by Tara Basi
“Well, Ma, you’ll have to shepherd them to safety when the time comes.”
“Zero, do you know more about today’s events than you are telling me?”
“Oh no, Ma. Like, definitely not. I get flashes, you know, but I’m not that down on making sense. It’s overrated, Ma.”
Playfully, I punch Zero in the chest and chase after Grunge. Behind me, Zero is wracked with a coughing fit. Silly boy. Ahead, I see two enormous, bloody figures gliding towards us. Immediately, I suck in my breath and flatten myself against a wall.
“Zero, the axemen!”
Zero sees what is coming and follows my example. The towering axemen sweep past us, axes waving, bones rattling, gowns wafting. One of their axe edges is freshly painted.
“Come, Zero! The Marys may need our help.”
Zero falls away from the wall and crashes into the one opposite. He seems to have been quite disturbed by the axemen’s passing. I have no time for that; a Mary may lie gravely injured. It’s not long before we are back at the box that brought us from the roof. There are further spots of blood on the floor and many axe slashes in the closed box doors. It appears that the Marys have escaped but not without sustaining injury. I wish for them to find medical assistance. I do not wish for them to be successful in selling their warm underpants to Prof. My charity has its limits.
Grunge is waiting for us at the beginning of a passage, which is signed To the House of Verisimilitude. The same corridor that I am quite sure was previously labelled You Must Be Joking. Before Zero and I can join Grunge, he starts urgently pointing at something behind us. Immediately, I am mortified by the worry that the axemen have returned. Zero has obviously had the same thought. He clutches my hand, and, nervously, we turn together to see what Grunge is indicating.
A bizarre creature approaches whose outline is oddly familiar. It is most obviously a female, even though she is wearing an Encounter gown of large proportions. The front of the gown is painted with the image of a voluptuous young woman in an unseemly, tight-fitting dress which is cut far too low at the chest and far too high on the thigh. Her face is painted on the hood in gaudy colours as is her bone-white blonde hair, which is immodestly waved. It is an unsettling sight. She is both gowned and yet simultaneously simulating a de-gowned state.
Even more startling are the strange contraptions that festoon the shoulders of her gown. A cantilevered and multi-jointed pole on her left shoulder ends in a furry ovoid and a lamp. A similar pole on her right shoulder supports a box with a large glass eye. The poles are all folded up and her instruments are tucked close to her hood. The odd creature stops directly in front of myself.
“Hey, Seven, you’re looking fabulous today. Have you done something with your hood? It’s looking particularly pointy. Sorry to bring you the bad news, but they’re really laying into you. Don’t you worry, ducks. I’ll sort you out.”
I am too startled to say anything. The voice is extremely gruff and deep. It is obviously not that of a woman. Before I can gather my thoughts, Grunge has squeezed between myself and the stranger.
“Seven ain’t talking to the press. You can talk to me, and it’ll be twenty buttons.”
The painted woman with the man’s voice places one huge hand atop Grunge’s hooded head and effortlessly rolls him out of the way.
“No one trusts a solicitor, darling. You let him speak for you and it won’t look good. Everyone will think you’re hiding something. Know what I mean?”
“Who are you? Zero, who is this wo … man?”
Zero takes my hand and attempts to pull me away. “Press, Ma. No comment.”
“Why have you no comment, Zero? Is that his name? Press?”
The stranger answers before Zero can reply. “I have many names, darling. How about Mephisto? No, I’m bored with that one. Maybe Murph? No. Circumstances demand authenticity, but since you won’t, I won’t be using my true name. Tell you what, as we’re old friends, I’ll do what you’re doing. Use a name that’s close, very close, to the genuine article. Call me Liberté. Look, I can help tell your side of the story. The truth.”
“I am no friend of yours. We have never before met. And how, exactly, can you help relay the truth of my situation when I am unclear what it is myself? In any event, I am in a great hurry and have no time for unproductive diversions.”
Zero again tugs at my hand. “Come away, Ma.”
Grunge is still struggling to free himself from Liberté’s massive paw. “Piss off, you journo vulture, unless you got my twenty buttons.”
