Seven at Two Past Five

by Tara Basi

I come out from behind Zero. “In this, we are as one. I too am searching for logical and well-articulated answers that, above all, do not require the use of the word ‘imagine’.”

  “Skip the gabbling. There’s legalising to be done. Grunge, are we fecked or are we fecked?”

  Grunge has, by now, righted himself, mounted his cart and drawn up next to Mary M. He is holding out one of his blocks. “Will you … once? For old times’ sake?”

  “Feck’s sake! Give it here.” Mary M snatches the block out of Grunge’s hand and delivers a mighty blow to his head, sending the wretch sprawling again. The terrible act of violence has taken me completely unawares. Zero and I clutch hold of each other, unable to speak or move. I fear that Grunge must be dead. He lies akimbo. His cart rests on one edge with two of its wheels still spinning and squealing as though in memoriam. I cannot stand idly by; I must try and assist Grunge, though I fear I am already too late. Before I can take a step, Grunge stirs. The dazed solicitor drags himself unsteadily towards his trolley, sets it aright and laboriously clambers aboard. Mary M, not the least concerned about Grunge’s wellbeing, drops the block she is still holding onto Grunge’s head. There is a dull thud, followed by a yelp and a giggle from Grunge, as he deftly catches the block as it bounces off his skull.

  Swaying gently, Grunge speaks: “Oh, Mary, those lovely tent memories are flooding back. Thank you.”

  “Ten buttons, Grunge, and be quick about it.”

  Disturbingly, Grunge reaches under his gown and removes his chamber pot. He lifts the lid, picks out ten buttons and hands them to Mary M, who promptly slips them into one of her many zipped compartments.

  “Grunge, you fecking eejit, I’m still waiting for the legalising situation report.”

  “Punish me, Mary M, punish me!”

  “There’ll be no more punishing till we’re done with all this legalising.”

  It seems Grunge must have visited Mary M when she was worse and plied her trade in a tent. Was Grunge the ‘Him’ mentioned in the message? I feel it unlikely. At least Mary M is focused on my appeal.

  “Mary M, the lodgement and your monetary fees have been filed with the court. I have received the document of commencement, and the pre-hearing is scheduled for seven past five this very day. Witnesses of character and witnesses of expertise are yet to be found. A skeleton argument must be submitted by six past six. The first-tier tribunal is scheduled to consider our appeal at precisely seven o’clock this very evening.”

  How surprising. Little of what Grunge has said is intelligible, though it all sounds positive and, dare I think it, professional. Only the late timing of my first appeal is cause for concern. It is only a little over three hours before my nailing up is due to be carried out. Many matters related to Grunge and Mary M’s exchanges puzzle me greatly. It is difficult to know where I should begin my interrogation.

  “What witnesses? How can there possibly be witnesses? And these experts; what are they expert in?”

  Grunge and Mary M ignore my questions and continue with their own conversation, which is extremely rude of them.

  “Good job, Grunge. We’ll attend the pre-hearing, and then you shall secure witnesses while I prepare the skeleton. To the buses and bats! There’s no time to waste.”

  “In this last matter, I wholeheartedly agree, but I have understood nothing of what you have said. What, for example, does a skeleton have to do with my appeal?”

  Grunge urgently tugs at my gown. “You mustn’t ask questions. It’s not polite. We are the experts. Your case is in hand. And, whatever happens, we shall be paid. What else is there to know? Now, to the bat with you or you’ll be late for your own pre-hearing.”

  Mary M is already dashing away and heading for one of the many passages that lead from the space we are in. Grunge turns away to follow her before I can protest, and I have very much to protest about.

  Zero, fortunately, has the presence of mind to ask the most pressing question: “Hey, man, where are we going?”

  Mary M stops dead in her tracks and turns back to stare at Zero. “That voice is very familiar. Who the feck are you?”

  “Nobody really. Just an appeals process administrator and a … McKenzie friend.”

  “McKenzie friend, he says. Think you’re a right smarty pants, do you? Well you’ll know the rules, then, so don’t feck it up.”

  Zero nods.

  Mary M resumes her flight away.

