Cacklebladder

“No ifs, ands or buts about it. Say it after me. No ifs, ands or buts about it. Go ahead, say it.”

“No ifs, ands or bus-stop armpits… No ifs… Ugh, Jesus!”

“No ifs, ands or buts about it. One more time.”

“No ifs. Ands. Or buts. About it.”

“Good enough, Mr. Marsh, that’s fine. Remember; if you continue to feel disorientated or discover that you have gaps in your memory, times where you can’t recall where you’ve been or how you’ve got somewhere… Just phone through to reception and Rosie will make you another appointment. The important thing is not to panic and start fearing the worst. Head trauma can have all kinds of manifest symptoms but there would appear to be no immediate danger in your case. You’re free to go back home, if you like? Excellent! I’ll be right back with the discharge papers…”

*

The archive within St. Margaret’s, a quarter after noon. The other curators have assembled by the time I return from the quack. Noel Bellingham; haughty and wiry so-and-so, and Giles St. Clair-Archibald; sociopathic prude and natural bore. They mill around my work-space and attempt to console me with their stock pleasantries. I, their friend and colleague Toby Marsh, am for the most part ingenuous and dismissive, until Professor Barton has extricated himself from his usual pile of manuscripts and headed off to lunch, at which point I usher my fellows back from their assigned shelves and impart upon them what I have learned:

“If what we seek, gentlemen, is a solution to the monotony of this work, as well as such a union that may defraud the arses in the Players’ Society and Cluedo Club, I believe I may very well have it. Let me explain. As I set out this morning, I happened to be set upon by a group of youths. It appeared as if they very much desired to make a call on my mobile. I can’t be certain; they spoke such an unusual dialect…”

“Such people in Oxford? I do wonder sometimes what we are paying for!” This from Bellingham, his blonde hair typically electrified, and the locks gesticulate along with him. He forestalls a rant so that I may continue.

“Naturally, I refused their request for fear that they would mug me. At which point, they began to grow desperate. Something to do with a baby and Social Services; you know the story! I made to leave and one of them, the tallest, went to grab my arm and sort of cuffed me around the side of the head. An accident, I am sure, but as I was balanced on the edge of the kerb, I went over. And it was the most extraordinary thing!”

“You never were one for Queensbury Rules now, were you, Lucky?” This from St. Clair-Archibald, a rare half-smile on his face.

“Listen to this! I hit my head on the edge of the pavement and went a bit dizzy. I thought it best to lay still until someone came to my aid. But all the while I could hear them there, those youths. Wallowing and panicking and screaming at one another! It is all a little blurry, I must admit, but it seemed to me at the time that they were afraid the blow had killed me. Never have I witnessed such a discourse as this, such rapid exchange of emotions. ‘How do we cover this up? What do we do with the body? How do we explain our whereabouts? Who is going to go looking for this fellow? What will his mother think?’ Eventually of course, they did what all cowards eventually do and ran away. They didn’t even take my mobile. And it got me to thinking.

“Being dead back there put me in the ultimate position of authority. Yes, I may be without body and mind, but all responsibility and pressure was piled onto them… onto their bodies and minds, and boy, do the tables then turn!”

*

They were young men of the world and it was a world that had provided. A classical education and cushy job in the archives aside, there were unique opportunities out there for people with more than one brain cell to rub together. Why get involved in such scrapes as these then, you ask, when they had the key to the back door? After all, they had high-profile referrals, internships with banking institutions and venture capital, hourly phone-calls from academic types seeking their expertise for research papers and journal pieces. They were young men with aspirations in an aspirational world and they fitted.

Yet the world being a world could change and would. There would come a time when they would make enemies, unwittingly provoke scandal or, by some far-flung error in judgement, break the law. The one thing missing from the aspirational world was an out, for when it all inevitably went wrong.

They had studied Houdini in earnest before deciding that escapology wasn’t worth the hassle. As I had so carefully explained, there was a far simpler way out for when the shit hit the fan and it stared you in the face everywhere you went. So, they devised and founded the Sudden Death Society, following hushed negotiations between the insulated shelving and reams of old cardboard that made up the archive. They three were the founders and, from that day to this, the only members.

*

“An update on the Celia Blackwood situation. Ayrshire over in Physics has quite a lot to say about her thesis on the properties of elemental particles… and I must say I found her piece in the Review to be most illuminating, concerning the terraforming practices of the East India Company. Could be quite the little gem in the making, if I’m any judge of such matters…” Bellingham speaks. His affection for Miss. Blackwood is a point of some contention within the Society.

“Naturally, Bellingham, you would pretend to be an excellent judge of ’such matters.’ However, I must dutifully remind you of the stipulations around which our Society was created. We are not some band of merry men. Neither are we Burgess Droogs. Our practice is not considered befitting to ordinary society, but we are men of culture; upstanding, informed and necessary. Miss. Blackwood may be a perfectly sound academic, but has she the stomach? Hmm? The simple fact is, this is a practice unsuitable for a girl.” Misogyny accounted for the time St. Clair-Archibald spent adapting the Sudden Death Society’s stringent system of regulations to keep the group male-only.

