Seven at Two Past Five

by Tara Basi

  “Easily, Ma, very easily.”

  Zero’s response is not very enlightening. Grunge ignores the crate-top witnesses despite their desperate pleas, which grow louder as we approach and fall away to a whimper when we pass by. Many of the wretches stretch out their arms towards us and cry desperately. I feel their miserable fingers searching for a hold on my gown, as if they mean to trap me here. I begin to dread that if I will not employ one of their number, they will make me one of their number. I crouch down and stumble forward with a tightness growing in my chest. A terrible emptiness fills my belly.

  “Grunge, is there nothing we can do for these poor unfortunates?”

  Without slowing his pace or looking back, Grunge delivers his fateful answer. “They’ve had their judgement. This is their sentence. There’s nothing to be done.”

  Dipping as low as I can to escape the witnesses’ begging fingers, I slip a glance at the poor unfortunates and feel a great sadness sweep over me. The supplication of those around us becomes ever more desperate. Those left behind have abandoned themselves to terrible, wordless cries and piteous weeping.

  “Zero, what have they done to deserve this?”

  Zero shrugs and shakes his head in reply.

  Grunge has an opinion: “Their Judgements are nothing compared to your crimes. They’ll be the ones doing the pitying if we don’t get on with this appeal.”

  His words strike me like stones and drag my thoughts back to my own predicament. I cannot even help myself if I lose the appeal.

  A dark building with double bay windows is coming into view, and, it seems to me, that is where Grunge is headed. It is unlike any of the other buildings. The windows have drawn, black curtains blocking any view inside. Over the door is a large sign written in gold letters against a black background: Bespoke Witness Tailoring.

  Grunge enters and we follow. The interior is quiet and sensibly lit. It is a great relief to have escaped the desperate cacophony of the pleading witnesses and the sickly flashing lights. The space is largely bare except for a simple counter, next to which stands an individual in an astounding technicolour gown. The main motif is a gold comet with a rainbow tail, which wraps around the gown. Everywhere else, the material is decorated with brilliantly coloured planets, a happy sun and a multitude of smaller stars of white, blue and silver. The robe is extraordinarily beautiful.

  The shopkeeper addresses us: “Welcome back, Grunge. Will it be the usual?”

  “You have been here before, Grunge?” I ask.

  “No, never. Isn’t he convincing? That’s what we’re paying for – believability. Now, shut up.”

  After delivering his rude rebuke, Grunge turns his attention back to the shopkeeper. “You come highly recommended, Mr Pants O’Fire.”

  “Please, Grunge, call me Pants. Now, how much can I cheat you out of today?”

  Grunge giggles. “Well, Pants, we need an all-purpose character witness, top-class, think-on-their-feet type. And two experts: one in buttons and the other in the Terrors.”

  “Sir is style personified. Such precision. So purposeful. I feel quite faint. Now, let me see.”

  Pants retrieves two thick ledgers from behind his counter and begins flicking through the pages of one. “Here” – he continues flicking – “and here and here. I have three top-class, multi-faceted witness supremoes for you to choose from. I’ll just fetch them, and then we’ll look for your experts.”

  “Quick as you can, Pants. Mary M will have my balls for earrings if we’re late.”

  Pants disappears through a door behind his counter, leaving us alone.

  I seize my chance. “Grunge, is there really an expert in the Terrors? Can they explain their meaning and purpose?”

  “I suppose. Anyway, it doesn’t matter how expert they are, only how expert they appear.”

  “Grunge, that is an illogical assertion. And these witnesses … It appears to me that they are no more than paid fabricators. Surely, it is the truth that will save us?”

  Grunge dissolves into a fit of giggles and is quite unable to speak.

  “Zero, why is he laughing?”

  “Yeah, Ma, like, absolutely. But, see, they like their justice on the theatrical side down here, so we’ve got to kind of play up to that.”

  “Zero, are you saying that simple virtue and purity of heart is not enough?”

  “Oh, definitely, Ma, like, for me and you maybe, but, thing is, here, well, it’s more complicated.”

