Seven at Two Past Five

by Tara Basi

  “What will you give me?”

  My barrister is demanding, and yet I have nothing. Nothing at all. Soon it might be less. “Buttons? Whatever I can.”

  The response is unexpected and confusing. “My name is lost. I am lost as you are lost.” The hidden voice has softened.

  “Your name is lost?”

  “Together. Will names be found? Our names?”

  And, all at once, our positions are reversed. It is the barrister who is angry and pleading. I shall wear Zero’s optimism like an over-gown. “We will. Together. We will.”

  “If not. No names. No justice.” The barrister’s reply is delivered like a Judgment: harsh and final. So be it. If I have another name, a true name, then it will come to me. Then I remember what the doctor revealed to me, in her madness, that I am imaginary. If she is right, then my true name might only be known to my real self.

  “Am I real?”

  A low laugh. Short and sharp. “Much too real for the Marys.”

  It is a reassuring answer. I like this barrister, and I am curious about their circumstances. “How was your name lost?”

  “This place steals names.”

  “The Inns of Court?”

  “All of it.”

  I am unsure what the barrister refers to, but I have another question: “Why would our names be stolen?”

  “So that we sleep quietly.”

  “Sleep?”

  “Enough! It’s time.”

  I am disappointed that I have not been able to learn more, but there might still be a positive conclusion to this confessional. “Are we then Hitched?”

  “Meet me by the bat man.”

  A familiar rustle of thick cotton and the fall of cane hoops alert me to the barrister’s standing. I hear a door opening and closing. There is a draft and my candle’s flame trembles. The barrister has gone. Keeping still and quiet on my stool, I try and recall what was said and wonder if I have truly found my barrister.

  Tick.

  I must move on, though I am dreading leaving the security of this box for the infectious depravity that lies outside. First, I shut my eyes tightly and knock gently on the door. I only wish to attract Zero’s attention.

  It creaks open, and I feel Zero’s hand take mine. With my eyes still firmly closed, Zero helps me up and out of the box. Grunge’s sour tune leads the way and we follow. Low disapproving murmurs envelope our party, but no voices or hands are raised against us. I only open my eyes again when I feel the change in atmosphere and hear the tortured door close behind me. I rest against Zero under the dirty orange ball.

  “Ma, what happened?”

  My recall is disjointed. “I am unsure, Zero. Our conversation was not what I had expected of barristers, given my lamentable experiences with the previous ten. This one seemed sensible, except …”

  “Except, Ma?”

  “The barrister was obsessed with my name, my true name, and their own.”

  “Ma, hopefully, it won’t come to that.”

  “Whatever do you mean, Zero?”

  Before Zero can answer, Grunge intervenes: “You two gonna gas all day? Are we Hitched or not?”

  “I am unsure, Grunge, but the barrister is waiting for us by the bat man.”

  “Cool, Ma.”

  Grunge shakes his head. “You’re lucky; that barrister’s never got Hitched to no one. And, believe me, lots have tried.”

  “Then we are most fortunate and I am very pleased. Thank you, Grunge.”

  Grunge is unconvinced. “Not over yet. I smell more.”

  “More?” Zero and I ask in unison.

  “Until there isn’t, there’s always more.”

  Tick.

  It is four past five. Little time left for more. But, before we depart, I would like to know something of where we have been. “Grunge, what is this unsavoury den?”

  “Nothing wrong with the Theosis Tavern. I like it. Them as can’t leave, less so.”

  I take a deep breath. “Why can’t they leave? Why did the barkeep give you buttons?”

  “They’re a venal lot; can’t move on till they’re fired up. I’m sort of speeding things along, placebo style, with a bit of paid-for Indulgences.”

  “Not cool, man. You know it’s not right what you’re doing,” Zero says.

  “That’s why it’s called a placebo, boy.”

  “Grunge, what are you talking about?” I say. “How is what you do a placebo?”

  “It’s the old temporal Theosis Tavern time.”

  “Grunge, for goodness sake, can you never speak plainly?”

  “Can’t be explained. It’s a thing the tongue cannot express or the heart understand.”