“Well, I say it’s only fair that we give the old girl a chance. There’s only so much harm a meet with her over lunch can do. Her insights may turn out to have their uses.” Though you might be forgiven for thinking it, I’m not really like these two. They were born into wealth, and to the filling of orifices with various items of silverware. I was born in Castleford, but my father’s numbers came up when I was six. So, I’m not from Castleford anymore, or so I keep telling everyone. I was raised in the south-east and soon found myself at Oxford. Nonetheless, my cold and uncomfortable origins, distant though they may be, allow me at least the liberty of taking as I find. To judge people without that tweed blazer of an upbringing speaking over me. They call me ‘Lucky Boy’ or ‘Lucky Marsh.’ And they’re more right than they realise.

“That settles it then. Democracy may be overrated but it’s hard to argue with two against one. Wouldn’t you say, GSA?” Bellingham speaks again as he replaces a file on its shelf and washes his hands in the sink by the archive doors. St. Clair-Archibald raises a hand to acknowledge that the motion has passed. I sit and wonder a moment about the incident that had brought us together, given us a common interest beyond academia, and whether the appearance of the youths could possibly be classified as divine intervention. The wound on my head has healed, but itches.

No part of the so-called ‘ultimate con’ ever came up as part of our respective studies, nor taught us anything useful about working in the archives, except perhaps as a rudimentary exit strategy when the jig was up, and Professor Barton found out that we had been using the facsimiles of old manuscripts to soak up the chicken’s blood. It did not offer any significant job prospects for the future either, although the appeals of becoming con artists did come to the fore during our research. No need to pay tax, nor answer to any master. Proving the stupid to be just that by parting them from both wealth and dignity and, in that devious final act, their conscience. As it is, we have settled for forming our modest Society within the College, and limited our activities to devising the SDS regulations and meeting to practice the act of dying.

That was, until the time came to initiate our first new member; the persistent, shallow and mildly-irritating Miss. Celia Blackwood

*

We convene the meeting with Celia Blackwood and are seated. Bellingham takes the lady’s coat and thrusts it at a passing sommelier. St. Clair-Archibald sits without a word and haughtily examines one of the bound menus on the table. I sit nearest the door and ask the sommelier for mineral water. Miss. Blackwood glances at me before asking for the house white.

“Did somebody get out of bed a little too brisk, Lucky? Hmm? Whatever did happen?” She asks. I can’t tell if she’s genuinely interested or attempting to garner favour. Her look is sincere, though makeup can do wonderful things. I shake my head.

“He fell, a few weeks ago, now,” Bellingham explains. He and St. Clair-Archibald drink brandy. He proceeds to ask Miss. Blackwood about her thesis and journal article, and she responds respectfully by filling in the answers. By the time that Bellingham has finished, a waiter has arrived with our food and the subject of the Sudden Death Society has yet to be raised.

“I’m sure that such a discussion of postcolonial enterprise could take up much of one’s day, but as we are here to discuss a proposal of SDS membership, I think perhaps it time that we broach the subject. You wish, Miss. Blackwood, to be considered for a place in the organisation, as I understand it?” St. Clair-Archibald is a bore, but he does know how to get to the point.

“Oh, I really am most eager to join. I mean, when I heard about you three down there in the archive, I wondered at first whether to ask for a job, but then I heard rumours about what you were really up to and… Oh, it just seems to make so much sense to me!” The girl lacks classical elegance, but she manages to move apart her painted lips and insert ravioli while still speaking. I scratch my head and nod. Bellingham beams.

“Well, did you now?! How very crafty of you, Celia! I do hope ‘Celia’ is okay! After all, if we are to be part of the same organisation and all…”

“’Celia’ is fine, Mr. Bellingham. Oh, I understand how you must have to maintain your privacy, what with the uncouth nature of such business, but I can assure you that the SDS would seem to fly under the radar and the skills you gentlemen must procure… Well, I can see how they have a practical use in modern day society! I would simply love to become a part of it.”

“And so, you may, Celia! Do please call me ‘Noel.’ Everybody else does. Now as you know, Celia, such a pretty name… As you well know by now, we have our little quirks and foibles in the SDS just as you see elsewhere in the College. Where would we be without our fond traditions? I hope you are aware that there is an initiation process for all prospective members that must be undertaken in full before one can be considered a part of the organisation?” Bellingham, in pausing for breath, finishes his brandy and begins to devour bread-sticks at an alarming rate. St. Clair-Archibald places down his cutlery and examines Miss. Blackwood for the first time. I too sit back to gauge her reaction.