Liberté ignores Grunge. “Listen, darling, out there, in the Inns of Court, them Mary bitches, them corrupt judges, the whole filthy justice system is saying nasty stuff. You want Judge Oink telling porkies about you, or you gonna stand up for yourself? It’ll only take a minute.”
The thought of that horrible pig saying anything about me is quite sickening, and even though I am unsure what ‘porkies’ are, I cannot imagine they are a good thing.
“Zero, should we not seize this opportunity?”
Zero only shakes his head vigorously and pulls at my hand.
Grunge ducks down low and frees himself from Liberté’s grip. “I told you, my client ain’t carrion. Not yet anyway. And she’s not talking to the press.”
Liberté bends over till his face is level with that of Grunge. “Listen, I’ll make sure you get a mention and you’ll get any Shopping Channel shoe you like, for free, so long as it’s a left one. For life.” His voice has changed. It has become sinuous and beguiling.
Grunge whimpers, “A free shoe? Sapphria? Any shoe? For life?”
I think my solicitor is crying. Who or what is Sapphria? I am puzzled. “Grunge, what use is a left shoe if you do not have the right one?”
Grunge only whispers, “Sapphria?”
Liberté stands up straight. “Grunge, you’ll get the right one at a very special price.”
Liberté’s voice now sounds like my night-time cocoa tastes: velvety and warming. Its effect on Grunge is quite alarming.
“Special,” Grunge echoes in a dreamy voice.
“How special, man?” Zero simpers, sounding even more half-asleep than he usually does.
“Two hundred percent of the normal price,” Liberté answers. His voice has dropped so low that I feel it in my bones more than I hear it in my head.
Zero is swaying back and forth. “Wow, man, that’s … super amazing. Dudess, is it, like … just Grunge? Me and Ma should be, like, equally deserving.”
“If Seven does the interview now, then sure, why not.”
Zero weakly claps his hands together and does a slow little dance. I am quite flummoxed by the behaviour of the two men, regardless of Liberté’s many voices, some of which have an obvious charm.
Zero takes my shoulders in his hands and, while still swaying disconcertingly, brings his hood very close to mine. “Cool. Ma, I think … maybe … this dudess is okay. Don’t say … too much, though. Like, keep it sweet and short and … on the downlow need to know.”
What ridiculous advice and what a nonsensical shoe conversation. Even so, my inclination is to do as Zero suggests and tell Liberté the truth of events. I can only hope that it may counter the malicious falsehoods the black and white Marys and Judge Oink are obviously spreading.
“Very well. I shall tell you my experience of this day most truthfully. It all began at forty past four this morning—”
“Hang on a mo’, love. Got to set up and then do the introductions. I know you’re rushed for time, so I’ll ask the questions. Keep it brief, darling; we only got a minute, tops.”
A minute sounds an awfully small amount of time to convey everything that has happened to me today, but then Liberté is right. I do have very little time to waste. I nod in agreement.
Liberté takes up a position by my side, and the poles on his shoulders begin autonomously unfolding and extending, as though he is sprouting another pair of arms. I am momentarily blinded by a bright light.
�
��This is the Inns of Court Shopping Channel. You’re watching Sapphria’s True Truth infomercial, where the news morsels are easy to swallow and salaciously moulded to perfectly suit your attention span. Today’s slice of sensationalism is an exclusive interview with Seven.”
Little hairs on my arms spring upright and quiver in fear. A glacier slides down my back. Liberté is speaking with the beautiful, lilting tones of a young woman. And it is not any woman’s voice; Liberté is my anonymous trobairitz – the singing woman who has trailed behind since first I left my bunk-bed-tower. His alter ego, Sapphria, is addressing the large lens on the end of one of his extended poles. His words are not reassuring. Zero and Grunge appear to be in a daze.
“Left shoe, any shoe,” Grunge mumbles.
“Special price,” Zero sighs.
Liberté turns to address me. “Seven, if that’s your real name, when are you going to stop trying to destroy all of creation?”
