In the Bingo Hall

Mr. Mountjoy comes back in to get some potatoes they can cook on the brazier outside, and refill their Thermos flask.

Mr. Mountjoy feels awful withdrawing their labour, and he's put a note in the Pigeon Holes, asking for contact from their union rep. He heads off towards the Below Stairs area, shuffling his feet in his own inimitable and inexorable style.

The Pigeon Holes

Mr. Mountjoy puts a note in the I.I.G.O.B.C.R.A.G.D. pigeon hole (Improbable Island Guild of Buttles, Cooks, Reception-staff and General Dogsbodies) hoping the union rep will contact him soon. He wouldn't like to have to take precipitous action (if he even knew..)

Mr. Mountjoy seals the envelope, and heads off towards the Below Stairs. He's things to do. Important things.

Below Stairs

Mr. Mountjoy bustles around in the kitchen, grabbing some spuds (the ones with lots of eyes/ green patches/ dry skin - he's still, at heart, servile), and popping the kettle on the hob. It's cold and lonely work, picketing.

Mr. Mountjoy blows on his hands, to try and get some life back into 'em. The fingerless gloves are looking ragged, his nails all bitten and grimy. The kettle on the hob, rattles a touch and Mountjoy has time, time alone to think.

Mr. Mountjoy hates doing this, Bruce and Lillith are outside, shouting at people. No-one seems to be paying 'em any attention. And, to be frank, that bloody union rep o' theirs hasn't even bothered to show their face yet. Oh, everything's changed since 'admin.'

Mr. Mountjoy sneers. Bloody admin. Bloody union rep. Bloody clan members. Bloody leaders and bloody officers. If it weren't for them, his job'd be a damn sight easier. None of this worry. None of this having to go on strike. They could've just got on wi' it.

In the Bingo Hall

Johnson lopes in, scrubbing at her eyes. The ubiquitous paperwork is in one arm, as usual, and sticking out of her pockets in folded sheafs. “Cup of tea,” she murmurs, and heads Below The Stairs.

Below Stairs

Mr. Mountjoy knows that the place'd run a damn sight smoother if he could just get rid o' em all. The kettle on the hob still hasn't whistled, and the thoughts are running through Mountjoy's mind like a plague of rats. Scurrying and gnawing away.

Johnson pads in with an armload of paperwork, rustling as she walks with the forms in her pockets. She barely notices Mountjoy, heading instead straight for the cabinet where the red teapot is kept.

Mr. Mountjoy suddenly comes to a conclusion. He stands straight (the first time in years) and rushes out into the back yard. He knows he's got some somewhere.

Back Yard

Mr. Mountjoy hurries through, on his way to the kitchen gardens.

Kitchen Gardens

Mr. Mountjoy fumbles with his key-chain, an enormous, clanking, JACOB-Marly-esque monstrosity, which must, perforce, weigh the buttle down to an enormous extent. No, no, it's not that one. Nor that. Nor that one, damnit.

Mr. Mountjoy continues his rapid inventory of keys, too big, too small, too rusty, too toothy- AHHHH!

Mr. Mountjoy finds the requisite key, and, with trembling, cold and arthritic hands, tries to ram it into the gaping aperture.

Mr Mountjoy's (Ahem) Herb Garden

Mr. Mountjoy stands inside his garden, and immediately - worries begin to melt away. Now! Where is the Papaver somniferum? That's what he needs- he has a vial in his hand, a vial with some warm water in. He'll infuse the plant. And then- well.

Mr. Mountjoy ahas! There it is! He trims a number of leaves and stuffs them in the water. Then, with a determined set to his chin, he heads out of the garden; ensuring that it's securely locked behind him…

Below Stairs

Johnson shimmies open the door with a boot and an elbow, and pulls out the teapot. It sloshes. Cold tea, but nevermindthat, it's tea. Johnson plugs her mouth with the spout and drinks like someone dying.

Johnson turns her head. Was that- was there just-? The papers rustle in her arms, whisper something about registration redundancies and tax reports and distribution records. Johnson sees only the cold stove, the Bruceless kitchen

Johnson could swear she walked past someone on the way in. Johnson sees potatoes. A handful, cold and wrinkly and mildewed, and the rattle of the kettle on the hob makes her turn. The kitchen's alive again, and she didn't even notice. In her arms, the paper talks to itself.

