Seven at Two Past Five

by Tara Basi

  Pilot peers at Phobetor for a long moment. “You poor woman, are you sure you are well enough to testify? You must come to my chambers later, and we shall discuss these dark forces and their interest in your fine underwear in more detail.”

  “My Lord, thank you for your concern. I can proceed.”

  Pilot nods and Mary M signals to Miss Phobetor to continue.

  “My Lord, there is no Willy, no Terrors, no Rapture, no Hell below us and above us only a rocky sky. In my view, if atheism is good enough for God, then it’s good enough for me.”

  “An interesting perspective, but what then are these so-called Terrors?”

  “Wind, my Lord.”

  “Wind?”

  “Yes, my Lord. Seven is lactose intolerant but wilfully insists on consuming large quantities of dairy products. Warm milk, sour milk, curds and whey, and other such like consumables. As a result, she suffers terribly from trapped wind, which leads to her restless nights and her bad attitude during the day. A period of nailing up and a dairy-free diet should resolve everything.”

  “M, is that really a thing? Lactose intolerance? You never see cows complaining.”

  “My Lord, they have four stomachs.”

  “One for each udder? I suppose it makes as much sense as anything else. Continue, M, time’s running out.”

  “Yes, my Lord. I should now like to call the Lady Sade.”

  Phobetor steps down, and the Lady Sade wiggles her way into the witness box under the close attention of the judge. I sigh and wish that Phobetor had been telling the truth and that the solution to all my troubles were so simple.

  “Lady Sade, please give us your thoughts on Seven’s character,” M asks.

  “My Lord, I should first like to say that I too was previously under the influence of the same dark forces that molested Miss Phobetor, though my suffering was even greater.”

  “You poor woman. What even more unseemly things did these murky forces do to you?”

  “My Lord, the dark forces took every single one of my delicate under garments. I am even now without.”

  Pilot leans so far towards the Lady Sade that I fear he may topple over onto the floor. “Without?” His voice is guttural, as though he is unable to swallow.

  “Yes, my Lord. Completely and utterly without.”

  Pilot collapses into a coughing fit.

  Mary J approaches Lady Sade. “Please, tell us about Seven.”

  “It is all very simple really. She is an extremely bad button maker and she knows it.”

  Lady Sade has my attention. She may be acting in my best interests, but her words are terribly hurtful.

  “That is why she sleeps in Terror. Her real passion is zips, but she knows deep down that she lacks the skill and imagination to tackle zips. This frustration has led to her rampant criminality. As she lacks the wherewithal to do anything creative with fastenings, so she is without the wit to be truly evil. Seven is merely … naughty.”

  The jurors nonsensically begin screaming, “Nail her to the naughty step!” Their hateful words pound my skull like iron hailstones.

  Pilot appears to listen for a while and is nodding in apparent agreement before he lifts his hand to quieten the mob. “Immensely interesting! Are you done now, M? I am getting a little hot up here. And I think it very important that I personally investigate these dark forces by closely examining the evidence that Lady Sade and Miss Phobetor have alluded to in my private chambers. They might also benefit from observing how my own pouch is tamper-proof unless one has a key, which I would happily share with your witnesses in the interests of justice.”

  “My Lord, I should like to call Mary J.”

  “Make it snappy, M; it will soon be nine.”

  Mary J replaces Lady Sade in the witness box. I am sure that I shall enjoy her testimony even less than that of Phobetor and Lady Sade, if only she does not use that word ‘imagine’.

  Mary M approaches Mary J and slams her fist into her open palm, sending a loud crack echoing around the court.

  “J, can you tell us what the feck is going on and who Seven really is?”

  “My Lord, as M very well knows, these are exactly the questions we’ve been wrestling with all day.”

  “Answer the question, J.”

  “Well, my Lord, I think it is that whole blue Willy thing that’s going on. And I’m quite sure about that, so I am. And I’m pretty sure Seven is not Beelzebub. Quite the opposite, probably. Though I could be wrong about that.”

  “J, please tell the court what your sentencing recommendation would be.”