  “I have no doubt that deviation, obfuscation and wilful disassembling are always more complicated than telling the plain truth, but that is what I would prefer. The more I learn about this witness business, the less comfortable I am about engaging such services.”

  “Ma, the truth is going to set you free. For now, let Grunge and Mary M do their thing.”

  “Very well, Zero. I shall trust in your judgement and honesty. Clearly, Grunge has neither.”

  Grunge abruptly stops giggling. “Did you just insult me?”

  I realise that I have been hasty and unnecessarily critical of Grunge. He has done nothing but help me. “I did and it was unwarranted. I am truly sorry, Grunge. I find everything about this justice system murky and distasteful.”

  “Exactly! That’s why you need me and M. We’re like the murky and distasteful king and queen of justice. Obviously, Mary M’s the king.”

  I would have had much more to say to Grunge about the virtues of veracity, but the noise of an opening door draws my attention back to the counter. Pants has returned with three gowned individuals in purple, blue and yellow. Their gowns are particularly well made and all bear a strange mark. I forget my situation and enjoy a moment, studying the wonderful needlework around the shoulders and hem. It is quite exquisite, almost invisible, with not a single pucker. Pants coughs, and I drop the yellow gown hem I find myself holding and feel my cheeks blossom. A hood has some benefits.

  “Pants, what is that mark on their gowns that looks like one capital I laid horizontally across another?” I ask.

  “It has many names, though it is commonly referred to as a Crutch Cross. It is the symbol of our order.”

  “Pants, apologies for the interruption. Please continue as you had intended.”

  “Thank you. I hope you won’t mind, but I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation as we were arriving. If I may, Seven?”

  I am still fascinated by the gowns and their strange markings. It takes a moment before I realise that Pants is addressing me. I can only think to nod. My embarrassment at being caught fingering another’s gown in such a distracted and inappropriate way has not yet dissipated.

  “Out there, in the market, they are nothing more than paid liars. These witnesses” – Pants pauses and waves a hand to indicate his three colleagues – “are creative artists at the peak of their powers. They can conjure and present a deeper truth than the mere recitation of facts could ever hope to describe, in much the same way that a skilled portrait painter can uncover the hidden essence of an individual that no photograph could ever reveal.”

  The mention of an artist conjures up painful Terror memories. I have some understanding of what Pants wishes to convey.

  “Pants, you’re a genius. Even when you’re talking bollocks, it’s so convincing,” says Grunge.

  “Well, thank you, Grunge, but I wonder what Seven has to say?”

  “My name is Abi.”

  “I beg your pardon, Abi. I did not know.”

  Pants is, indeed, a skilful orator, though I am unconvinced by his arguments. Everyone is silent. I realise that they are waiting for my response to Pants’s question.

  “Before today, I had never seen a portrait. To achieve the excellence of execution that you have described, I believe that the artist would have to believe in the fundamental truth underlying their creation. They could not base their art on a conscious deception.”

  “Exactly so, Abi. Now, ask your questions of my witnesses and choose the one who you think best conveys your truth.
The one in purple is Yazata; in blue, we have Zora; and, finally, in yellow, Astra. Please, Grunge, Zero and, of course, Abi, make your choice.”

  “Ma, you ask the questions, we’ll listen, and then we’ll decide.”

  Grunge exudes a noisy breath. “It’s not the proper legalising way, Zero, and you know it, but okay.”

  “Very well, Zero, though I am quite unsure what it is I should be asking.”

  Grunge is quite sure. “Ask them complicated stuff, get them flustered, see how they cope. But cut the gabbling. If we’re late for the tribunal, you can kiss goodbye to your appeal and my balls.”

  “Ma, you’ve been asking me stuff all day, and my head is, like, empty of answers.”

  Zero’s insight releases a torrent of questions in my mind, which momentarily silences the relentless tick, tick in my head. Where should I start? “What is my true name?”

  Zora answers first: “Your true name is your father’s name as was his name before him.”

  It is a clever question disguised as an answer, assuming that I had a father. At least it might not be a lie.