Johnson turns away and drinks tea, draining the red pot slowly, slowly, cold liquid dribbling down her chin and splattering the papers.

Johnson's teapot is empty. She thumps it down onto the counter and stares at it, the sides sticky from unwashed sugar sloppage, old tea leaves around the rim and the bottom. Needs to wash it. But no- needs to work. Work first. Johnson, teapot and paperwork head for the admin suite. The paper sea awaits.

Staff Offices and Admin Suite

Johnson steps carefully over the carpet of paper, empty red pot in her hand and armful of forms making her walk heavier than usual. She slides herself in at the desk, eases the forms carefully out, rests the teapot on the edge.

Johnson looks at the forms, and sighs. “These are Ari's,” she says. “And these- these are Dizzy's. I don't know where the rest of Ari's have gone.” Behind Johnson, underneath her boots, around the edges of her desk the forms and reports sussurus together, rustling, lapping against the doorsteps.

Johnson puts her head down on the desk, on top of Ari's half-filled documents. She reaches for the handle of the teapot, clings to it like a child with a comfort blanket. Her fingers are sticky with too many spilled cups of tea.

Below Stairs

Mr. Mountjoy comes back through the kitchen, and plants his now-green-tinged vial on the side. He eyes it appraisingly. There should be enough in there to make a hippo happy. He pauses. Is there time now to back down? Back off? Back to work?

Mr. Mountjoy shakes his head, no - there's not. They've got to learn they can't order the servants around.

Mr. Mountjoy picks up the vial, giving it a gentle shake in the process. And with ne'er a second glance he gives a sharp rap to the door of the admin suite, and, without waiting on a response, he enters.

Staff Offices and Admin Suite

Mr. Mountjoy mostly bursts through the door, “Ma'am, I think we need to speak about all of these forms.” he pauses, and regards the paperwork with no little suspicion, “Are those- moving?” He's seen some things in his time. But this-

Johnson snaps back upright, stiff as a board, eyes round as corks. “WHAT?” she bellows, and then hesitates. “Oh. Mountjoy. Yes, it's- yes.”

Mr. Mountjoy can't turn back now, “Anyways, we're much-too-busy-to-be-worrying-about-form-filling-and-box-ticking.” they are moving, surely, or it may be his bad eyes.

“And we'll not have it. We've asked for our union rep to come and assess this,” Mr. Mountjoy spurts, “It's just not proper. How can I be expected to run a clan if I'm buried under stacks of flippin' paperwork. That were your job, that were! That's why that old wazzock hired you. Get rid of the bloody paperwork.”

Johnson blinks, at this spew of- of words, fingerless gloves, grubby unshaved face opening and closing as words, words, words come out. They make no sense. “Union rep?” she says. “Assess?”

Mr. Mountjoy is breathing so heavily now, it looks as though he will suffer an aneurysm, “I want you to stop these bloody demands” huff, “I want you to let us get on wi' our jobs” huff, “I want you to do what you're supposed to do.” Huffhuffhuff.

Johnson's eyebrows shoot up to her hairline. “Paperwork- my job-” around her feet, the forms rustle. The post-it notes are moving, drifting slowly, scribbled lines and signed affidavits surfacing, pushing against her boots, against Mountjoy's.

Mr. Mountjoy's hands clasp behind his back, then unclasp. They reach into the poachers pockets of his coat.

Johnson blinks. “I can't do the paperwork,” she says, “if you don't fill things in yourself. You- gave me- paperwork to do.” Yes, that sounds right. She remembers this, somewhere in the sound of pens scratching against her skull. “You- gave me paperwork, yes?”

Johnson isn't paying attention to Mountjoy's hands. She's too busy trying to remember. “You gave me- a list- and I can't do things if you don't clarify- other things-”

Mr. Mountjoy takes two tottering, drunken, unsteady steps towards the desk. His dusty, holed shoes stepping on X-3ZAs and yellow copies of the D676-A as he makes his lurching way over. Hands still behind his back.

Johnson blinks, her brain slow and sluggish behind the mountain of forms. But her fingers know something, and they tighten around the handle of the red teapot-

Mr. Mountjoy's hands have fumbled off the lid of the vial, and they've managed to empty the contents - ah- damn his cold, cold hands, damn his arthritis - into his filthy handkerchief.