  “My Lord, we got to get them Terrors back, so we do. And your standard or even a rusty nail nailing up in her bunk-bed-coffin will be perfectly adequate. Now, if we go down that old-style thief’s nailing up, well that’s a whole other kettle of loaves and fishes, you know. Could trigger an Undoing.”

  Pilot immediately interrupts: “An Undoing, Mary M? Did not Prof say something about that? Exactly what is this Undoing?”

  Mary J answers, “My Lord, it’ll take seven days.”

  “Seven?”

  “Yes, my Lord. On day one, and if we stick with the Willy metaphor, then we’d definitely all be shat out. Afterwards, Willy will say that the great Undoing will involve much work, so Willy will first have to have a little rest.”

  “A rest?”

  “On day two, my Lord, Willy will be very hungry and eat all the creatures that live on dry land.”

  “I thought Willy was a whale. How can a whale maraud across the land?”

  “It’s a myth, my Lord: the Undoing myth.”

  “Fine, continue.”

  “Then, my Lord, Willy will eat everything that’s in the seas or that flies in the air.”

  “Your Willy has a serious eating problem.”

  “On the fourth day, my Lord, Willy will eat the stars, the moon and the sun.”

  “Insatiable.”

  “On the fifth day, the land will sink beneath the oceans.”

  “I am beginning to think that this myth is not going to end happily.”

  “On the sixth day, Willy will swallow the sky.”

  “There is not much left to gobble up, is there, Mary J?”

  “On the Seventh day, Willy will swallow the oceans, the world, the day and the night. Willy will declare that it has been a bad day, so let there be dark. Then Willy will swallow itself, leaving only a lightless, empty void. And so there will be dark.”

  “Charming!”

  A few jurors whimper quietly, “Dark Undoings,” before falling silent again.

  “Thank you, Mary J.”

  Mary M helps a trembling Mary J back to her seat before returning to her place.

  “I would like to call the defendant, my Lord.”

  “It is forty-five past eight. You have five minutes and not a second longer.”

  “Seven, are you Beelzebub and intent on destroying all of creation?”

  For a moment, I wonder who M is talking to. I had become so wrapped up in the absurd story of the Undoing. I know my moment has come. Clearing my head, I remember my instructions. “I am most certainly not Beelzebub, and I have no interest in destroying creation. My name is Abi. I live in bunk-bed-coffin number Seven, and at Two Past Five every morning I travel to workhouse number Seven to make buttons. In the evening, I return to my bunk-bed-coffin, and at exactly nine past nine, the Terrors take me. This is how my days have always unfolded until this night past when the Terrors did not come. I would do anything to have my routine restored, even if that involved re-embracing the Terrors. More, I do not know.”

  “My Lord, that concludes our presentation.”

  Pilot throws wide his arms and looks up at the vast crowd. “I would like to hear from the jury. Your choice is simple. Either Seven is some sort of Willy-germ hybrid and her sentence will stand, or you are convinced that Seven is the high demon and must face an old-style thieves’ punishment. Court Under Underling Keith will now explain the new-fangled voting system. I my
self prefer the traditional baying, screeching and cursing of the mob, but one has to move with the times.”

  A brown-gowned underling steps forward holding a strange contraption in two hands. Keith, I assume, holds it up and turns slowly around, so all the jurors can see the odd device.

  “This is the mark-three, quad-pad, haptic juror voting controller with multi-stage triggers, a pair of self-propelled mini-joysticks and built-in button masher. You’ll find one under your seat. Please take it out now and switch the controller on by caressing the top right-hand haptic pad while simultaneously twirling the lower left-hand joystick in an anti-clockwise direction. Later, I’ll take you through the seven-stage calibration process. Right now, I’d like to explain the Alternate Voting Plus proportional adjudication system that we’ll be using.”

  Pilot rises from his seat and points at Keith. “Court Ruffians, remove that imbecile immediately.”

  Two ruffians rush forward, gather Keith up in their beefy arms and whisk him out of the court before the poor underling realises what is happening to him. He is still explaining the voting system when he vanishes behind the doors.