  Astra follows: “It is whatever name you will choose for yourself when you have decided what it is.”

  How nicely elliptical. And, again, it is not a lie.

  Yazata answers, “Judging by the reprehensible state of your gown, its dull colouring and abysmal needlework, I might guess that it would be a gutter name, such as Trollop or Sour-Bladder.”

  My ears must have misheard. “I beg your pardon?”

  “And so you should. And what is that smell? Can someone please open a window? Whatever your name is, woman, you reek.”

  So many sharp, little words are trying to escape my throat at once that they create a verbal blockage, and I find that my mouth is opening and shutting in silence. My whole body is as rigid as my workbench, and my fists are balled like steel bearings. Finally, I find that I can speak. “How dare you insult and berate an old woman struggling for justice against all odds and in such a hurtful manner?”

  “Oh dear, does little old Abi-Wabi not find the truth to her liking after all?”

  “You, you …” And then I pause and swallow and unknot my muscles. I hold my breath and slowly count to seven. “You are right, Yazata, the plain truth is not always to our liking, but today it is all that I need. I would very much like you to be my witness if you, and of course Pants and my companions, are agreeable.”

  “Ma, are you sure about this?”

  “Zero, I know that you would be too kind to mention it, but I do indeed reek. I have been inside this infernal gown for many hours while suffering considerable distress.”

  Grunge rolls towards me and sniffs. “I can’t smell anything.”

  I am not surprised. Grunge smells as if he keeps dead fish in the chamber pot under his gown. “What do you say, Grunge, regarding Yazata?”

  “Pants, is he any good? I like the way he gave old sourpuss here a good kicking, but she’s no cross-examination expert.”

  “My dear Grunge, Yazata is a unique and gifted witness who very rarely offers his services. He asked to be put forward when he heard of Seven’s—my apologies—Abi’s case and will not be asking for a fee.”

  “No fee? Come on, Pants, what’s the catch?”

  “My commission is, of course, not waived. There are conditions. Yazata refuses to be coached. He will speak his mind when the time comes.”

  “Pants, you’re joking, right?”

  I decide to intervene. “Grunge, I am content. Let us move on.”

  “It’s your funeral, and Mary M won’t be happy. Well, Pants, what about our experts?”

  Yazata, Zora and Astra file out through the door by which they arrived, and Pants moves back to his counter and refers to his second book. “Regarding buttons, do you require a button historian or someone whose expertise is in manufacturing or, perhaps, decoration and coating techniques?”

  My interest is piqued. “You have such people? I would be very pleased to meet these experts.”

  “Ma, I don’t think we have the time. Maybe another day?”

  How could I forget? Though the thought of engaging in a conversation with others who share my passion for buttons would be such a delight.

  Grunge, correctly, speeds things along: “Pants, have you got a sort of all-round button whiz?”

  “Indeed, I do, Grunge. I shall fetch her shortly. Now, this business of the Terrors.” Pants proceeds to flick his pages, at first quickly and then slowly, back and forth before stopping altogether. “How unusual. It appears we have experts in Terrines and Termites, but nothing on the Terrors.”

  “Forget it, Pants. My balls are at stake. Mary M’s gonna be getting out her rusty scissors if I’m late. We’ll have one of your experts on crazy old bags. That’ll do us fine.”

  “Grunge, it is my appeal, and I should like to have appropriate witnesses if I am to have any at all.”

  Grunge groans and clutches his lower regions. “You got three minutes.”

  “Hey, man, could you maybe try Night Terrors?”

  How clever of Zero. That is possibly the closest we shall come to someone with knowledge of the actual Terrors.

  After a short bout of page turning, Pants declares, “Indeed, we have a very fine expert in that area. Please wait here.”

  I have to ask, “Are you happy with the witness selection, Zero?”

  “Yeah. Absolutely, Ma. He seems a bit rude but honest, too. Can’t have everything, can we, Ma?”

  “Well, Zero, I am hoping exactly that, that I can have my days of solitude and button-making as well as peaceful nights. Do you think that I desire too much? Or that I should be satisfied with the return of the Terrors if that is the price for my daytime harmony?”