  “Grunge! Is everything you say a riddle? It is a very tiresome method of discourse.”

  Grunge ignores my protests and sets off, squeaking with purpose but little pace. With Zero’s support, I follow.

  Chapter Twelve – Representation

  We leave behind the slippery, sticky way. Zero is whistling and is, occasionally, adding nonsensical words to a merry tune.

  “Ho no! Ho no! It’s off to court we go. Ho no! Ho no!”

  “What the hell noise are you making?” Grunge asks.

  “It’s a jolly tune, man, to, like, help us on our way.”

  “Ain’t nothing jolly or tuneful about it, big boy. If you’re asking me, I’d swallow your hood and keep your whistle dry.”

  “Zero is not asking for your opinion, Grunge, and I find it to be a pleasing counterpoint to the awful noises which emanate from your trolley.”

  Grunge only snorts, and Zero resumes his happy tooting.

  The torches and braziers are more numerous. The shadows have retreated higher up the walls. Even Grunge’s discordant progress sounds slightly less strident. I lengthen my gait, ignoring my miserable knees, complaining back and angry ankles to close on the slow-moving Grunge.

  “We must hurry, Grunge. My time is short. Can you not go faster?”

  Grunge, unhelpfully, stops abruptly and spins around, creating a particularly ear-scratching racket. Zero nearly crashes into my back.

  “Faster? Faster? My cart’s old, its wheels are worn and my hand rollers are splintered and tender,” he says, banging his blocks together, sending out a crack of noise that smacks against the walls and rattles away in all directions.

  I swallow a sigh, reach back and grab hold of a handful of buttons on Zero’s gown. With a sharp downward motion, I tear the buttons away. Zero yelps in a manner that suggests I had ripped a handful of hair from his scalp. Without speaking, I hand them to Grunge who carefully counts them out and, after a moment’s contemplation, counts them out again. He nods slowly, more to himself than to acknowledge my payment. Then he slips his hand under his gown, in a most indecorous manner, and I hear the sound of buttons clinking on porcelain. In a blink, he has turned and set off at a speed that I would have thought him incapable. It is now a great struggle to keep up with Grunge. Zero has lost his tuneful whistle and is wordlessly complaining about our pace with his laborious wheezing. I snatch a little smile of relief and anticipation in between gasps for air. The horrible, un-gowned Theosis Tavern falls further behind us, and the rendezvous with my barrister is just ahead.

  Tick.

  Every minute counts.

  My concentration has been so focused on chasing after Grunge, lest we are left behind and become lost, that we are in the open space of the bat man before I realise it. He is standing on his platform, exactly as we had left him, and is as still as if he were a statue fashioned from leather. My interest is not in him. I scan the open space for any sign of the barrister. There is none; we are alone with the bat man. All the energy that had sustained my chase of Grunge drains away as if a mighty tap had been opened. I stagger towards the platform steps and sit myself down and let my head drop into my hands. Pearls of perspiration fall from the tip of my nose and soak into the fabric of my hood. There is nothing to do but wait. It is an opportunity to rest and recover if I can be
positive, though that is difficult when I look around me. Featureless, black buildings, that might have been cut from stone with great blunt scissors, form the boundary of the space. It is all ugly angles, without any sense of form. Between the buildings, familiar, dimly lit passageways strike off in every direction. The stone sky presses down on us like a suffocating blanket of rock. The gloom makes it difficult to see any fine detail. And the awful smell of these Inns of Court can be tasted on the air. It is more congenial than the awful place we have come from, though it is an abominable habitation compared to my beloved bunk-bed-tower and workhouse.

  Grunge tugs at my hem. “I’ll tell you this plain. Don’t judge a barrister by their gown.”

  I look around expectantly. I would be most glad to see my barrister, however they may be attired, so long as they are gowned. We are still alone. “To what are you referring, Grunge?”

  “Nothing, just saying. That’s all.”

  Before I can press Grunge, I am distracted by a movement at the very edge of the restricted vision my hood allows. I turn my head as quickly as I may, ignoring stiff sinews and the grating of vertebrae on vertebrae. I only spy a hint of something: possibly the very edge of a gown hem snapping out of sight. Standing up as quickly as I can, I turn on my heels and still I cannot catch up with whatever is racing around the perimeter of the bat man’s open space.