Johnson says, slowly- “Mountjoy, what are you-”

Mr. Mountjoy has done this sort of thing before; oh, in the past it was always clan leaders, or that bugger, Koga; and he'd always just poisoned their beef tea with thallium, but he knows what he has to do here. He's going to have to take matters on hisself.

Johnson says, “Mountjoy, I don't like the way you're looking.” The paper sea swells, swirls, bangs against the legs of the desk, against Johnson's legs, against Mountjoy's grimy shoes. The desk begins to rock. “Maybe you should sit d-”

Form D676-A was happy. It was spending its time wending its way through the Bingo Hall communication tubes, ferrying IMPORTANT information about floor cleaner from north to south. Now? Now it was being STOOD ON. It shifts. HARD!

Mr. Mountjoy is overbalanced! He tumbles towards the desk, his handkerchief in hand and the t'other grabbing towards anything that'll stop him from breaking his damn fool neck![

Johnson's body jerks before she notices it doing so, too many hours spent in the jungle snapping up her spine. The red teapot whiplashes out at Mountjoy, but Johnson remembers- remembers- no- and at the last second it glances off his head.

Johnson's teapot cracks, a dull sound against a skull. Johnson yelps. “I'm sorry- I just-”

Mr. Mountjoy sees stars. STARS and BLOODY BLUEBIRDS. He would have grabbed the table. Steadied hisself, but he fails and instead grabs Johnson's shoulder. His handkerchiefed hand flails and catches Johnson. Unfortunately, years of misuse of said hankie.

Mr. Mountjoy's hanky is as sticky as a treacle-sponge, without all the gooey goodness of that famous pud, the green-tinged gunge grips tight around Johnson's nose and mouth. Mountjoy looks on horrified, as the laudanum he was using to calm hisself begins to work.

Johnson is still apologising, something about adrenaline and lurching and too little sleep and she thought he was attacking her- the teapot sways in her hand, still clenched in her fist-

Mr. Mountjoy tries to stand, to help out with removing his snotty-kerchief from Johnson's mug, “Oh Ma'am, there's.” it's no use, some of that mucus has been cultivating for decades.

Johnson chokes. The papers flutter and rasp against her boots, against the doors, battering the legs of the chair, rocking the desk. Johnson chokes, and scrabbles at the handkerchief with slow fingers, but it's not that easy to scrabble with a teapot.

Johnson was breathing. Why was Johnson breathing. Zombies don't breathe by nature, they're dead, they don't need air- but panicking administrators do, force of habit- and the laudanum seeps into her lungs and her dead body.

Johnson's eyes are enormous over the handkerchief as she crumples, teapot still in her hand. Zombies don't need to blink either. [1

Mr. Mountjoy begins to panic, “Ma'am-” oh god, there's enough to put her out for ages on that bloody rag. “Can you get a chisel?” that's helpful, man. “I'd sit down if I were you, you're going to drop off soon.” Mr. Mountjoy damns.

Mr. Mountjoy bends, creakingly, down to check her pulse. There isn't one, but then again, she's a zombie, so he's not sure he should expect one..

Johnson is out cold, eyes still open. Her fingers are still locked around the cracked teapot. Papers are burying her boots.

Mr. Mountjoy looks around the office, a certain frenzy infecting him, his breathing becomes laboured again; “Wish you'd not done that Ma'am, why couldn't you 'ave just accepted me resignation, eh?” huff, “ Now what're we to do wi' you?” huff, “Eh? EH?”

Mr. Mountjoy comes to the sort of conclusion that often leads to a blackly slapstick cinematic experience involving long road trips, bodies in the car boot, a chase by redneck villains and a final moral that tells people that YOU SHOULDN'T HAVE DONE THAT!

Johnson does not offer any solutions, being unconscious. The forms however, are getting rather vocal.

Mr. Mountjoy doesn't, of course, accept that he's had an accident, and go and admit things and probably receive a dressing down for drugging the clan administrator. Oh no, he's not thinking that straight. He tries to think of a plan.

Mr. Mountjoy does, somehow, come to a conclusion in his addled brain. He's going to have to hide her body somewhere. That'll give him chance to come up with something a little more- permanent. [

Mr. Mountjoy hefts Johnson's body onto his shoulder and manages to creak as upright as he gets; he'll have to put her somewhere secret.

Mr. Mountjoy decides on the perfect place. He's sure no-one knows about it.

<note>The Index</note>