Seven at Two Past Five

by Tara Basi

  Pilot looks directly at me. “Slut, shut your mouth! Save your breath for the screaming to come. And, by my order, you will be de-gowned and stripped naked before you are nailed up so that all may see the hidden signs and marks.”

  A vicious rodent, sharp of claw and tooth, is trapped in my stomach. My mind cannot conceive of such a horror. I cry out, “No!” The sound that escapes my dry mouth is feeble and faint. The weight of my head overcomes my weary neck muscles. I doubt it will ever again be lifted up. I close my eyes and hope that they will see no more horror. I wrap my arms tightly around my head in the hope that I will hear not another hateful word. The enraged rat brutally gnaws my insides.

  “Wow! Man, you can’t be saying things like that about my Ma.”

  Zero’s raised voice forces me to lift my head. Zero has walked to the front of the court, pushed past the underlings and is banging on Pilot’s counter as he speaks. I croak a warning. He is in great danger.

  “You don’t want to be setting her off, man. That wouldn’t be cool.”

  I try to wave Zero back to his seat but only succeed in feebly rattling my suffocating chainmail. I bite my lip and cannot but quiver in anticipation of what may unfold.

  Pilot stands up and stares down at Zero. “Remove this hooligan and have him flogged. Then bring him back for Judgement.”

  Two burly court ruffians seize Zero’s arms and begin dragging him away. I cannot watch. My head falls back down into my hands, and I am assailed by horrifying images of what might befall my darling Zero.

  Even though I do not look, I recognise Mary M’s husky voice. “My Lord, if I may?”

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “Zero is an officer of the court.”

  “He is? Is that correct, Court Upper Underling?”

  I look up. The middle-brown-gowned underling turns and faces the judge. “Yes, my Lord. Though he’s only admin.”

  “You hear that, M? He’s admin. Admin have no rights of representation. He may not speak but he can, most certainly, be flogged and justified.”

  Mary M is undeterred. “Zero wishes to address the court on matters of administration pertaining to the particulars that will follow after sentence is carried out, which I believe it would be in the court’s best interest to hear.”

  “Most irregular. Court Upper Underling, is there a precedent?”

  “Yes, my Lord. In the year of the small fire, my Lord, Admin was allowed into the court to yell, ‘Fire! Fire! Get your fat arses out of here! Run, run, you barrels of rancid lard!’ or some such.”

  “M, is the situation comparable?”

  “My Lord, it is precisely of a very similar nature to those general types of happenstances.”

  “Oh, very well. Though I shall need the court clerk to translate as I have no idea what the idiot was saying earlier.”

  “Of course, my Lord.”

  I breathe a little easier. Zero has been released by the court ruffians and is standing beside Mary M. She turns to Zero and, in a tender gesture, places her hands on either side of his hooded face. “Please proceed and keep it fecking real.”

  “Too right, M. Lordy man, you’ve been very uncool.”

  To my surprise, the clerk duly translates. “Zero is very happy with my Lord and praises your sound and wise counsel.”

  The judge impatiently signals Zero to continue.

  “It’s like this, man. You’ve got no idea who you’re messing with, so time to lay it on you like it is.”

  “And now I will say something.”

  The clerk’s translations are bizarre, and the judge is growing ever more annoyed. My hands entwine each other for comfort, and I shake my head so that Zero should know that he must cease his protestations and return to his seat before it is too late.

  Pilot expresses his frustration: “For goodness sake, get on with it; there’s a sentence to be carried out.”

  Zero stands up very straight, flings his arms wide and, in a loud, strong voice, addresses the whole court. “And she will execute great vengeance upon the court with furious rebukes; and the court shall know who she is when she shall lay her vengeance upon the court. For, behold, she cometh out of her box to punish the inhabitants of the court for their iniquity; she will disclose her true name and no more restrain her wrath.”

  The Clerk screams, “We’re all fecked!”

  The jurors collectively gasp and hold their breaths.

  Zero turns to me. “Ma?”

  I know what Zero requires of me. Mary M had warned me often enough that this moment would come. I tense my body, turning it to stone, stare down at the floor with bulging eyes and concentrate so hard that my skull risks being split open from the pressure of my thrashing mind. My name, what is my true name? Only one answer comes back. “I am sorry, Zero. Save yourself.”

