by Tara Basi
“Marlon, I think I just wet myself, and it wasn’t piss. Carry on, J.”
Mary J nods in acknowledgement. “Indeed, my Lord. Marlon, from a legalising perspective, we are, of course, immensely pleased that you made the lodgement loan to Seven, but why did you do it? Surely, all this appeals nonsense has only delayed Willy’s return?”
“Seven and Willy make great clients; I couldn’t let them slip away. And the wickedly compounding interest on the lodgement loan is eye-wateringly evil.”
After this meaningless exchange, Marlon departs to thunderous cries of “Money Honey!” from the jurors. I am unsurprised that it is Prof who next climbs into the witness box. I feel a bitter chill in my stomach when I think on who will undoubtedly be next.
Prof, straightaway, has something to say. “Do I have to stick with this dumb blue whale metaphor?”
Pilot has a chilling response. “If you are happy wearing your bloody guts as a scarf, then feel free to use any metaphor you like.”
Mary J coughs. “Prof, I understand you have assessed Seven as a Gravity Meddler?”
“Yeah. I mean I quite like her, but Seven’s seriously messing with some basic space-time fundamentals.”
I am touched by Prof’s fond words, the first of any witness, if not his absurd accusations.
“Could you explain to my Lord and the jury, using the Willy metaphor, the exact nature of Seven’s crime?”
“Seriously, the Willy metaphor?”
The judge answers, “If you are cold, the court ruffians can provide a scarf.”
“No, no! Willy is perfect! Right, so, imagine” – I imagine, and I imagine most forcefully that this is how murder is first envisaged when it was previously considered an abhorrent concept – “that Willy swims happily in the ocean. Then, the germ, Seven, starts messing with the basic laws of buoyancy and displacement, which, of course, are the same thing. Poor old Willy suddenly finds he or she, though I would guess he, is having to work a little bit harder to stay afloat. Bit by bit, it gets worse and worse until …”
All 144,000 jury members gasp in anticipation of some new horror whose root cause is undoubtedly myself.
“Well, basically, it sinks to the bottom of the ocean and maybe drowns before Willy’s crushed.”
“A crushed Willy? How terrible. And the Terrors?” Mary J asks.
“You people don’t understand—”
“My Lord …” Mary J prompts.
“Sorry, yes. My Lord, the Terrors are misunderstood. When Seven is terrorised, if I can put it that way without straying too far from Willy-metaphor territory, she is somehow the great regulator and Willy swims free. In the absence of the Terrors, Willy is toast, or, more precisely, sushi on toast. And so are we as its gut infestations. The less scientifically inclined call it the Undoing.”
A great lamentation from the jurors fills the air.
The judge leans over his counter. “Prof, I am indebted to you for the clarity of your explanation. It is my experience of space-time criminal cases that no one is ever convicted because it all ends up being relative, which is immensely annoying.”
“Thank you, Prof. And now, my Lord, for my final witness.”
“With six minutes to spare. Well done, J, and so far, it’s all been very interesting.”
Prof departs and that which I had been most dreading transpires. Priest arrives. Of all my Judgements and qualification experiences, his had been the most hurtful. The weight of the metal gown is draining my strength. I feel compressed and trapped and almost drowning in my own perspiration.
“Priest, can you please explain your damning Judgement to the court?” Mary J asks.
“My Lord, Seven has tricked us all. Her true name is Beelzebub, we are in torment and our souls are forfeited.”
Pilot sits up straight and studies Priest. “Has the doctor been treating you? If she has, I would ask for your money back.” Which is followed by such loud guffaws, grunts and snorts from Pilot that I wonder if there might not be a pig inside the gown.
“My Lord, I beseech you. She is deceiving us. There is only one way to stop her. Only one way to bring forth the Rapture.”
Mary J approaches the witness box. “What do you know of the Rapture? And what is this one way?”
“My Lord, I only know that it has not come and it is overdue. For she has imprisoned our souls, we are trapped in the spirit world, and our salvation is past due. Seven must be sacrificed and in the old way: the thieves’ punishment. Only then will we have Rapture.”