  “Grunge!” I shout. “You have not told us where we’re going?”

  Grunge doesn’t stop; he only yells, “House of Pointlessness, the Doomed-Pre-Hearings wing, Sphincter Court.”

  The name does not inspire confidence, though nothing has on this long day, with the possible exception of Zero.

  “I must ask you, Zero, what is a McKenzie friend?”

  Zero shrugs. “It’s just a fancy legal name for a cool buddy who can sit by your side in court and hold your hand, when needed.”

  “I have no doubt it shall be needed, Zero. I am very pleased that you shall be my McKenzie. Let us to the bat. We cannot be late.”

  Feeling somewhat stupid, I tell the bat man our destination.

  “Daft old woman, that’s like a pig asking for a lift to the barbeque. Why’d you want to go there?”

  “I must. I am appealing.”

  “It’s your barbeque. You can fry if you want to. Ten buttons each.”

  Zero immediately wraps his arms tightly around his gown. “Hey, man, why so much?”

  “Bats don’t like going there.”

  “Why, man?”

  “Bats ain’t stupid. Have to get it drunk first.”

  “Enough discussion, Zero. We cannot be late. Give the man his due, or shall I assist you?”

  “Oh no, Ma.”

  Much too slowly, Zero delicately plucks one button after another from his gown, shivering between each divestment, until he has twenty, and then reluctantly deposits one button at a time into the bat man’s outstretched hand. It is infuriating to watch.

  “Will it take long to inebriate the bat?” I ask, wanting to make some productive use of the time Zero is wasting.

  “Oh no. Only a dead drunk one’s going to answer the call to go to that place.”

  Fully paid, the bat man sets about fitting our harnesses. As we wait for him to finish, I feel a great urge to ask another question of the bat man: the answer to which I dread. “Are we in danger of being showered in a deposit while in flight?”

  The bat man wobbles with mirth. “A bat shit in flight would kill you stone dead, if you’re lucky.”

  “Lucky?” Zero has to ask.

  “Lucky? Of course, son, otherwise you’d be … Never mind, I can’t even say it.”

  And I have to ask, “Is it likely?”

  “Course not. Bats only shit where they roost unless they’re courting. They’re hygienic like that. You’re more likely to be dropped and squished. That’s definitely way more likely. Way more. Except … when they’re drunk.”

  I find the bat man’s explanation of the defecation habits of bats comforting until he reaches the final part of his answer.

  In moments, we are harnessed, and Zero and I wait in abject terror as the bat man blows his silent horn. I firmly shut my eyes. I reach out for Zero’s hand and find it waiting. His touch drains away my anxiety. It is no use worrying what may be, as it will be as it may. My course was set when I rejected the black mark.

  Chapter Thirteen – The Pre-Hearing

  Through Zero’s hand, I can feel that his whole frame is trembling, setting the buttons on his gown softly snickering. He is whispering a nonsense to himself.

  “Twinkle, twinkle, drunken bat,

  What inebriation levels are you at?

  Up above the world you fly,

  Please don’t poop us from on high.

  Twinkle, twinkle, giant bat,

  Please don’t let us fall and splat!”

  I share his trepidation, if not his outburst of silliness.

  The
first indication of the bat’s arrival is a great down-rush of wind and then, up, we are snatched and spun away. It is certainly a more ragged experience than our first take-off, though it is not as terrible as I might have imagined an inebriated bat’s ascent would be. Only Zero’s howl of pain alerts me to the pressure I am applying to his hand. I release the poor boy’s appendage and open my eyes. We are again soaring over the Inns of Courts, bound for the pyramids. It is not the arrow-straight flight of our previous trip. This bat is drifting, first one way and then another, as though it is unsure of our destination. Or it is dozing off, drifting off course and then jerking awake and overcompensating its course correction. The result is that Zero and I find ourselves hanging at an acute angle as the bat banks this way and that. We are very rarely perpendicular, which provides some comfort as I feel that any bat deposit is unlikely to strike us while we are banking.