  Zero shivers, his shoulders collapse, his chest hollows, and his head falls.

  The thousands of jurors release a gale as they start breathing again.

  Pilot stands up. “Shut up, Clerk! The only one here who’s fecked is the appellant. We know her name, Admin; it is Beelzebub, and she’s stolen our Rebirth and the sky. Take her away, Court Ruffians.”

  Zero straightens and lifts his head. “Wait!”

  “Wait!” the clerk repeats.

  “Shut up, Clerk!” the judge yells.

  “Forgive them, Ma, they’ve no idea what’s going down.” Zero turns to take in the whole vastness of the court. “You are all her children. And I am Son of Woman. The one you’ve all been waiting for. For I am La Deux.”

  “La Deux? La Deux!”

  That question and exclamation flies around the court like a vast flock of birds wheeling and diving. I feel that name disturb a memory, but my mind is so tired the memory will not awaken.

  The judge stares at Zero. “You are La Deux? Clerk, is he?”

  “My Lord, do you want me to translate that question?”

  Pilot throws his hammer at the clerk, who neatly evades the projectile as though it is a commonly faced hazard. An underling collects the little wooden hammer and returns it to Pilot. “You, Zero, La Deux, whoever you are, we’ll deal with you later. Ruffians, carry out Seven’s sentence.”

  “Man, you, like, don’t get it. Take me! I’ll be the sacrifice.”

  With all my strength, I struggle to my feet and shout as loudly as I can, “No, no! I will not allow it! He is Zero! He is not La Deux!”

  Mary M has rushed to Zero’s side and taken his hand. Her shoulders are shaking.

  The judge turns to me – “Silence, she-devil!” – then back to Zero. “What do you mean, Admin? Speak clearly and be quick; it’s almost nine.”

  “Take me and you’ll have Rapture without Terror. Everything will be cool.”

  “Rapture without Terror? Are you a communist?”

  “You’ll all be saved and released from this place. Every single one of you. Only Seven will remain. Alone, as she was in the beginning. Believe in me, man. It’ll all be cool.”

  I lean as far forward as I can and loudly scream, “He is not La Deux! He is Zero!”

  “Ma, my true name is Zero Zero One Zero. It’s an IT admin thing. Chill, Ma, it’s all good. Plan 2C, Ma.”

  His answer is bewildering. Everything is spinning. Plan 2C?

  Mary M steps forward. “My Lord, if I may?”

  “Well, what is it, M?”

  “My Lord, we can have two fitting punishments. The great idolatress Seven will be confined to her bunk-bed-coffin and her grubby workhouse, alone and desolate for all eternity, endlessly forced to make buttons. And La Deux will finally …” Mary M pauses and claps her hand to her mouth. Zero lifts her other hand to his chest and holds it there. There is a catch and a terribly sad tone in Mary M’s voice that I have not heard before. “… end the waiting of his companion thieves. Let La Deux share their fate, a thieves’ punishment. Terror banished and Rapture found. My Lord will be remembered for his wisdom throughout all time. Perhaps, even until tomorrow.”

&
nbsp; Mary M’s words should lift my spirits, but a counterweight is dragging them down. The memory that has been swimming in the dark depths of my mind finally surfaces. La Deux is the one that the thieves, Dis and Ges, have been awaiting. I shiver as the memory unfolds fully. When La Deux arrives, all three will be nailed up. A low moan escapes my throat.

  The other Marys, who had been huddled together for some time, shake out the wrinkles in their gowns and stand up straight. “We concur with that, so we do. And then we’ll all be leaving this place, finally, sure we will. To the light and the peace.”

  “Mary J, will there be bloody harpy music? You know that sort of thing really bugs me.”

  “Mary B, it’s an intrinsic part of the whole experience, so it is. You can’t be messing with that.”

  “That’s all very well, Mary J, but a little drum and bass wouldn’t go amiss. Liven things up a bit.”

  Pilot strokes his chin. “Shut up, fishwives. Mary M, I thought the dammed Seven liked making buttons.”

  Lady Sade immediately stands up and twirls around to show off her beautiful full-length zip to the judge. “My Lord, as I have already testified, she hates buttons. She loves zips. Button-making for Seven will be an endless torment.”