  “Always with the deep questions, Ma. Not that I, like, know anything, Ma, but I guess something will have to be sacrificed.”

  I take Zero to mean that I might be able to continue my button-making if I embrace the Terrors. Or, I can have peaceful nights and wash chamber pots during the day if – and it is a monumental if – my appeal succeeds. It would be a wonderful end to the day to have a choice to make. And if those were my choices, it would be a simple one.

  “Can you two stop your jabbering? Pants is coming back. You got two minutes left,” Grunge shouts.

  Pants is accompanied by two gowned figures. One gown is made of the blackest velvet, and it is covered in little, sparkling stars. In thunder and lightning contrast, the other gown is of the purest white with a foreground illustration of a simple, four-holed button of wonderfully polished black leather. It fills the whole gown face. It is a lovely sight. Both gowns have a small Crutch Cross over the left breast.

  “Esteemed customers, may I introduce Miss Phobetor, Professor of Night Terrors, and, Master of Seals and Fastenings, the Lady Sade. Abi, please interrogate my experts, and, if you are satisfied, my fees will be deducted from your lodgement. I wish you every success in your appeal.” Pants bows low and steps back behind his counter.

  “Go on then, see if they’re any good and be quick. We’re running out of time,” Grunge urges.

  Zero nods supportively.

  I wonder where to start. “Miss Phobetor, can you say anything regarding the nature of the Terrors with which I have been plagued all my life until this night past?”

  “It would be pure speculation. Do you wish me to speculate?”

  “Please. Intelligent and informed speculation is to be welcomed.”

  “Well then, your Terrors exhibit many of the characteristics of Night Terrors, but they differ in two important respects. Firstly, you do not exhibit the requisite physical characteristics, namely: heightened electroencephalography and tachypnoea. You do exhibit the symptomatic diaphoresis even though your menopause, a common trigger, is long since passed. Secondly, when you are possessed by the Terrors you appear to be in a coma-like state, which is asymptomatic. The nature of your Terrors appears to be psychosomatic. Perplexingly, the effect of the Terrors is not c
onfined to yourself. It is as if some form of mass hysteria is involved, though for everyone else the effect is positive. If I might offer an analogy?”

  How wonderful it is to finally hear a voice of reason discussing the nature of the Terrors. “Yes, please. Please continue.”

  “Imagine …”

  Oh no. Not that phrase.

  “… that your Terrors are the wheels on Grunge’s handcart.”

  I cannot supress a long groan.

  “Exactly. They are greatly abused and protest loudly, but without their suffering Grunge would be stuck in one very unhappy place and slowly starve to death.”

  “Really? That is the enlightenment you offer? That the Terrors lubricate the wheels of Creation?”

  “It is only speculation, but, in summary, it seems that your Terrors are our Rapture.”

  There is that chilling pronouncement again that I first heard the Marys scream at me only hours earlier, though it seems a lifetime has passed since I awoke this morning.

  “If I may ask, Miss Phobetor, how is it that you have any knowledge at all of my Terrors? Before this day, I had believed that they were a personal experience.”

  “Abi, I do not know. It appears to be a genetic recollection.”

  At least Phobetor is honest and articulate, and she knows at least as much as the Marys do about the Terrors. I can never consider them a Rapture. “Thank you, Miss Phobetor, we would be very pleased if you could assist us.”

  Phobetor bows low.

  “One bloody minute! After that, my balls are on your head!” Grunge bellows.

  I ignore Grunge. If I have a minute, then I shall use it. The thrill of speaking to another button enthusiast is too tempting. “Lady Sade, are buttons your speciality?”

  Lady Sade does not immediately answer. Instead, she turns around to display the rear of her gown. I gasp in surprise. A single zip, not an illustration, runs from the tip of her hood to the very base of her gown. Unlike Mary M’s haphazard and crude fastenings, this zip is of a very high quality. It appears to be crafted from silver and is exceedingly neat. Lady Sade turns back to face me. “Darling, my interest in fastenings and seals is wide in nature and sexual in intent with an academic twist.”