  The pyramids are closer now, and I can observe some of the detail. I count seven pyramids, one behind the other, each taller than the one in front. Even the first and smallest is by far the largest structure we have seen, and the last is at least as high as the tower Zero and I descended to reach the Inns of Court. The surfaces of the pyramids are covered in close-fitting, triangular, ebony tiles, which shimmer in the warm, rising air. Some of the ebony tiles have been replaced sparsely and irregularly with triangular windows that let out a bright light. It appears, from this distance, as if they are jewels adorning the pyramid’s surface. The oncoming structures are so fascinating that I have quite forgotten to worry about the dangers of defecation or of being dropped.

  These thoughts reassert themselves when our bat abruptly turns away from the pyramids and dives towards a flat-roofed building set apart from all others by a wide boulevard that frames it. The bat’s descent is precipitous. Zero is mightily alarmed and is wailing loudly. I join in. The bat flattens out at the last moment and whips across the roof so low and so fast that we have to bend our knees to keep our feet from being scraped off. Intentionally or otherwise, the bat overshoots the roof, arcs steeply around and returns to fly low over the roof once more, this time a little more slowly, but only a little. Halfway across, it drops us, crashes into the roof and tumbles over and over till it rolls over the edge and disappears. Poor bat. A moment later, it reappears as it soars erratically into the air and flies away.

  Zero and I are on our knees, seriously unhurt as far as I can tell, though shaken and somewhat dizzy after the shock of the fall. Looking around, I see that there is a single small structure on the roof. Behind us, the enormous pyramids overshadow everything else. Zero rises first with much complaining and then helps me to my feet. I am bruised in many places and take a moment to gather my strength and rise. And then a few more minutes to divest ourselves of the bat harnesses. With Zero’s support, I make my way towards the only object on the roof. It is a box that is barely large enough for its only feature, a single door with a sign: House of Pointlessness. There really is no point. To Maybe-Not is our advice.

  What an unwelcome sign has greeted us. To Definitely-Maybe is my answer. Besides, I have not suffered the ignominy of a drunken bat ride to turn back now. And there is no way off this roof that I can see, other than through the door before us.

  “Come, Zero, let us press on. It is already fifty-five past five and our pre-hearing is scheduled for six past six.”

  I push the door and it swings open easily, revealing a stairwell descending into the building. There is bright electric lighting, which is most welcome after the pervasive gloom of this stone-capped city. It is such a relief to be able to see clearly without straining and wondering if what you imagine you see is what is really there. The stairs wind around an open shaft.

  “Zero, can we summon a box to descend as we did in the tower? It will, perhaps, save us much time.”

  “Ma, we should, like, take the stairs for the exercise.”

  “No time, Zero. Summon the box forthwith.”

  I grab hold of a reluctant Zero and push him down the stairs towards the landing. I suspect he is still suffering a modicum of anxiety from our experience of the last box ride, which he did not enjoy.

  Zero reaches the landing and begins aimlessly fiddling with a button on a metal frame. “I think it’s broken, Ma. The stairs look nice.”

  “Zero, summon the box immediately.”

  Zero bows his head and sighs and then attacks the button with more energy. Before I can descend the stairs to the first landing and join him, the box has appeared and opened its doors. I hurry up my pace and step inside. It would be most relaxing to experience another bout of weightlessness, especially with all the pains the bat drop has left me nursing. Zero hangs back and appears reluctant.

  “I’ll take the stairs, Ma, okay?”

  I recall how loudly he screamed for the entire descent during our last moving-box adventure. If there were more time, I would try and reassure the poor boy. Instead, I clutch hold of his gown and drag a startled Zero inside. Remembering how Zero had operated the last box, I depress the button marked Yours, opposite the button marked Up.

  The box rattles like a child’s toy before beginning its descent. Disappointingly, it is a measured and mundane journey. A trembling Zero un-wedges himself from the corner of the box when he realises our sedentary pace is the box’s maximum speed. After a short time, the doors open to deposit us at the crossroads of four brightly lit corridors. Plaques on the wall with arrows indicate the destination of the different passages: No Way, Absolutely No Way, You Must Be Joking and, finally, the sign we have been looking for: Doomed Pre-Hearings Wing.