  “That is all very well, Lady Sade, but what about the Great Seals you mentioned at the earlier hearing that Seven has secretly constructed and intends to break?”

  “My Lord, in my expert opinion, Seven would struggle to make a decent buttonhole, let alone something as fine as a Great Seal.”

  Phobetor stands. “My Lord, as a renowned expert in the Terrors, I can confirm everything that has been said.”

  “Are you saying that we need not worry about the whole Armageddon business?”

  “My Lord, Seven has trouble managing her own bladder. Do you really believe that such an eccentric old biddy is capable of organising the Final Battle?”

  Yazata jumps to his feet. “They’re all lying, my Lord. It’s a trick. You’re being played. Don’t do it.”

  Pilot throws his hammer at Yazata, who easily evades it. “I’m not listening to you, you’re always lying. Look, it’s a few seconds to nine and the lodgement is almost depleted. There are many finely balanced arguments in every direction I look.” The judge stands and gazes up at the massed benches of the jury. “It’s your choice. Thieves’ punishment for Seven. Or a thieves’ punishment for La Deux and have Seven thrown into her coffin to make crappy buttons forever?”

  With all my strength, I brace my legs, stand up and shout as loudly as I can, “Take me! Punish me! Zero is innocent! He is only a boy!”

  I cannot remain standing; the weight of the over-gown drags me back down. For many moments, there is only silence. Then a single voice cries out: “La Deux!” Then another: “La Deux!” Each cry nicks my heart. The isolated calls spread like a rampant disease and morph into a shrill, cancerous throng that consumes my core. There are only two words ringing out from every juror – “La Deux!”

  Sobbing, I look to Zero. To his left he has his hand on Grunge’s shoulder, who is beside him on his handcart. Zero is standing quite still. The black and white Marys have thrown themselves at his feet and appear to be sobbing. To his right, Mary M is kneeling and holding his hand. Yazata, Miss Phobetor and the Lady Sade are similarly kneeling. All are facing Zero. I shake my head. Am I seeing clearly? Why are the black and white Marys trying to share my grief?

  An odd movement from Grunge draws my eye. I slap my hand to my hooded mouth. Grunge is trying to get up. With Zero’s support, Grunge slowly rises to his feet. His handcart squeakily rolls away. Grunge is upright. My previously crippled solicitor is standing next to Zero while clutching his chamber pot to his chest.

  Pilot surveys the jury before raising a hand, which dampens and then causes the cries of ‘La Deux’ to cease. “The people have spoken. While I was very minded to humiliate and then kill Seven, you have chosen La Deux to be horribly maimed and to die an agonising, slow death.”

  There was a tiny mote of hope that Zero might yet be saved in the very same way he and Mary M had planned to save me. That mote of comfort is incinerated by the judge’s words. They are going to kill Zero. I hear myself scream, “No! No! Take me! Take me!” No one except for Zero seems to notice. He presses his hands together and bows towards me.

  The judge points at Zero. “Ruffians, thieves’ punishment for La Deux!”

  A great cheering goes up from the army of jurors. The black and white Marys are sprawled and wailing and smacking the floor with their hands. My kneeling witnesses have bowed their heads. A pair of ruffians seize hold of Zero and begin leading him away. He looks back and waves at me as though he were only departing on some trivial errand.

  Mary M chases after a pliant Zero, who is being bundled out of the court. She is sobbing loudly, as am I. The ravenous rat is tearing its way up my gut, directly towards my heart. Two ruffians seize me from behind and drag me out of my box. I shriek as loudly as I can, “Take me, not Zero! Not Zero! Please, not Zero! Not my son!”

  The darkness that dampens my mind and shutters my eyes is a welcome escape from this horror.

  Chapter Twenty-One – Even

  When my eyes flicker open, it is tar dark. Instinctively, my hand reaches for the light switch, the light that has never failed me. My old friend, the caged bulb, bursts into life. I find that my head and its covering of thinning, white hair is resting easily on a sackcloth-covered pillow. Above me are comforting boards with familiar writing in faded red: Two Past Five. I push back the fibrous linen blanket and sit up. My head does not touch the roof. Beyond my feet, the word Seven is burnt into the wood. It is now forty past four. Last night I was not delivered to the Terrors. Did I dream of something even more terrible? Slowly, the shimmering memory of the nightmare coalesces in my thoughts like steam cooling to water and then freezing solid.