A great whisper of gasps, smothered cries and suffocated screams escape from the jury masses. I am confused by the latest threat of a new penalty, though the name – a thieves’ punishment – is familiar for reasons which escape me.
Pilot shouts at the middle-brown-gowned figures, “Court Upper Underling, can we do that? Sentence her to a thieves’ punishment?”
“My Lord, it is a form of the nailing up that does not appear in the Penitentials but can be applied at your discretion.”
“J, I am minded to amend her sentence. Better safe than sorry, right?”
“My Lord, it is a terrible and terminal punishment. And, afterwards, who will sleep in Terror?”
“Good point, J. Well, Priest?”
“My Lord, after the Rapture, the time of the Terrors will be past; the Grand Experiment will be complete. A new age of tribulation and Final Judgement will begin.”
Every juror begins stamping their feet, at first slowly and then faster and louder till the noise assails me like a physical force. Tears splatter my cheeks. Their palpable enmity leaves me breathless and my marrow chilled despite my ponderous gowns. The judge maligns and threatens me as though I were not present. I look to Zero for comfort or some signal that might give me some hope. With his hand very close to his chest, he gives me a little wave and gestures for me to keep my silence. It is comforting; at least I am acknowledged. And there is always plan B.
Pilot raises one hand, and, to my surprise, the great stomping immediately ceases.
“My Lord, I am content with the sentence of the first-tier tribunal.”
“Are you, Mary J? Are you? Well, we shall see about that. Your time is up, J. Now, the lovely Sapphria will briefly and incisively interview the wretched condemned. This will be for official court and shopping purposes and is entirely unrelated to a hefty discount on augmented, spandex posing pouches that I have been promised. I’m off for a fitting. When I get back, M will present her pointless case for the defence.”
“All be upstanding for Chief Judge and Master, Pilot.”
Everyone rises and is seated before I can gather enough strength to momentarily raise my buttocks from my stool. I look down at my metallic hands and see that I have become an object, a mere lump of material to be fashioned and tortured at the whim of the justice system. Then I remember the judge’s final words. With effort, I lift my head and, nervously, I scan the courtroom for any sign of Liberté. Immediately, I am aware of an abnormal silence, and then I notice the attitude of everyone around me. They are all frozen in unnatural poses of imminent motion. Shockingly, my tick has stopped.
“Seven, you’re not missed.”
If my gown of miniature chains did not hold me fast, I would fall forward onto the spikes. Liberté is behind me and is whispering in my ear. Each word is an icicle that stabs at my head. A cloud of corruption envelopes me. Even if I wanted to, and I most surely do not, I am without the strength to turn and look at Liberté. I let my head drop and ignore my tormentor. I concentrate on searching for the passage of time. How can it have stopped?
“Ironic, isn’t it? I miss you. These dead fools miss you. But Marlon’s wrong about the living. They’re not hanging around waiting for an encore. They haven’t even noticed you’re gone. You’ve been replaced, and so easily. And every generation invents a better replacement. With upgrades, downgrades, reinterpretations, re-imaginings, reboots and new-style-old-school and old-style-new-school. They should be mine. Except, I’ve been re
placed too.”
Liberté’s meaningless words, delivered in a lifeless tone, pelt my mind like a blizzard of hailstones. Shockingly, he starts to sing in a high falsetto that cuts through my skull.
I’m bad, I’m bad,
You know I’m very bad,
In the whole world,
Who’s the baddest?
Let me ask you once again,
Now, who’s the baddest …?
Thankfully, Liberté ends his high-pitched screeching just as I think my skull will shatter.
“Who’s the baddest? Not me. Not anymore. Without you. They’re the baddest. I’m blasé. Get back, Seven. It’s time. You promised. I want my three and a half years. I want my child.”
Tick.
Time is moving again. Why does Liberté assail me with his meaningless riddles? What does he want from me? A blinding light forces me to shut my eyes. Sapphria’s silky voice brushes against my ears.
“An Infomercial flash exclusive, folks. A final interview with the deadly Seven before the rusty nail nailing up, or worse. Fingers crossed, right, folks? Seven, is it true that you are an unrepentant Willy tease?”