  “That is the direction, Zero.” I shrug off the aches of our roof collision and stride out confidently. Zero appears to be nursing a limp, and he is struggling to match my pace. “Keep up, Zero. And explain to me the purpose of the pre-hearing as we walk.”

  “It’s a formality, Ma. It’ll be cool.”

  “The signs do not suggest it is a formality.”

  “Well, yeah, sure, absolutely, Ma. Keep on rocking, right?”

  I have grown to understand that Zero resorts to nonsensical rambling when he is concerned for my wellbeing, which suggests that the pre-hearing will be anything but a formality. I will not press Zero. Instead, I study the long corridor we are traversing. There are no doors. Illustrations adorn the walls on both sides at regular intervals. Without slowing, I glance at them as we pass. They are all pen and ink portraits of gowned individuals in mightily abused hoods, which are, more often than not, seeping blood through the fabric: the only colour in any of the images. The ochre-tinted drawings are particularly disturbing. Wherever there is no blood, the hoods show signs of extremely rough treatment, with scuffing, fraying and general dishevelment, as though the occupant had been repeatedly dragged across broken ground. And there is something else. The bottoms of the hoods hang in an unusual manner, as though emptied of the individuals depicted, or they were all endowed with long, thin necks. Underneath every picture is a caption. The writing is too small for me to make out.

  “Zero, can you read any of the captions beneath these disturbing images?”

  “No, Ma.”

  Zero is unconvincing. “Please, Zero. If I stop, it will waste what little time we have left. It is already two past six.”

  “It’s the same under every one. Really, Ma, it’s not cool. You don’t need to know.”

  “Tell me, Zero.”

  “They say, ‘Keep your head. Turn back now.’”

  “What does that mean? It is a stupid— Oh no! Surely, it cannot be?” Despite the time and our pressing appointment, I find that I have slowed down and come to a halt in front of a particularly bloody illustration. “Zero, what monsters am I to face? Is this what has become of previous appealers? Is this to be my fate?”

  “It’s okay, Ma. Absolutely! Really! Yeah! Let’s hurry.”

  Zero is babbling again. I stare intently at the head in the portrait, as if I might learn something of the poor creature’s history and, therefore, so
mething of my own fate. The gauze-covered eyes and hooded countenance reveal nothing about the individual, only the abuse they have suffered.

  My hands begin shaking. Immediately, I clasp them tightly behind my back. I have no intention of turning away, even if I had somewhere to go. I shall press on. The corridor ends in a square room with three doors. They are labelled: Bowel, Bladder and Sphincter. We have arrived. and it is already four past six. Before I can make my way to the door of the Sphincter Court, Zero blocks my path.

  “Brace yourself, Ma. It could get a bit crazy.”

  And how, I wonder, can you brace yourself against unimaginable insanity? I shush Zero out of my way and enter the court. Only then do I understand Zero’s warning. What should have been the worst, the sight of the black and white Marys sitting on benches to the left, is only mildly upsetting compared to everything else that faces me. The square room itself is simple enough. The walls are nicely lined in dark oak panels. The roof is elegantly plastered in white. The floor is laid with large black and white tiles. And my spirits are lifted momentarily when I spy Mary M and Grunge occupying the benches to the right.

  The horror is directly ahead. Two black-gowned and one un-gowned figure are sitting behind a high counter on tall-backed chairs. The black-gowned figures are wigged, and their gowns are embroidered with large white lettering across the chest. One reads Leave to Appeal Rejected. The other’s gown is embroidered with Off With His or Her Head. Sitting between these two is an animal. My boxes tell me that it is an enormous pig. It has its front hoofs on the counter and is staring at me with its cold, beady, red eyes.

  This is all very disquieting but nothing compared to the identically proportioned and gowned figures standing on either side of the high counter. They are twice as tall as Zero and twice as broad. Their dirty, white gowns are splattered from hood-tip to bottom-edge with dark red stains. Most stains are dry and cracked. Horribly, others glisten and reflect the light. Covering their gowns is a fine netting from which hang many human skulls and ropes of teeth. Each of the giants has their hands resting atop a double-bladed axe that reaches nearly to their thick necks. Their axe edges are rusted crimson.