by Tara Basi
The judge continues, “And since the resulting amount is much less than the value of a small cardboard button, you’ll all be getting nothing.”
Another loud protest erupts and threatens to run out of control before the menacing grey gowns intervene and quieten the mob.
“Don’t blame me; blame the crazy priest.”
There is a mass rustling of gowns as nearly every one of the un-priestly jurors turn towards the priests. Some are shaking their fists at them or making other gestures I do not recognise. The priests cower and draw together.
“But, there will be blood,” the judge chillingly announces.
The mass of jurors immediately lose interest in the priests and begin cheering wildly. Momentarily, after the priests realise that they are no longer threatened, they enthusiastically join in the wild applause and mass chanting.
Blood!
Blood!
What do we want?
Blood!
When do we want it?
Bloody right now!
No matter how hard I press my ears, I cannot keep out their vile screams. Their cheers land like blows, the cries for blood like stones. My situation seems utterly hopeless. I will pin what remaining hope I have left on Zero’s mysterious plan B.
The judge raises his arms, and, section by section, the jurors resume their seats and fall silent. “We will hear the appeal in the prescribed manner. The jury will then reject the appeal by screaming, ‘Guilty!’ ‘Burn the witch!’ and suchlike mob utterances.”
Ges was right. I tug at Zero’s sleeve. He only wags his finger at me. I feel so useless, like a button without any buttonholes.
Pilot continues, “Seven will then be dragged off to be nailed up in the rusty fashion. And there’s bound to be blood. The court nailer-uppers are notoriously clumsy.”
Cheers and cries of “Bloody right too!” echo around the court before dying away as Pilot, again, raises his hand. “At which point the professional legalisers can all be paid and most handsomely. Is that all perfectly clear?”
“My Lord, if I may?”
“Yes, Mary J, what is it?”
“My Lord, might we not move immediately to the mob utterances and save a great deal of your valuable time?”
Rumbling murmurs of approval fill the air. I catch my breath. Is my final appeal to be so cruelly curtailed and in such a perfunctory manner?
Pilot shakes his head. “The law and the process of legalising cannot be trivialised in that manner. Particularly when it comes to billing. It is a fundamental tenet of our system that justice shall be delivered on a whole-hour billing basis. By my calculation, an appeal of exactly one hour in duration and ending at exactly nine will exhaust the lodgement. Any sooner and the damn kittens will be swimming in gold buttons, and we’ll get nothing. Nothing!”
“Brilliant, my Lord, brilliant.”
“Proceed, J, present your case. You’ve got twenty minutes. And, for pity’s sake, keep it interesting, or I’ll have you disembowelled as a warning to M.”
“Absolutely, my Lord. It will all be very interesting.”
“And you, M, do not interrupt the storytelling with requests for pointless cross-examination.”
Mary M acquiesces immediately by bowing low. I very much want to protest. Zero must have sensed my frustration; he touches my hand and shakes his head. I sit back in my seat and loosen my limbs and tame my breathing. I shall trust in Zero for there is no one else. And there is always plan B. I wonder what the B stands for.
“Before you start, get her” – Pilot points at me – “properly docked up. Let’s at least keep up the appearance of a proper hearing.”
Mary J turns and calls out, “Court Ruffians, you heard my Lord Pilot; dock her up at once.”
Zero whispers, “It’ll be alright, Ma.”
Before I can respond, two of the ruffians, burly figures with clubs, have dragged me out of my seat and are taking me to the front of the court. A couple of the shorter brown-gowned guards have darted behind the main platform and returned, pushing a box identical to the one on the right except that its edges are topped with mean metal spikes. They position it to the left of the judge. I am bundled behind it and led up a small flight of stairs to a platform with a handsome stool. Everything has happened so quickly that I have had no time to be frightened, and the sight of a stool, so similar to my workhouse seat, is quite delightful. The ruffians push me towards the stool and gesture that I should sit. I am happy to do so. In my new position, I have an expansive view over the whole court and the banked masses. Its only disadvantage is that I am separated from Zero. I wave at him so that he will know I am well and will not worry.