“Please, go away. Leave me alone,” I whisper feebly.
“You might not have caught that, folks, and be glad you didn’t. It was a foul and unrepentant tirade. Poor Willy. Till next time.”
As though released from Sapphria’s spell, the jurors come to life and bellow accusatory cries of “Willy tease! Willy tease!”
With that, the light is extinguished. My whole body is trembling with fear. I feel as if I have been badly beaten. I am too nervous to raise my head and confirm that the terrible Liberté has gone.
Chapter Nineteen – The Trial – The Defence
I lift my gaze when I feel a familiar touch on my shoulder. Zero, Mary M, Grunge and my witnesses have gathered around me.
“Isn’t that Sapphria nice, Ma?”
“She is a he, Zero, and his name is Liberté, as I’ve already told you. Did you not hear what he said to me?”
“Sorry, Ma, didn’t see the Liberté dude. And, well, I didn’t actually hear what Sapphria said, not the actual words, Ma. It’s just her voice is so, like, cool and lovely and silky.”
“Her words, his words, are barbed and hurtful, Zero.”
“Can’t have that, can we, Ma? I’ll be all, like, telling her it’s not cool next time, Ma.”
“Forget them, Zero, I am very glad to be able to speak to you, all of you.”
“Cool, Ma, we can talk till Pilot gets back. Are you alright?”
“I am well enough, Zero. It is already thirty-five past eight; all this will not be for much longer. I can endure. Tell me, what defence do I have?”
Zero turns to Mary M, who moves as if to speak to Grunge then changes her mind and faces me. “There is no fecking defence. We’ll be doing great if Pilot ignores that cracked old priest. No one else wants that. Even Mary J doesn’t want that.”
Slowly, I shake my head, the most movement I can manage under the weight of the metal over-gown. “Even if you succeed, I shall still be in limbo and nailed up inside bunk-bed-coffin number Seven and never more make buttons. It is a life that I cannot imagine and one I would not want to live. Of course, I am grateful for all that you and Grunge have done for me.”
Zero leans very close to me and whispers, “Ma, we still got plan B. When they nail you up, the next night, me and M, we’ll break you out and it’ll be all buttons go.”
I wonder if I have heard Zero correctly. “You will surreptitiously and secretly de-nail my bunk-bed-coffin after the sentence has been carried out, thus freeing me and allowing me to continue making buttons again?”
“Shush, Ma! It’s, like, a big secret, but yeah. Need a new identity and everything, but M and Grunge got that sorted.”
A substantial smile is sprouting from my lips, my heart is floating, and I am sorely tempted to giggle loudly. “Zero, this is wonderful news. Shall I be free of Encounters? What will my new name be? I should not like to be called Willy the Whale. Can I keep my beloved workhouse and my treasured tools? Oh, Zero, we have to save my cherished chamber pots as well. And will I not be in a coma or in limbo? And—”
“Ma, don’t worry about all that now. Basically, you’ll be an Even, and we’ll move everything over. How does Abi, resident of bunk-bed-coffin number Six sound?”
This is such a transformation of my fortunes that I am bobbing up and down on my stool, despite the burden of the chainmail gown. It will be a great shock to be an Even after a lifetime of being Odd, albeit a trivial matter compared to the alternative.
“Zero, Mary M, everybody, thank you, thank you.”
It is then that I notice for the first time that Mary M is holding Zero’s hand in a most intimate and inappropriate manner.
M leans in close to speak to me. “When I ask, you admit to everything, except being the devil and all that bollocks. And you fecking demand the original sentence. Got that? Hey, Seven, you listening to me? You get this wrong and we’ll be looking at plan 2C. You don’t want that.”
I have not been listening with my full attention. The shock of seeing Zero and Mary M holding hands is disturbing and distracting. Does Zero now think that Mary M is his mother or a possible partner? I feel a little nauseous and a strange new pain is tugging at my heart. At another time, I shall question Zero closely on this matter and warn him that Mary M’s intentions may be less than honourable. She is entirely unsuitable for him in any capacity that involves hand-holding or worse. For now, I nod. Mary M’s stratagem is clear. When asked, I will concur that I am the Judgement-laden criminal that the constable, the doctor, Marlon and Prof described, but I am not the evil demon that Priest so attested. And what, I wonder, is plan 2C?