“I’m not,” I retort, confused and unsettled by Liberté’s abrupt change in tone, which had been friendly and reassuring but is now sharp and accusing.
Liberté turns away and looks up at his lens. “You heard Seven. She’s not going to stop. When will our limp-wristed justice system get off their lazy backsides and deal with Seven? We have a caller. Go ahead, Mr Putts.”
A squeaky, disembodied voice emerges from the vicinity of Liberté’s lens. “I’d like a blue one with the optional, deluxe orifice and dominatrix soundtrack.”
“Ha ha! Slight misunderstanding. Mr Putts, the shopping lines will reopen in a few moments. Now, what do you have to say about the terrible activities of Seven?”
“Seven? I don’t want seven. What would I do with seven? Unless there’s an offer. Is there an offer?”
“Well, folks, it looks like we have a breaking shopping event. Persistent aren’t we, Mr Putts? Well, yes, in fact there is a very special offer for a very special customer. Seven for the price of eight. That’s right, Mr Putts, seven for the price of eight. But I’ll have to hurry you, Mr Putts. This offer is only available for the next ten seconds.”
“Oh, my God! Oh, my God! Can I get them in different colours and anatomical configurations?”
“Five seconds left, Mr Putts.”
“Can I get fourteen for the price of sixteen?”
“You drive a hard bargain, Mr Putts, but yes you can. If you say yes … now!”
“I’ll take them. I’ll take them all. Fourteen.”
“Well done, Mr Putts. Stay on the line and one of my lovely Inns of Court Shopping Channel colleagues will take care of all the details. But before you go, have you anything to say about Seven?”
“Fourteen, I ordered fourteen.”
“How insightful. Now, Seven, do you want to take this last opportunity to apologise to your victims and perhaps take advantage of our fourteen-for-sixteen offers?”
Zero’s initial advice was obviously correct. “You are clearly insane. I have nothing more to say.”
“There you have it. Seven refuses to even acknowledge her victims and clearly lacks any kind of shopping sense. Next up, the debut of our brand-new wonder-cleaning product: Nitro-Napalm. If killing ninety-nine-point-nine percent of germs is just not good enough, then you need the one-hundred-percent protection that only Nitro-Napalm can provide. Death and disfigurement are unlikely side effects. This is Sapphria signing off.”
With that, Liberté’s bright light is extinguished and the metal arms are folded away. I quickly turn my back on the unsettling man and make ready to leave. I am brought to an abrupt halt by Liberté’s large hand tightly gripping my shoulder. It is ice cold yet burns my skin through the many layers of cotton I am wearing. The physical contact and discomfort of his touch are most distressing. Before I can cry out to the still near-comatose Zero and Grunge for assistance, Liberté bends low and brings his hood close to mine.
He whispers, with a strange new voice, “It’s no fun without you, Seven. And you promised it’s my turn to have a child.”
His new voice is so utterly lifeless and frigid that it hurts my ears and freezes my mind. I cannot turn around or break free from his grip. I am barely able to speak.
“Who are you?”
“Holidays ain’t for the likes of us. You can’t put it off anymore.”
With great effort, I speak again. “Tell me who you are.”
“You know. We’re very, very old colleagues.”
A black curtain flutters over my eyes. His malevolent voice threatens to steal my senses. Abruptly, the terrible weight of his hand is lifted from my shoulder. Unsteadily and with a thumping heart, I slowly turn around. There is no one there. The corridors are empty in every direction. I am alone, save for my companions. Had I imagined it all? I shake my head to clear my senses. It matters not. It cannot be allowed to matter. Too many of the few minutes left to me have been squandered on Liberté’s nonsense.
“Come, Zero, Grunge. Time is short.”
I usher my limp and dazed companions towards the corridor that will take us to our destination. Grunge and Zero are gradually emerging from their befuddlement.
Grunge shakes his head and pulls up in front of me. “I don’t know what happened back there, but you didn’t say anything to that creep, did you?”
I shudder. “A few words.”