“And put a stop to that!” Judge Pilot yells. “It’s very distracting.”
I immediately retract my arm and hold it still by my side as I am assailed with many worrying thoughts about how they might put a stop to my gestures.
The ruffians return with a justice solution. One grabs my wrists and holds my arms above my head. My struggles are as a block of softwood pointlessly resisting the machine tools in my workhouse. The other ruffian drops a garment over my head and arms, which rolls down my gown to clunk loudly on the floor. It is only when the ruffian releases my arms and they fall like felled trees against my sides that I understand what they have done. I am encased in an over-gown of metal mesh. It weighs on me so heavily that I cannot raise my arms or rise from the stool. It renders me near immobile. My head is held up only with effort. I would tremble if I could.
“Very good, Ruffians. Now, J, get on. You have eighteen minutes.”
“My Lord, I shall begin with listing the many Judgments Seven has accumulated.”
“Please do, J. While it might be the dullest opening to a prosecution imaginable, it will be enlivened by seeing you necklaced with your own steaming intestine.”
Mary J takes a faltering step backwards, colliding with her seated sisters before recovering and signalling to the ruffians at the back of the court. They open the doors, and, to my surprise, a constable enters and walks forward to take up a position in the box opposite mine. It is identical to my box but is without the horrid spikes. The machinist steps forward with her book.
“Dispense with the oath-taking, Clerk. We’ll just assume they’ll all be artfully lying, or their innards will be artfully decorating the courtroom walls.”
The clerk stops in her tracks and, for a moment, I feel she might protest. Instead, she concedes and turns away.
Mary J steps forward. “Constable, please tell us about your Encounter with Seven and your impression of her.”
“My Lord, if I may refer to my notes?” the constable asks, holding up with two hands an exceedingly thick book containing thousands of gold-edged pages.
“J, you now have seventeen minutes.”
Mary J answers on the judge’s behalf, “You may, but please be brief, Constable.”
The constable, after a struggle, opens the book to the first tissue-thin page and begins reading while tracing each word with his finger: “I was stationary and facing in a northerly direction when I first encountered Seven at precisely eight past seven this morning.”
My growing lethargy is instantly flushed away. With straining muscles, I raise my metal-hemmed arm and drop my fist on the counter of my box. Fortunately, it lands between two of the cruel spikes, sending out a loud thump across the court.
“Constable, you are mistaken. We met at precisely six past seven this morning, a full one minute before my scheduled appointment at seven past seven.”
Zero jumps to his feet and puts a single finger from each hand to his hooded lips and taps them against his hooded mouth very rapidly.
Pilot bangs his little wooden hammer repeatedly on his little wooden block. “Seven, if you speak again I shall have every one of your legalising team gutted, and then we shall continue with your case.”
I am almost thrown backwards off my stool by Pilot’s threat. Only the weight of my metal over-gown keeps me rooted. I w
ill hold my tongue, but I cannot hold back my tears. My face slowly dampens. My situation is stark. I pull my hand from the counter and let it fall by my side. Zero falls back in his seat, and my chin falls back on my chest, and weariness overcomes me.
Mary J prompts her deceitful witness: “Continue, Constable.”
“My Lord, I remember the time well for three reasons. Firstly, it is noted here in my official Notebook of Truth. Secondly, all my notebook entries are notarised by my witness cat, Truth-Be-Told, who has signed this particular entry, as can be clearly seen.” The constable, with much grunting, struggles to hold up the enormous book and display the page to the court. At the bottom of the page, which is covered in childish, spidery writing, is a smudged pawprint. After returning the book to a reading position, he carries on. “Thirdly, my Lord, I used my official pencil and rubber of veracity. It says much regarding the Encounter that Seven was Unrepentantly Wilfully Tardy. She went on to offer me a bribe, and when I refused, she attacked me with sharpened buttons. Only my training saved me from serious injury. Seven refused to accept the rules governing an appeal and threatened to immolate the Inns of Court. At great personal risk to my person, I pleaded with Seven to reconsider, and, eventually, she succumbed to my eloquence, signed the T&Cs and left the station, whereupon I had manifest reason to believe that Seven was under the influence of alcohol, hallucinatory drugs and sour milk. Subsequently, on testing her signature, I discovered that this was, in fact, the case.”