  “Zero!” My strangled exclamation is dampened and absorbed by the wood and, too quickly, my box falls silent, as though I have never uttered a sound, and Zero and all the events and Encounters of yesterday have never happened. Was it all just a new Terror, a new nightmare? Threading my fingers through my hair, I press my palms to my scalp. With pulses of compression, I try to push away the imaginary and find the reality. I do remember a dream. Not a nightmare of constables and Judgements and the Marys and my darling Zero and a final nailing up. It was an absurd dream of a strangely dressed, chubby baby with white wings. In one hand, it held a yellow duster; in the other, a mop. It was all but naked. The strange infant was adorned with only a khaki apron. Could I have dreamt of one of those who maintain my environment and provide my sustenance? A carer? In my dream, it came very close and whispered something in my ear. There is a nagging feeling that the message is important, very important. Squeezing my skull harder does not help me recall more. I am assailed by a terrible despair and wrap my arms around my head as though to shut out the horrible memories. Uncontrollably, I begin rocking back and forth at an ever-faster pace in a desperate effort to find some comfort. My cheeks are littered with tears, and hacking sobs bruise my lungs.

  Abruptly, I stop my pointless wailing and shrug off my lethargy. There might yet be hope. Perhaps some message awaits me in my workhouse, and I will know the truth of Zero’s fate. If he was real. My misery threatens to overwhelm me again. If the truth is as I think I remember, then I would beg to know that all of it was only a nightmare.

  Having decided on a course of action, I prepare to leave for my workhouse. It is then that I notice that I am in my nightdress and, despite my distress, I am ravenous. The supper compartment of my foot-locker-box is empty and, on this discovery, my stomach burbles loudly. Anxiously, I open the chamber-pot-compartment. My brittle smile greets the sight of the cherished chamber pot in its usual place. I find its presence even more welcoming when I discover that I am bursting to overflowing. It is a welcome bodily relief, and I am comforted by the solidity of the familiar: my bunk-bed-coffin, my chamber pot, my nightdress. These are at least re
al and permanent.

  Hurriedly, I strip away my nightclothes and bedding and leave them folded neatly atop the foot-locker-box. I am now naked and impatient. It is only fifty past four. My fingers drum loudly on the boards of my bunk-bed-coffin floor as I wait for Two Past Five. I am sorely tempted to open the panel now and leave for the workhouse. I stop my drumming and bend my mind to the other dream, the dream of the baby. It was a messenger. It delivered a message. There were two parts. In the first part—

  The recollection is interrupted when I fall back on my haunches and strike my head on the boards behind me. I rub my sore scalp vigorously as I strain to remember. I can only recall the tingling feeling of its breath on my ear and the gentle breeze from its fluttering wings. Frustratingly, not a single syllable can I recollect of what it said to me.

  My unfailing sense of time tells me that a full day and a night have passed since I awoke after the first night without Terror. This night past then has been my second Terror-free night. The passage of time is real. Were the events and the Encounters also real, then? How could they not be? Yet, how could such surreal and impossible things have occurred? The vast Inns of Court appearing overnight? Zero’s birth and journey to manhood completed in a single morning? How could Liberté stop time? And what was the purpose of any of it? The Marys, and others, endlessly enigmatic with their inscrutable parables explaining nothing. Everything that I think transpired holds no more meaning for me than the Terrors themselves.

  It is fifty-seven past four. Each tick comes more slowly than the last. My insides are tangled and strangling my heart. I must know the truth of the past day’s events. I will not wait. I cannot wait. With my lungs full to bursting and with my eyes clasped shut, I grip the panel tightly. I wait, unbreathing and unseeing. What if it will not open? What if I have been nailed up? Has my bunk-bed-coffin become only my coffin? Have I been entombed and separated from my workhouse and my buttons for thousands of nights? It would be beyond unbearable.

  I begin shaking like the string of a musical instrument that has been too brutally plucked and might yet snap. I clap my hands fiercely together, sending out a loud smack that blows away my self-centred and pointless speculation. I keep pressing, palm against palm, until a calm envelopes me.