CHAPTER FOUR

The palms of Button’s hands sweated profusely as she trotted down her quiet street towards the small, two-bedroom house at the end. She drew her house keys from a pocket, every few moments glancing at the doors of the nearby houses. It was ridiculous, she knew, but paranoia made her heart beat faster anyway. For the first time in a while, however, she was oddly comforted by the pile of rubble that sat in place of her neighbour’s house.

The Hand was not the only strange thing that had an impact upon the day-to-day life of the country’s citizens. It seemed as if Lomme had been right up at the front of the queue at the point of creation and had snaffled more than its fair share of mind-bending mysteries. The other frequent, strange event that all Lommeids had to deal with were weekly nationwide earthquakes; you could almost set your watch by one. One occurred at least once a week between eleven am and two pm, mostly on Saturdays.  However, one or two were knew to happen on a Sunday, but the time of the first tremor would be pushed back to the mid afternoon. All would last exactly forty minutes and have between three to four aftershocks, each two minutes apart. The Hand would appear at a point after the cataclysm, lending more credence to the idea that It was able to stop them from happening. Fortunately for most of the country’s population, they were often little more than inconvenient. They stopped traffic, caused minor property damage and made people nauseous. However, the power and length of an earthquake was never guaranteed and from time to time the realm was seized by a very sudden and very violent shaking that no one had been able to see coming. It would, thankfully, always last half the time of the expected tremors but this was when the largest amount damage was caused: damage like demolishing an entire house in the blink of an eye. Luckily for her neighbours, they were not resident in the building at the time. This, sadly, was not always the case for everyone.

So between the pile of rubble and the expanse of undeveloped greenspace behind her house, the likelihood that someone would’ve seen the paper falling was slim. At least, that’s what Button told herself as she rushed to her front door and hurriedly went inside.

She immediately locked the door, closed all the blinds and then tripped over her coffee table. Sensibly, she then turned on a light. Limping into her kitchen, she sat and stared at the paper for a good five minutes. It suddenly seemed a lot more intimidating than it had been this morning.

Maybe that’s because this morning you weren’t intending to, you know, steal it.

Button laced her fingers together and pressed them against her pale lips.

“It’s not stealing yet,” she muttered. “Who, other than me, knows when this thing landed? It could’ve been just now.”

Oh no, Button. Let’s not do this. Do us both a favour and pick up the telephone…please!

All the correct and law abiding thoughts were there, floating about her head like pieces of lint caught in an updraft. Button paid them the attention they were due; she considered them for a few moments and then proceeded to ignore them. She wasn’t into civil disobedience or breaking the law, no more than the next salaried government employee anyway, nor did she have any predilection for rallying against the teachings of the Church. She was as apathetic as they came. It suited her lifestyle (caring required energy she simply didn’t have) and fitted with her experience within the political sphere (everyone was only really interested in themselves and often completely ignorant as to what was going on outside of their offices). Some may have labelled it as cynicism but that too demanded a level of consistency from Button that she simply couldn’t manage. She’d explained it away as a result of how underwhelming her life had been. It wasn’t her fault at all.

But now, she had an opportunity to remedy all that. Here was a chance, delivered right to her back door, to potentially change her life. Sure, it would mean bending the rules a little, but why should she worry about that? Nobody she worked with seemed to care about that sort of stuff, so why should she?

This is why she soon found herself unfolding the paper.

It was easier than she had first anticipated. The only problem was that it quickly overwhelmed both the kitchen and living room floor. So, using an inordinate amount of sticky tape, Button stuck the paper to the wall. Finally, the thing was partially unfolded. Button stared at it, completely mystified.

There was a faded picture of a dancing pig in the top right hand corner with an apple stuffed in its mouth, followed by the words ‘The Roast’, then a lot of numbers and the letters V I S A (in that order) in bold. She vaguely remembered spotting something else at the bottom but it was too difficult to unfurl the thing fully to read them. She read and reread the letters and numbers. It made no sense whatsoever. The Great Hand was beginning to annoy and confuse her. She wondered if that was a particularly sacrilegious thing to feel.

Button dropped down onto the sofa, head in her hands, and stared and stared. Still, nothing came to her. Frustration mounted as Button started to realise the scope of her ignorance when it came to religious matters. Church scholars would make something these mysterious combinations of words and numbers. She snorted and slumped backwards. Sure, they’d come up with a dozen different ones, depending on their beliefs, but at least they’d have an insight.

There were numerous schools of thought concerning Great Hand and within the Church there existed just as many different and distinct denominations. This was part of the reason why there were so many senior clergy members; they represented the main factions within the recognised state church. Button couldn’t recall all the specific differences of belief between them, but she did know that one of the most prevalent topics of discussion was whether The Great Hand connected onto a Great Arm and whether that Great Arm connected onto a Great Shoulder, and so on. For many, the answer was a straightforward yes, because it was silly to consider that there was just be a big hand up there, floating around in the skies. But for other denominations there was no question that it was just a Great Hand.

The Mighty Thumb represented one of the majority of groups who believed the latter. He was sure that there was just a hand up there and nothing else. After all, that’s all that had been seen. The Mighty Thumb preached that discussions arguing the contrary were dangerous as it sparked all kinds of other problematic questions, like what gender was the Great Hand? How tall? How old? These questions were asked anyway, but for now the Mighty Thumb could happily ignore them. Bigger issues arose as to whether the Great Hand was actually their Creator, and, by associated logic, the one to kill them all would s/he/they become tired of his/her/their creations. If there was a being attached to the Hand, then these questions became all the more important. But right now, all there was a Hand, attributed for occasionally dropping things on a baffled public.