Grunge smacks his head with a hand block, which causes me to wince on his behalf. He says nothing more, just sighs and trundles on.
“Ma, that was really weird. I got all shoe excited. Couldn’t, like, get that crazy retail opportunity out of my head. Very uncool.”
“I am glad that you are well, Zero. I was quite worried about you. Now, let us hurry on.”
Moving forward, I find my spirits lifting. Liberté was a madman. Nothing more and best forgotten. At least I now know the identity of my singing shadow.
As we proceed, I am reassured to note that there are no portraits, bloody or otherwise, in the corridor that leads to the House of Verisimilitude.
Eventually, we reach a single door at the end of the passageway. Grunge bars the way. He swivels around to face us.
“Listen, you two, buying witnesses is legalising business, so keep your traps shut.”
“What traps? I am not carrying a trap and neither is Zero. Did you imagine that we planned a hunting trip at some point? Grunge, speak plainly.”
“Shut! Up! Just shut up till I tell you otherwise. Got it?”
“Grunge, there is no need to be rude. We will, of course, follow your lead and intervene only if it becomes obvious that you require our assistance, in which case we shall do so with all due deference to your expertise insofar as I myself have no experience whatsoever in the purchase of witnesses. Though, of course, I cannot speak for Zero.”
“For pity’s sake, woman, put a sock in it and swallow!”
Grunge spins around and is through the door before I can protest that I have no socks. I am barefoot and wearing sandals. In any event, it would be most unhygienic to swallow one’s own sock. I am about to explain this to Zero, since Grunge has gone, but the boy only puts his fingers to his hooded lips and gently ushers me through the open door.
Chapter Fifteen – House of Verisimilitudes
We have entered a strangely lit hall of great size. There is an enormous open square edged by many brightly lit, single-storey buildings, all with large windows. The central space is filled with a multitude of individuals standing on small crates. Every box and its perching person are picked out by a spotlight. The beams vary in colour. Every hue and tint appears to be represented and many times over. The way ahead is filled with a forest of multi-coloured light pillars, boxes and forlorn figures. When I study the windows of the buildings bordering the open space, I see that there are more individuals, similarly illuminated. Thankfully, all are gowned. And their gowns are of as many colours as the lights. and they are covered in large writing, both front and back. As yet, I am too far away to read the words.
The most striking aspect of the scene be
fore me is that it is a tableau. Every single person is unfeasibly still and all have taken up lethargic poses: heads bowed, drooping shoulders, limp arms ending in open hands and lazily curled fingers. It is as if they might be asleep on their feet. A miasma of melancholy and despondency taints the atmosphere.
I feel forced to question this situation. “Grunge?”
“Shush!” Grunge hisses, like a stood-upon snake.
Our voices wash over the nearest crate-stander, who instantly jerks upright, shakes his hood then leans forward at an acute angle, precariously close to unbalancing and toppling over. Without warning, the figure stops staring at us, stiffens and takes up an elaborate pose while bellowing, “Witness! Top quality witness! Money-back guarantee! Get your star witness here! Witness! Top quality witness!”
All the while, the figure is constantly changing pose, each one more unlikely than the last. I am amazed that the individual can keep their footing atop their crate.
Within seconds, another crate-stander has joined in and then another, until the whole space is filled with loud entreaties, extravagant claims and many kinds of box-top dancing. Those in the windows have also come to life, though their movements are of a more sophisticated and temperate nature. The noise is deafening. And, on top of all this, the coloured spotlights shining down on everyone have begun to flash at different speeds. Surveying this manic kaleidoscope of movement, sound and light is quite unsettling. I feel dizzy, my stomach is knotting and my throat is tightening. I have to look down and clap my hands over my ears.
Unfortunately, Grunge trundles to the heart of the pandemonium, and we have no choice but to follow. The writing on many of the gowns is now clear. It is as varied as the colours of their robes and their illumination.
Character Witness.
Character Assassination.
Easily Led.
Can Be Caught Out Lying.
Will Say Anything You Like.
“Zero,” I whisper, “how can they bear witness to events or character traits they know nothing about?”