The vast jury all point at me and boo loudly. I feel as if the nailing up has already begun, and I am sliding into limbo.
“You were very lucky to have survived the Encounter, Constable. J, cannot we present this constable with a worthless trinket of some kind in recognition of his bravery and dedication to duty?”
Cheers erupt all around.
“My Lord, I’d prefer a handful of buttons,” the constable replies, pointing at Zero.
“Very well, brave constable. Help yourself on the way out.”
There is nothing I can do but teeth dance and snort as the unscrupulous constable assails Zero, snatching not one but two handfuls of my beautiful buttons from poor Zero’s gown. The innocent Zero is clearly affronted by the constable’s unwanted attention, but, like me, he is powerless.
The constable departs to deafening applause, loud cheering and cries of, “He’s a jolly good fellow!” On his way out, he passes a doctor who strides forward and enters the witness box.
“Doctor, please explain your qualifications and Judgement against Seven of Evading Yourself,” Mary J asks.
“I am an expert in determining sanity. My Id-Quotient is so negative that I have declared myself legally, criminally, doggedly, unremittingly, two-fruit barmy. And this has been independently verified by the king of the hat people who lives in a shoe under my bed.”
I recognise the voice. It is her: the doctor from the empty skull who declared me imaginary.
“That’s extremely impressive, Doctor. And the Judgement?”
“Imagine …”
I sigh and shake my head, slowly and with great effort.
Pilot thankfully interrupts. “Let me stop you right there, Doctor. J, I shall be allowing only one metaphor in this case, so whatever this … doctor comes up with, you and M are stuck with.”
Mary J and M exchange glances and then both nod in agreement.
“Doctor, please continue.”
“Imagine an enormous blue whale.”
The jurors collectively lean forward, generating a storm of gown rustling. Mary J nods enthusiastically. Mary M clutches at her head and shakes it. I am beyond caring what the idiot doctor will imagine.
“Deep, deep inside that whale, right down in its gut, floating in a lake of stomach juices, fish heads and soggy popcorn, is a single, tiny germ. A microscopic bacterium. That ugly bug is Seven.”
The doctor’s pronouncement is so utterly mad that I am aflame with indignation, and, gathering all my strength, I rattle my metal mesh. No one notices, though my mood is somewhat improved by my little act of defiance.
Pilot leans towards the doctor. “That’s absolutely fascinating. Please continue.”
“My Lord. The bug that is Seven is not the real Seven. The real Seven is the blue whale which is a bit bonkers and thinks it’s a germ living in its own gut.”
“That’s exceedingly circular, Doctor.”
“And we’re all living in the whale’s gut with the nasty bug. Now, if the bug remembers that its name is really Willy the Whale and not Seven, it’ll shit all of us out. Technically, this is known as the Great Purge.”
A cry of despair fills the vast space. Many of the jurors are openly wailing and weeping.
Pilot turns his attention to me. “Is that your real name, Willy the Whale?”
I am taken aback by Pilot’s suggestion. Before I can refute the ridiculous assertion, the doctor answers for me.
“Oh no! No one knows her real name, not even Seven. Willy is something I made up. I was toying with Brenda, Dolly or maybe Jonah, but then I thought they’re all a bit sexist, so I went with the gender-neutral Willy.”
“Is that true, Seven, that you do not know your real name?” the judge asks.
If I could I would jump off my stool and scream with fury and frustration at Pilot and the doctor. Instead, and remembering the awful threat to my legal team, I conserve my strength and only reply, “My name is not Seven. It is not Two Past Five. I am most certainly not Willy the Whale. It is Abi. A! B! I! Abi!”