And that, some would say, was more than enough to be getting along with.

…

By the time evening had fallen, Button’s frustration had slowly ebbed away and morphed into something more akin to stubborn resolve. To her mind, the answers were there, waiting to be found; it was just a matter of persistence. There was little logic behind it, she knew, but that didn’t stop her from staring as blankly at the Gift as a writer might do an unfinished manuscript.

“It’s not fair.”

The paper sagged sadly as if in sympathy.

Maybe it doesn’t mean anything.

“But it’s got a code on it,” she moaned. “A code must mean secrets.”

Oh Hand, her inner voice lamented. It’s your job all over again.

When Button had accepted the position of secretary to the President she’d done so without querying the pay, hours or whether she’d be expected to do anything out of the ordinary for the Commander in Chief (for instance, read to him whilst he sat on the toilet or rouse him from his mid-morning nap). For weeks, she’d laboured under the false impression that she’d be eventually entrusted with a wealth of state secrets that only her and a privileged few knew, and it had kept her going for a while. That had swiftly ended when the reality of the job eventually dawned on her. She remembered the day well.

She had walked into the office, cup of coffee for the President in hand (latte, extra syrup, cream on top, sprinkles). The Monday morning blues, by that point, seemed to last all week and it wasn’t a malaise she could easily shrug off. The only thing that seemed to help was to look at Change’s schedule. The meetings he had lined up (created by her or other offices, never by him) were often so varied and incredible in their scope (ranging from discussions on sea defence to geothermal energy, to budget-balancing and taxes) and Button would hope, desperately, that today she’d sit in on one and not, instead, be in charge of cancelling it.

Again, all the telephones were ringing. Back then, there were office staff drafted in to help answer them. They were already taking messages.

Button had sensed that something was wrong as soon as she’d come to her desk. Her schedule was missing.

“Button!”

Change was sat slumped on the sofa outside his office, a hanky over his eyes. In one hand, he had the list of meetings.

“Yessir?” She bent down and lifted the makeshift mask. He stared at her with one red, bloodshot eye. “Late one last night, I take it?”

He groaned and waved her off. There were always parties to go to, people who were desperate to schmooze with the President, and he lapped it up. She’d never seen him this hungover, though.

“I need you…to sort…this out,” he’d said, half-heartedly waving the schedule at her.

“What do mean - oh, rearrange your meetings.”

“If by…rearrange…you mean…cancel all the stupid ones…then yes. Do it.”

That, she recalled, had been the first bad thing to happen that day. The second happened shortly after.

In the background, another phone burst into life, its high-pitched shrill ring provoking a wail from Change.

“DISCONNECT THEM!”

Button’s stomach had lurched, and not for the first (or last) time. He’d always done things that she’d previously thought he wasn’t supposed to do, like take four-hour lunchbreaks, openly whine about other members of Parliament and be exceptionally rude to poor, unsuspecting people who’d come in to see him. But this…this felt like a line was being crossed.

“But…there’s people there who need -”

“DID I STUTTER?”

And that had been that. Every day after, Change had expected Button to be in before him and to have every single telephone in the office disconnected. It had taken weeks of careful negotiation to get him to allow just one to be plugged in for the rest of the day. Even then, that rang off the hook and she’d been forced to send calls around the building in an effort to direct them away from Change. Those who did come through, well, Button had tried to explain away why those callers couldn’t get in contact with their President or why he hadn’t done something, but even that pretence was soon dropped. So there ended Button’s allusions also.

To her mind, all she’d learnt in the year since taking the post were the President’s inner leg measurements and how much it cost to replace the pearl sconces he habitually broke. In truth, and when willing to reflect on it, what she’d really been privy to was a lot more dangerous: the President of Lomme did no work and he somehow got away with it. The country chugged on thanks to the efforts of Parliament and involvement of the Church.

Button blamed herself for getting into this mess. More precisely, she blamed her curiosity. It had spurred her to take a job that, with a little careful investigation, she would’ve discovered shouldn’t have been touched with a ten-foot pole. The need to know, to be on the inside, it had ended her up in a muddle. Her curiosity had gotten the better of her then and here it was again, beating her firmly into submission.

Button’s stomach rumbled with moody aplomb. Thanks to her new wallpaper, she had no means of getting to the fridge to find something for dinner. She stood with a wobble, her legs cramping beneath her.

Best roll this thing up and call it a day.

She relented to the nagging voice, too tired to wrestle with herself any longer. Half-heartedly, she dragged the edges up back towards the wall. It was all she could manage before her stomach started to growl again.

Her quest for food, however, ended before it had truly started as the telephone started to ring.

“Hello?”

“Heya Bee. There’s a funny smell coming from my kitchen, I think it may be that lasagne you left for me. Do you think it’s still okay to eat?”

Her heart sank and she dropped her head, barely containing a sigh.

“Crumm,” she said slowly and diplomatically, “I don’t remember having left anything at your hou –– oh, crap. You mean the pasta in sauce – yeah, that’s not cheese on top, love. You may want to clean your fridge out. Or have the entire place closed off and marked as a health hazard.”

There was a pause and Button knew exactly what was going through her doltish boyfriend’s head. He was calculating as to whether he could chance eating what was probably the only food (and she used the term loosely) in his fridge or whether he’d have to make an effort to leave his flat.

“...Are you sure it’s not...”

“Yes,” she said abruptly. “Crumm, get some shoes on...and some trousers...and meet me at the Pizza Palace off of Finger Way. And if you aren’t there in half an hour I’m calling Disease Control.”