”
I am un-believed. I must insist on the truth of the matter. “Abi! Abi! Abi!”
“Abilee? Abrianna? Abianna?”
Angrily, I assert that I am, “Abi! Abi! Abi!”
Silence returns. I strain my eyes and catch only a movement of darkness on darkness. The criss-crosses hide everything. Who or what is there behind them? So silent. So cold. So hungry for a name.
“Abi is not your real name.”
The torn quiet shocks me back into the moment, and I rebel. “I am Abi!”
“Abi is powerless.”
The barrister’s verdict is delivered in a whisper, yet it assaults me like a curse bellowed in my ear. It is true. I feel it all too well. “Then, aid me.”