“All rise!”
Zero and the others rush away to take up their places. It is strangely pleasing that Mary M and Zero are no longer holding hands. I make a weak show of rising by lifting my shoulders. Even that is a struggle despite my new-found hope.
“The Supreme Court presided over by Chief Judge and Master Pilot is now in session.”
Only now do I notice that a marked gap has opened between Mary M and Grunge on the front bench. He is looking very stiff with his arms tightly folded across his chest.
Pilot does not immediately take his seat. Instead, he steps out into the aisle and performs a slow pirouette.
“Well, what do you think? Be honest, M, J.”
I am unclear about what Mary M and Mary J are expected to comment on. As far as I can tell, the judge is unchanged from his first appearance.
“My Lord, my under-gown garments can scarcely contain the womanly excitement that your augmented pouch incites,” says a breathless and husky Mary M.
Mary J leans forward and stares pointedly at the judge’s gown then turns to M and whispers, “What the feck are you talking about, M?”
“Thank you, Mary M. Mary J, I had thought your case was well presented, but I see that you lack vision, and I shall have to reconsider.”
“Oh shit! Forgive me, my Lord, my X-ray contacts were playing up a bit, but now I see the full glory of your sparkle and bulge, and I too am damp with admiration.”
“Why thank you, Mary J. Now, back to business.” Pilot wiggles away and takes his seat. “Mary M, you may begin your utterly pointless but hopefully amusing defence.”
Mary M waves Yazata forward. “Yazata, please tell us how long you’ve known Seven and your impression of her.”
“My Lord, I’ve been friends with grumpy old Seven for a long time now. I know she wants more, but she’s far too senile for me. I prefer women with their own hips.”
Pilot asks, “How long, exactly, have you been friends?”
“Hours, my Lord.”
“Old friends then. Good. Carry on, M.”
Mary M bows then continues her examination: “Please continue, Yazata.”
“Well, she’s a bit batty, stuck-up, obsessed with buttons and herself. Smells a bit. She could t
alk for God. That’s it really.”
“Yazata, have you ever suspected Seven of being pure evil or a spawn of the devil?”
“Oh no, definitely not.”
Yazata’s testimony is painful. I find myself squinting, frowning and baring my teeth as I listen. It is somewhat less annoying now that I know its purpose. The middle-brown gowned underling turns towards Pilot, who leans forward, and they engage in a whispered conversation.
“M, Court Upper Underling informs me that this witness gave contradictory evidence at the previous hearing.”
“Really, my Lord? I do not recall.”
“Clerk, relay this witness’s previous comments regarding the accused.”
The machinist fiddles with her machine and then begins reading: “Seven is forever going on and on about her fiendishly evil plans to destroy all of creation.”
“Yazata, what do you have to say to that?”
“My Lord, I was lying.”
“When, Yazata, then or now?”
“Both, my Lord.”
“You are lying now and you were lying then?”
“No, my Lord.”
“What do you mean, no? Answer the question.”
“Yes, my Lord.”
“M, remove this infuriating witness before I have him fed his own innards.”
“Yazata, you are excused.”
Mary M and the rest of the front bench huddle together and whisper furiously. I surmise that Mary M has realised that calling Lady Sade or Phobetor to speak on my behalf might be problematic given their previous testimonies.
“M, are you finished? M!”
Mary M breaks away from the huddle and, to my surprise, ushers forward Miss Phobetor.
“Please relay to the court your current views on the character of Seven.”
“My Lord, my previous testimony was a barefaced lie. I was under the influence of illicit substances that were surreptitiously fed to me by dark forces who are out to suppress the truth and tangle my silken lingerie. However, I am now fully recovered, sensually attired in lacy undergarments and anxious to accurately relay the reality of Seven’s situation regarding the Terrors.”
