Square Root Day
Pandora dropped into her usual seat between Nishal and Fan, five minutes late. It was closest to the door and, of all the dead people who lived and worked in the Greybar Hotel, the muscular Gurkha and the athletic twenty-something woman were the two she felt most comfortable with.
Least uncomfortable.
Pandora wasn’t here because she enjoyed hanging with the dead (quite the opposite), but because she needed their co-operation to receive her inheritance: the century-old hotel and the valuable land under it. Once the dead residents surrendered the location of the missing will, Pandora would be named sole beneficiary of a fortune that would take several lifetimes to squander. But if the old Greybar Hotel were sold off to a developer and torn down, the dead would be homeless – hence the seemingly endless stalling at their end. They can’t delay things for ever
Michael Wang, the square-jawed Head of Offsite Operations, was unimpressed by Pandora’s tardiness. The twenty-one year heiress didn’t take it personally – whatever sense of humour he had possessed in life was rotting unused in his empty grave.
Seeking an explanation for the continued delays, she turned to Mr. Fosser. The gaunt lawyer with the liver-spotted hands provided a succinct summary, his clipped words sounding like bullet points.
“Before we can address your case, Miss Pong, we must solve the problem of Brother Benedict.”
“Who’s that?” she asked, suspicious.
“He’s a Jesuit priest. The Vatican shipped him off to the end of the Earth in 1572, which in those days meant Hong Kong.”
“Fifteen –”
“He’s the oldest dead person in Hong Kong, and he’s suffering from a psychiatric condition … you see, he doesn’t realize that he snuffed it in 1582. He had a seizure when news of the change from the Julian Calendar to the Gregorian Calendar reached Hong Kong.”
“Why, if I may ask, has he become an issue now? After so long? And what does it have to do with my case?”
If Wang looked like a frat boy who’d swallowed the lime instead of the tequila, that didn’t mean much; it was his usual state of deportment. “He’s still pissed off at losing ten days of his life when the calendars were switched.”
A quick Google search reminded Pandora that under Pope Gregory XIII’s reforms in 1582 the calendar had skipped from 4 October to 15 October, omitting the ten days in between. Still, the connection eluded her.
“Brother Benedict’s latest activities are a threat to us,” said Mr. Fosser. “If something happens to our community, I have no doubt your missing will will remain undiscovered.”
He didn’t need to explain what us meant. It was the dead who’d escaped their graves and now lived and worked in the Greybar. Us meant everyone except Pandora, the only living person present.
Fan completed the brief. “He went quiet after he stirred up the Double Ten Riots in 1956, but now he’s discovered Social Media. You name the platform, he’s on it.”
Pandora stated the obvious. “So he’s not exactly keeping a low profile. I know you don’t like that, but can’t you just talk to him?”
Mr. Fosser snorted. “We already have. He’s not welcome here –”
“We’ve asked him to come in anyway,” Wang broke in. “We know he won’t listen to us, but we were hoping this young lady could talk some sense into him. Explain the rules.”
Pandora swallowed. “Me?”
“He pays no attention to authority. Getting rid of him was one of the first things Pope Gregory XIII did on becoming pontiff. He needs to be flattered. Convinced.”
Still not understanding why she was being dragged into this, Pandora waited.
“We have enough … distinctive characters here already,” said Fan.
“Besides which, he still hasn’t settled his bar tab from 1936,” said Mr. Fosser.
“More grief than he’s worth,” grumbled Ling Ling, speaking for the first time. The gambling addict hadn’t smiled since committing suicide in the 1970s. “Let me give you a taste of what he’s been up to.” Angling her phone towards Pandora, she scrolled through the tweets:
Get our time back!!! Temporal Restoration NOW!!!
Square Root Day must not be observed on the wrong day. BLASPHEMY! We want RESTORATION!!!
Julian Calendar is the one TRUE calendar!!!