  Still standing, Pilot addresses the vast horde. “We will use the traditional and timelier mob voting system to reach a verdict. When I tell you …”

  A growling murmur grows in the crowd, and there is much shuffling of feet and gown trembling.

  “Wait for it!”

  The crowd settles a little and their murmuring morphs into a low, ominous buzzing that sets every molecule of air vibrating with tension. It is as if there are a multitude of angry wasps trapped under every juror’s gown and they are growing angrier by the second.

  “You will begin baying, screeching, yelling, gesturing and generally mobbing for the verdict of your choice. Feel free to attack your neighbours if you disagree with their conclusion. You may begin … now!”

  The jury instantly releases a hurricane of noise that near bowls me over. I feel like an insect trapped in the bell of a euphonium that is being played very badly. There is only one horrible phrase that can be discerned from the vast crowd’s discordant screams.

  “Nail her up! Nail her up! Nail her up!”

  Any other choices they may be making are lost in a sea of din. Great battles have erupted on all sides. Many are using the mark-three voting controllers as a weapon. White gowns are splashed with red; darker robes are stained with even darker patches. Academicals are fighting amongst themselves and with the Marlon multitude. A horde of priests invades the doctors’ territory as though bent on attacking the left flank of the constables. The doctors are fighting back and have unleashed a torrent of blows that send out loud cracks as medical knuckles meet ministers’ skulls. Only the constables are seated calmly. Now that I am focused on that section of the court, I can hear them chanting as one: “Free Willy!” which makes no sense to me at all. The roar and violence of the mob leaves me cowering in my box.

  After some moments of this noise and mayhem, Pilot raises his arms and everyone falls silent and frozen in the midst of their pitched battles. “Well, Court Upper Underling?”

  The middle-brown gowned answers, “My Lord, the jury has spoken and the verdict is unanimous.”

  It seems highly unlikely to me that the pandemonium and violence I have witnessed could have resulted in anything intelligible, let alone a consensus.

  “Yes, and what is it?”

  “Whatever!”

  “That’s their verdict? What does it mean?”

  “They’d rather not say, my Lord.”

  “Very well, then I will now deliver a final and irrevocable sentence in the case of Seven vs. Nearly Everyone Else.”

  My heart is so bruised and battered, I cannot contain the tears. Out they pour from some seemingly inexhaustible source. My limbs are crushed by the weight of my chainmail restraint. The heat has wedded my skin to my under-gown clothes, which are joined in sour sweat with my Encounter gown that, in-turn, is fused with my metal over-gown by rusty perspiration. Even at the end, there is no dignity or comfort. Zero is out of reach, and so is plan B if I am awarded the thieves’ punishment. And what of plan 2C? Is that still a possibility? It is fifty past eight, and very soon I shall know my fate.

  Chapter Twenty – The Trial – The Verdict

  “But before that … drumroll, Underlings!” Pilot declares.

  My heartfelt groan joins with the groans of thousands of others and echoes around the banked seating like stormy seas assaulting the shore. At this moment, my jury and I are as one in our desire for this farcical trial to end.

  The remaining five brown-gowned underlings line up in single file and begin to march down the aisle between the benches while making the most asinine noises. Even under their hoods, I can see that they are inflating their cheeks and then slapping them to produce percussive noises, which are vaguely synchronised. The cheek-smacking increases in tempo, and I note that different underlings are face-popping at different rates, producing an effect which is somewhat musical. When the underlings reach the court doors, they perform an elaborate turn and march back in the direction of the judge, popping, plopping and visage-slapping all the while. And they have now introduced some form of hideous nostril-snorting counterpoint. When the tedious underlings reach the front of the court, they peel into two lines heading in opposite directions before returning to meet and coming to a halt in the position they started from. The long and monotonous court underlings’ so-called drumroll increases in volume and tempo till finally collapsing into a spluttering percussive mess that fades to silence.

  Pilot bangs his little hammer. A great hush of anticipation fills the air. The jurors are frozen in expectation and many are still holding poses of interrupted violence.