“It seems that you are correct, Doctor. Court Upper Underling, have it be noted that, for the purposes of the nailing up, the convicted is to be known as Seven at Two Past Five, who is Not Willy and Definitely Not Abi. And also have it noted that our metaphor whale is to be officially known as Willy the Whale.”
The middle-brown gowned nods in acknowledgement of the judge’s instructions.
Inside my prison of gowns, I silently scream.
Mary J continues, “Doctor, what, therefore, is your conclusion regarding Willy, and are we in any real danger of being forcefully evacuated from Willy’s bowel?”
“My Lord, ideally, Willy and Seven should be conscious of their two mental states, whale and germ, and exist harmoniously. This was the case when the Terrors ruled, but now the germ is in ascendance, the imbalance is making the bowel … irritable.”
Mary J bows to the judge before turning to her witness. “Thank you, Doctor.”
Pilot leans forward. “Yes, Doctor, that was riveting stuff and quite disturbing. I found myself clenching and unclenching in a most spastic manner throughout your testimony.”
The doctor leaves the court as it is buffeted by the nervous murmurings of thousands of jurors. I can discern only a few snippets of muttered conversation.
“Which is she? A whale infection or an infected whale?”
“We’re in a whale? That explains why I feel seasick all the time.”
“It all sounds very fishy to me.”
“They’re mammals.”
Marlon, who supplied my loan and to whom I owe a thousand buttons, arrives to take the doctor’s place. On his way to the front of the court, he stops and looks Zero’s gown up and down. For a second, he hesitates and I wonder if he is tempted to collect his fee while he is able. If that is his thought, he thinks better of it and takes his place in the box.
“Marlon, I understand that you are a highly qualified wealth consultant who has had cause to judge Seven.”
“Indeed, my Lord. Imagine that Willy, the blue whale, is hollow and filled with flawless diamonds. Even such a vast sum, in my estimation, would represent only a tiny fraction of Seven’s total potential wealth.”
There is a sharp intake of breath from 144,000 mouths.
“J, M, is this true? Could the lodgement have been even larger? You two are in imminent danger of receiving a Judgement of Professional Negligence.”
The black and white Marys begin to remonstrate with Mary M in low whispers. All I can hea
r is ‘Feck’ this and ‘Feck’ that.
Marlon speaks up, “My Lord, if I may, Seven’s vast wealth is based on her future earnings potential. At this moment, she is in debt for the sum of one thousand buttons and the vast loan made by my institution to fund her lodgement.”
“Explain this potential,” the judge demands.
“My Lord, Willy is a great performance artist, and its legion of admirers will pay anything to see him or her. They’re terribly upset that Willy has stopped performing in the absence of the Terrors. Once Seven is dealt with and Willy is back on tour, his or her wealth potential is unlimited.”
Much further gasping from all around ensues.
The judge stares in turn at J and M. “That’s lucky for you two.” He then turns his attention back to Marlon. “And what exactly does Willy do, performance-wise?”
“Mainly conjuring, my Lord. Some mesmerism, fortune-telling, bush-burning and lots of forgiveness and wrath.”
“Interesting mix. Sounds very Vegas.”
“Willy is a sell-out everywhere. And Willy can do many shows in many places simultaneously.”
“Is that a hologram thing?”
“Willy doesn’t say.”
The judge is very focused on this witness. “Sounds like a real money spinner. Marlon, are you, perchance, planning to syndicate Willy the Whale futures or perhaps create a structured asset-backed security in the form of a collateralized debt obligation? In which case, I would be very interested in a ground-floor entry scenario.”
“My Lord, that will depend on Willy valuations in a post-bowel-evacuation situation. Suffice to say that we shall be closely monitoring solvency and liquidity in an opaque and meaningless fashion to maximise wealth consultancy returns at the expense of value investors.”
The judge excitedly bangs his hammer. “I want ten. I really don’t care what they are or how much they cost; I’ll take ten.”
“Noted, my Lord, and for a handsome deposit I shall ensure that you will be positioned very highly in the queue of smart investors waiting to join a queue that is queuing to pay more to be in another queue.”