Even with the childish use of uppercase and annoying exclamation marks, Pandora now grasped why everyone was worried. Thousands of comments under each post showed that conspiracy theorists agreed with the old monk – and the residents of the Greybar Hotel got very nervous when one of their number started to rile up the living.
“And as if social media wasn’t enough, our devout, unhinged brother has resumed his more traditional habits,” said Wang.
Mr. Fosser explained, “He’s started nailing his Twenty-five Thesis to church doors again. Last time, it got swept under the geo-political carpet, but it was a bad time for us.”
“Twenty-five theses?” asked Pandora.
“Just the one thesis, actually,” replied Wang.
“So maths isn’t his forte?”
Mr. Fosser pursed his grey lips. “Actually, it is. He’s obsessed with the number five. In numerology it represents freedom and the desire for change. It’s also a symbol of human perfection. Da Vinci’s Virtuvian Man and so on. One of his obsessions is what he thinks of as the mis-placement of Square Root Day.”
Pandora again summoned the omniscience of Google. “It says here that Square Root Day is 5th May, 2025. Fifth day. Fifth month. Year ending in Twenty-five. That’s under our calendar, the Gregorian one. But if the Julian calendar was still in use that day would be 18th May which isn’t a square root day.” All of which made no sense whatsoever to Pandora. “Why would anyone care about this stuff?”
Wang glared at her as if she was as unbalanced as the wayward priest. “It’s all to do with his fixation on the number five. But what’s most important is that all this public attention to his crackpot theories is putting us at risk.”
She suddenly remembered what Mr. Fosser had said about nailing the Twenty-five Thesis to church doors. “He’s papering churches?”
“Mosques and temples too,” said Wang. “And now, the Department of Anomalous Phenomena is demanding that something be done about the ‘turbulent priest’.”
The DAP’s sole remit was to ensure that the dead didn’t spark headlines about a zombie apocalypse, and they would use any means necessary to achieve their goal. Wang made it clear that Brother Benedict had to be brought to heel. “If we don’t do something, DAP will. They’d love to set a precedent. It’ll give them license to take care of the problem, and any others, in whatever way suits them.”
Pandora was still hoping that something wouldn’t be as drastic as what befell Archbishop Thomas Becket – history’s most famous “turbulent priest”.
“The dead don’t live forever, Miss Pong,” said Mr. Fosser in a gentler tone.
She’d never thought about whether the dead could die again.
Surely once is enough?
“He’s endangering us all,” said Ling Ling.
Judging from the absence of dissent and the sombre expressions around the table, Ling Ling’s blunt opinion represented the consensus.
“So what are our options?” she asked.
“We’ve decided to make a final effort to try and talk him down,” Mr. Fosser said.
“Try being the operative word. And we means you, Miss Pong,” said Wang.
“Me?”
“You’re best placed to do it,” said Mr. Fosser.
She might own the Greybar Hotel in all but name, but Pandora was the youngest and least experienced negotiator present. She was still living down the embarrassment from the time she’d grabbed the first top from the unfolded pile in her wardrobe and found herself sitting in this very conference room wearing a Grateful Dead T-shirt.
When nobody explained why, she drew the correct conclusion.
They think Brother Benedict’s a lost cause.
Getting Pandora involved was a sop to their consciences. An act of ticking every possible box before they took things into their own hands, and did something. Perhaps Brother Benedict was indeed a lost cause, but Pandora was determined at least to make her “final effort” worthwhile.
“When?”
Mr. Fosser glanced at his watch when one of the secretaries stuck her head in the room and told him there was a priest on his way upstairs. “Now would be fine. I suggest you receive him in your office,” he told Pandora.
“Next time, a little more notice would be appreciated,” she said, her voice faint. Taking a deep breath, she got to her feet and straightened her jacket.
Fresh lilies had been arranged in a crystal vase on the side table, and stacks of papers in red folders stamped “CONFIDENTIAL” had been placed on her desk along with a cup of hot tea.
In response to a knock on her door, she squeaked an instruction to enter.