  “I have carefully considered the Willy-the-Whale-and-germ-symbiotic-but-unconscious-relationship-psychosis hypothesis as the root cause of Seven’s criminality. I find that it has great merit in many respects and also certain logical weaknesses. Firstly, the name Willy. I find that name to be rather silly and unconvincing. Secondly, the Willy theory implies a lack of purpose and cognitive awareness on the part of Seven. Given the wide-ranging and sophisticated nature of Seven’s crimes, that would seem unlikely.”

  Pilot pauses and so does my heart. All I wish is that this day would end.

  “Our attention must then turn to the possibility that Seven is indeed an arch demon, if not Beelzebub himself, maliciously intent on the destruction of all creation. This possibility is extremely plausible and is supported by the defence’s own witnesses’ testimonies at the first-tier tribunal, as well as a most damning account by Priest.”

  It seems my fate is sealed. It will be beyond Zero’s ability to save me. I hope there will be time to warn him about Mary M. I shall ask Grunge to show Zero her reference. Mary M is totally unsuitable for Zero. Perhaps I can guide him towards the lovely Phobetor and certainly counsel him from having anything to do with the brazen Lady Sade.

  The judge continues, “Though if we do as Priest suggests, we risk the Undoing myth becoming a reality and then reality ending. Whereas the delightful lingerie-infused testimonies of Miss Phobetor and the Lady Sade point to a whole other understanding of Seven, her motives and her actions …”

  Could it be that I can still be saved by Zero’s daring rescue plan? If so, then this trial must finish soon. I am being broiled alive under the weight of my garments and doubt that I can last much longer.

  The judge has not finished. “… it is true that Seven is bowed and speaks, interminably, like a horrible, smelly, old woman whose life and lodgement is about to run out. Her brain is clearly addled and her button, and/or zip, fetish is disturbing. Can this old hag really be the Great Disassembler?”

  My bones are melting, my muscles are wasted, my blood is thinned to water and any strength I have to care about my fate is evaporating. The constant flickering between hope and futility has flayed away the last of my defiance. I should like all of this to stop, no matter the outcome. A movement c
atches my eye. I see that Zero is starting to rise from his bench. Only the combined efforts of Mary M and Grunge hold him down.

  Pilot drones on, “There is one matter that is unaccounted for. Priest declared that we are trapped here by Seven. If we are entombed in some hellish spirit world, would there not be signs? Then it came to me: there are signs. Who can remember the last time they saw the sun?”

  All around me, the massed ranks of the jurors, who had ceased their fisticuffs and were standing frozen in the midst of battle, abruptly unfreeze. Some turn to their bloody neighbour and engage in intense conversations, others are shaking their heads, and many have fallen back into their seats and are clasping their hands to their hoods. A faint whimpering fills the air. I am baffled at this reaction to Pilot’s question. I have never seen the sun and consider it in no way odd.

  Pilot continues with his rhetorical questioning: “Who can remember, with clarity, exactly what they were doing yesterday?”

  The whimpering grows in volume, and the head-shaking intensifies.

  “And where exactly are we? What is this place? What country? Or are we trapped in an amorphous and timeless spirit world? Are we even alive?”

  The whimpering turns into a prodigious wailing. A great forest of arms is waving like thin branches caught in a storm.

  “We are in Hell. She is the succubus. The great trickster. She has stolen our Rapture. Seven is the great Whore. A fornicator with beasts, inventor of the AV Plus voting system and worse. Let her be immediately de-gowned and led away to suffer the thief’s nailing up. She has denied our Rebirth, taken our souls and our sunlight. That is my sentence.”

  Everything Pilot has said has churned my insides, but one word more than any other strikes me like an axe to the chest. De-gowned. I am rigid. My every muscle is cramped. I make hard fists and struggle to my feet.

  “I will not suffer to be de-gowned. Never! Never!”

  Pilot points to me and looks up at the jurors. “See, she hides her horns under her hood.”

  A great screaming and yelling erupts from every direction.