  “Zero, Grunge, someone is here.”

  Grunge does not stir. He appears intent on studying his blocks as if he is assessing the damage caused by his earlier spurt of speed. Zero starts, as though he might have been asleep, and begins to scan the area rather lazily until something catches his eye that makes him jump.

  “Ma! Quickly, up here!” Zero catches me by the elbow and pulls me up behind him onto the bat man’s platform. The bat man does not react to our presence.

  From this vantage, I can plainly see what has startled Zero into action. Involuntarily, I clutch at my chest through my gown. The monstrous Mary M is circling us at great speed like a malignant fireball of red and pink flame. My mind is frozen in fear. The terrible woman is spiralling in towards the platform. Even if my icy limbs were thawed, she is moving too fast for us to evade and escape down an alley.

  “Zero, we must flee. A bat. The bat man must summon one immediately.”

  Before Zero can acknowledge my entreaty, Grunge shouts, “Wait! Wait!”

  Mary M has come to a billowing halt at the foot of the platform steps, though she is gently flapping her arms as though they were the means of her locomotion. Finally, her arms stop moving but remain spread out as if she is shepherding us into a pen. My insides fall away, leaving only emptiness. We cannot escape. Mary M could be upon us long before we could be harnessed and a bat summoned. I seize hold of Zero’s hand. My eyes are locked on her gaudy, zip-lacerated gown. Seemingly satisfied that we cannot escape, Mary M lowers her outstretched arms like a bird of prey settling on carrion. As she reaches for a zip at her side, I jerk back and cower behind Zero, from where I watch the evil woman. She pulls the zip down and reaches inside. A strangled squeal escapes my throat. Mary M pulls out a circular, white wig with a hole at its centre and, in a single deft motion, places it over her pointed red and pink hood.

  “You? You are to be my barrister?” My voice is high-pitched, cracked and lacking in dignity.

  “Now, don’t get all excited. Remember what I said about judging,” Grunge urges.

  Mary M keeps her silence. She reaches across her gown, opens another zip and removes a sheaf of folded paper and holds it out to Grunge. As Grunge noisily approaches Mary M, I cannot but be envious again of her zipped gown, though not the zips. Her many compartments must be very useful. Then it occurs to me that Mary M may be hiding less benign objects about her person, and I move a little further behind Zero.

  Grunge unfolds and studies the paper that Mary M has handed him. His head sweeps back and forth across the page. From the sniffling and snorting sounds Grunge is making, I surmise that he is crying. My eyes widen and my throat is filled with sand. What terrible news has Mary M brought to us? Openly sobbing, Grunge trundles to the bottom of the platform steps and waves the paper at me.

  “How could you doubt this woman?” he says.

  Mary M is too unsettling for me to approach her. I push a reluctant Zero in Grunge’s direction. Timidly, Zero descends as few steps as are necessary, stretches out a hand, snatches the note from Grunge and quickly retreats back up the steps. Zero is so nervous he keeps his gazed fixed on Mary M and forgets to pass the document to me. I prise it out of his grip and study what is written there.

  To the Concerned, Whomsoever They May Be

  Mary M used to be worse. Oh, very much worse. Many find that hard to believe. And you’re asking, since you’ve probably just met her, ‘Worse? Worse than what?’ Well, you’d know all about the what if you’d ever been trapped in a lift with Mary M and she’d smacked the emergency stop and shoved her face into yours and started screaming soul hygiene tips at you. Or if Mary M had ever dragged you down a dark alley and half beaten you to death because she was sure you were about to have a blasphemous thought. What could be worse and how was Mary M changed? Read on, if you’ve the stomach for it and a tough vacancy to fill.

  In short, she met Him. Not an ordinary guy, obviously. Before she met Him, Mary M was a degenerate whore specialising in extreme S&M. She was very popular with the people who enjoyed that sort of thing. See, already you’re thinking, ‘That is worse.’ Her clients affectionately called her Shades, after the different hues of blood splatter that regularly covered her apron. The day she met Him, she was going at it hammer and tongs, literally, with a client. And she’s thinking, ‘What a boring job, and I hope he’s not a gusher bleeder, and what’s it all for anyway – life blood, life, blood?’ Mary M is a deep thinker. Always has been.