“Miss Pong, this is Brother Benedict,” said Mr. Fosser.
“Morning. Nice to meet you,” she replied, standing and offering her hand.
“Brother Benedict, this is –”
“I know who the sinful child is.”
The dead ecclesiast was a pudgy, middle-aged man dressed in a long black cassock, complete with a leather cincture and a square biretta.
For the young Eurasian woman, the awkwardness of being introduced to a dead, centuries-older European man was ratcheted up when he spurned the customary greeting. Instead, he frowned, as he looked her up and down.
Maybe he disapproves of women wearing trousers.
As she dropped her hand, his body odour hit her; a hint of decay and something less sanitary. Brother Benedict might be clean-shaven, but he obviously wasn’t familiar with modern inventions like deodorant or soap. Desperate to avoid barfing, Pandora plunged her nose into the vase of lilies.
Ling Ling and Mr. Fosser followed their guest into her office. She looked to the latter for guidance as she sat down again.
“You’ll have to excuse Brother Benedict,” said Mr. Fosser. “He still hasn’t grasped the concept of social niceties.” Normally the most urbane of men, the Greybar’s in-house lawyer’s lips thinned as he spoke.
“It’s only been, what, nearly five centuries –”
“Four hundred and forty-three years,” Brother Benedict corrected Ling Ling, with the tone of a teacher correcting a rather dense pupil.
“– or thereabouts since Pope Gregory XIII stuck him in the cargo hold of the first available ship just to get rid of him.”
While Brother Benedict wasn’t an official resident of the Greybar Hotel, they had quickly explained to her, he was one of several undead dead who either didn’t understand that it was a sanctuary, or who preferred to live elsewhere.
“So what brings you here, Brother Benedict?” She gestured towards a chair but he remained standing, moving closer to his host. Like all the dead, his breath carried an earthy odour. Unlike the other residents, he made no effort to conceal it with flavoured breath mints. Pandora suppressed a gag reflex for the second time.
Not wanting to surrender the initiative, she asked Brother Benedict how she could help.
“Temporal Restoration!” he growled through yellowed teeth, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.
“I’m afraid you’ll need to explain –” she began.
Pacing up and down, Brother Benedict forced Mr. Fosser to step aside. “The Great Apostate stole ten days. Ten! Ten God-blessed days were taken from all the Lord’s flock. They must be returned!”
“You’re talking about the Gregorian Calendar?”
He halted in front of her. “What else would we be discussing? Foolish child!”
Pandora wished he wouldn’t stand so near.
“The Julian Calendar is the one true calendar. The calendar of Christ’s birth. Temporal Restoration is the will of Our Lord. And you, child, ill-educated sinner though you be, you have your role to play.”
“I do?” Pandora blurted when she should have paused and come up with a more intelligent response.
“You do, child.”
“Surely, if the Gregorian Calendar has worked for centuries –”
“Worked? Rubbish! It stole ten days of life from all God’s creatures. Yea, even the plague of cockroaches undoubtedly nesting beneath your worm-blighted desk have been robbed of their allotted span.”
She managed not to look down at the leather-topped antique.
“You know not of which you speak, child. The seasons come and go as they will, but it is time itself which can, which must, remain unviolated. Even the holy Square Root Day itself has been wrongly placed! The Virtruvian Man! The glorious number five! And you, you child, are the instrument which will achieve our goals.” She flinched as he gesticulated wildly.
Pushing her chair back to avoid his waving arms, it didn’t escape Pandora that the raving madman was speaking of himself in the plural. “What do you expect me to do about it?”
“Woefully educated though you be, it is beholden upon thee to journey to the Holy See and –”
“You want me to seek an audience with the Pope? Fly to Rome and –”
“Fly! Flight is for creatures with wings.” He moved closer, slamming his fists onto her desk and looming over Pandora. “Child, are you one of those round-Earth addlepates?”
Wiping the spittle off her face, she fought to keep her cool.