“I am aware, thank you, Mr. Bellingham. If Mr. St. Clair-Archibald and Lucky have so approved of my being here, I am ready to proceed.” Celia Blackwood looks around the table at us. I flick my wrist to indicate ascent. The injury prevents me playing any part today. St. Clair-Archibald folds his arms and frowns down at them a while, before speaking:

“It is just that I have reservations, Miss. Blackwood, reservations over your character. The world as you know is a twisted and malevolent place, with all manner of tricks and cons to deceive us and take away what’s ours. If you prove your worth, then I will gladly assent to your joining our group this very day, but first you must… first you must…”

“GSA?” I ask, one hand on the table. He splutters uncontrollably, struggling still to finish his sentence, before grasping at the tablecloth in some distress. Glasses and silverware are sent tumbling and someone gasps from an adjacent table. Then he seizes our table violently and what remains of his meal is projected onto Bellingham’s lap. There is a shout somewhere for a doctor to be called. The maître‘d lopes over and attempts an impromptu Heimlich Manoeuvre for a while. All of which results in St. Clair-Archibald slumping down in his chair, deflated.

“GSA?! Giles? Somebody… Someone call an ambulance! Someone get us a doctor!” I am on my feet and hysterical by this time. A man at the opposite table is already making the call. Celia Blackwood watches all of this in expectant silence, and then whoops with delight.

“But how convincing! What a wonderful show! And so dramatic! It’s you boys’ panache that makes it all so real. And so frightening! Bravo, I really do mean it!”

Everyone is looking at the girl. Including St. Clair-Archibald, who sits up as though nothing has happened and brushes pasta from his jacket onto the floor. The eyes of the room slowly move to take in this sight. And then Bellingham starts coughing. Coughing and spluttering.

“Noel?” I ask, lamenting my colleague’s unfortunate disregard for timing, “Noel, are you okay?”

“It’s… It’s… It’s!” And he flops back in his chair, eyes still open and glassy, and the veins ruby rivers. St. Clair-Archibald and I share a glance, as briefly as we can manage.

“Call the ambulance! Get this man some help…”

“I don’t think so, signor,” the waiter fumes, indicating St. Clair-Archibald with a knuckle, “I do not think we are so stupid. You must tell your friend to wake up, because you are leaving. And you are not coming back here ever again!”

“How dare you!” St. Clair-Archibald is on his feet in an instant, “Do you have any idea who you are speaking to, boy? I could buy this place, and would, if it weren’t so dark and dingy…”

“Dingy?! Why should I not beat some sense into you, no?”

“There’s a man outside…”

Celia Blackwood is pointing. I turn and look. A man in a long trench coat is stood at the window looking in. As the argument continues behind, he raises an arm.

“Move!” I leap on St. Clair-Archibald, and the window glass shatters at the sound of a loud bang, like a firecracker. In a second, it is over. Someone is screaming, and there is smoke up near the ceiling. I sit up and look around for the man. He has gone.

The screaming goes on and I notice why. Celia Blackwood is lying on her back, a little way off from our table. She has been shot. Blood has gushed from within her tunic and is staining the tan a dirty, dark red. The waiter is already over her and trying to expose the wound. Another diner has crawled over to try and help. No-one is in any doubt about what has happened; the sight of the blood has told its own story. There is the sound of belated sirens in the distance, audible now through the smashed window. I brush some glass off St. Clair-Archibald and help him to his feet. We watch over the scene a short while, before sharing a look and simultaneously reaching the same conclusion.

“Oh, very good. Most impressive for an amateur. An excellent example of the craft, if a little too soon after my own collapse to fool the trained eye. Nonetheless, a very worthy effort.” St. Clair-Archibald looks to me for agreement and I nod. Several people move away from the body and look at us, shocked. I move forward and crouch down beside the girl.

“For future reference, Miss. Blackwood, the safety-word is ‘Rob Roy.’ As GSA says, a very worthy effort indeed.” At this, the girl rises from her state and grins through the blood-spatter.

“And for what it’s worth, ‘Lucky,’ I think you’re all full of it. I don’t need to join any Society to fool people like you. I saw your faces, and oh, how satisfying it was! Hey, who knows? Maybe it’s you boys that have learned something today.” Miss. Blackwood is swiftly on her feet and a woman behind us faints, presumably for real. The machismo waiter turns his attentions to her. The maître‘d returns and asks us once more if we would kindly leave the premises.

“Are you deaf, Bellingham? Rob Roy!” I shout. Behind me, St. Clair-Archibald is trying to ask Miss. Blackwood from where she procured her chicken’s blood, his own expression now awestruck. Neither takes any notice of Bellingham, who has a breadstick still protruding from his mouth. An ambulance has finally pulled up and the unconscious woman is carried out. There are more sirens, steadily growing louder.

“Rob Roy! What’s the matter with you?”