  Mary M thought, ‘Not long now; only four toenails left.’ Immediately, you’re worried for her client, but you needn’t be. Mary M only got paid if her clients survived. She’s a professional. So, Mary M finishes off the last toenail with a bit of a flourish and gives her client an affectionate pat on the bum with a red-hot poker, which was Mary M’s trademark. In the Mary M tent, everything’s timely and always on the beat. He limps out, and the next customer arrives.

  Mary M thinks, ‘Bloody hell! It’s Him.’ And He’s in her tent, her place of business. And He’s not the usual ugly, fat slob Mary M’s used to abusing. Well, Mary M doesn’t jump Him. They have a long chat. And, by the end, Mary M is changed. How? Well, she’s mulled over what He’s told her and she’s decided He’s right; her sadistic tendencies shouldn’t be wasted on crass corporeal commercialism. So, you see, we have Him to thank for her not being worse. And before she was worse, she was the worst, but that’s another story, which shows she’s always trying to improve herself, and she’s professional and a good timekeeper and doesn’t spit, much. You won’t regret hiring her. She won’t let you.

  M.J.

  P.S. Mary M is a top barrister, so she is, and proper barrack room trained up.

  The last line is clearly written in another hand and quite recently, based on the boldness of the lettering, which stands in stark contrast to the faded text of the rest of the message. Nevertheless, all of it is nonsensical, and I fail to see what has so moved Grunge. I peek out from behind Zero to find Grunge and Mary M unmoved. I wave the paper at Grunge.

  “What is the relevance of this text? And how can Mary M be a barrister?”

  Mary M pushes Grunge over and off his trolley as she strides towards the base of the platform. A trembling Zero takes a step back, almost upending me.

  “Stuck-up cow! I was a barrister before I was your judge. Has yourself forgotten the inciting Judgement?”

  How could I forget that first Judgement of Disturbance Potential? And it is true that Mary M was the judge on that occasion.

  “Why do you wish to assist me in my appeal?”

  “Feck, woman, do you not recall the confessional already?” />
  The confessional? Could it be that the surreal conversation in the intemperate, un-gowned establishment of the orange melon was with Mary M?

  “Our true names? You seek our true names?”

  “How the feck did you get declared sane? Of course, you thick old woman.”

  I retreat behind Zero, tug at his sleeve and whisper, “Can this woman be trusted?”

  “Ma, we don’t really have a choice. Barrister-wise, she’s it. Like, the one and only.”

  “Very well.” Slowly, I step out from behind Zero, ready at any moment to retreat if Mary M should become violent and charge. “Mary M, I am, of course, very, very grateful for your assistance, and I will do everything that I can to help you find your true name, though I have a question.”

  “What a fecking surprise! What is it?”

  “Why are you separated from your sisters?”

  Mary M does not answer immediately. Instead, she reaches for a zip, and Zero and I flinch as one. She retrieves a fat brown cylinder, which my boxes refuse to name, and a book of matches. She unzips her mouth, bites the end of the cylinder in a most ferocious fashion and then spits out that which she has just bitten off. I feel quite queasy. The cylinder is reinserted into her mouth. She walks over to the still-sprawled Grunge and strikes her match on his hood. The match bursts into flame, and Grunge squeals. Mary M lights the end of the tube held tightly between her lips. There is much puffing and bellowing of quite pleasantly perfumed, white smoke that reminds me of sandalwood buttons and breakfast cinnamon buns. M removes the cylinder, now tipped with burning embers, from her mouth.

  “Firstly, we ain’t sisters, none of us. Now, that Mary J means well, but her head’s stuffed with those stupid fecking parables. She promised me, so she did, that she’d explain everything. Herself’s explained nothing. And she doesn’t know my name. Doesn’t know her own fecking name. ‘What’s the J stand for?’ I ask her, and she’s no fecking clue. Had enough of it, so I have.”