“Brother Benedict, I’m sure you’ll understand that I’m not in a position to raise this with His Holiness. I really have no influence at all.”
“I understand no such thing. However undeserving, you are of the landed class and thus a person of importance –”
Pandora thought about how soon she could get to the bathroom and wash her face.
“– and even more so, you are a Christian child and duty compels you to take up the cause. Temporal Restoration!” he added, perhaps thinking the addlepate had already forgotten. Producing a new iPhone 16 from a pocket in his robe, Brother Benedict thrust the screen under Pandora’s nose. “Every year that passes, Gregory’s sin endures!”
Needing time to think, Pandora prevaricated. “I thank you for rectifying the deficiencies in my education, Brother Benedict. If I could impose on your benevolence to provide further instruction? I would be grateful. Perhaps we could reconvene on –”
Voice thundering as if he was trying to rouse a catatonic congregation, Brother Benedict cut her off. “No! Three hundred and sixty-five times no! The clock ticks. Those in power have failed in their duties and the world endured this iniquity too long already. Let not future generations condemn you for your devotional truculence!”
Turning away from Pandora he stalked out of her office. Wang, Nishal and Fan, still lurking in the corridor, stood aside when Pandora waved her hand.
“It was a pleasure, Brother Benedict.” Pandora offered her hand as he jabbed the lift button repeatedly. Continuing his assault on the button, he once again left her hanging.
“The pleasure was all yours, sinful child.” Brother Benedict stepped into the lift. At a nod from Wang, Fan and Nishal followed, intent on making sure the priest left the premises without haranguing the guests.
She waited until the lift doors had closed and counted to ten before speaking. “He’s umm …”
“Off ’is rocker,” supplied Ling Ling.
“Completely,” said Mr. Fosser.
Looking for a tissue to wipe the spittle from her face, Pandora returned into her office but stopped in the doorway. “Why is there a gun on my desk?” A pistol and two clips of bullets lay in her in-tray.
Ling Ling stood beside her, not saying anything. She didn’t have to.
“You want me to do it,” she looked directly at Wang.
His silence provided the confirmation.
If I do it, he’ll have a hold on me.
Wanting time to think, or maybe for the gun to disappear, she cast about for another solution.
“We have a prison. Can’t we just –”
Wang shut her down. “The jailors have flatly refused to lock him up. It’s not fair to the inmates, or us, they said.”
Pandora could feel the sentiment pressuring her towards endorsing murder.
Can you actually kill someone who’s already dead?
The gun told her you could. She tried again. “There are institutions. For the insane.”
Heads shook in unison, even Ling Ling. “DAP has already torpedoed that idea. Being institutionalised requires extensive medical monitoring. With no heartbeat, low body temperature and clouded eyes, he’d expose us on the first day.”
She dropped into her chair, unable to avoid staring at the gun.
Mr. Fosser weighed in, the lawyer sounding like a judge. “I’m sorry Miss Pong, but we don’t see any viable alternative.”
Tearing her attention away from the firearm, Pandora hoped to find some sign of dissent. Only Ling Ling would meet her eyes. A curt nod. Ling Ling didn’t like it any more than Pandora, but recognised the consequences of not disposing of Brother Benedict.
Pandora couldn’t think of a way to save the “turbulent priest” without risking everyone else.
“I can’t endorse killing anyone … but ...” She might have been talking to everyone but she looked at Wang. In that instant, she knew it was about more than the missing will.
These are my people. I’m responsible for them.
Pandora picked up the gun and tried to put it into her purse..
I need a bigger bag.
In the corridor outside her office, Pandora sidestepped a pair of secretaries dealing with supplies. One was unpacking boxes of breath mints. The other was slapping address labels on packages ready to be couriered. SF Express’ distinctive logo was on every label. Neither batted an eyelid at the sight of the firearm in Pandora’s hand.
“Miss Pong, we need to get on with this.” Having pushed Pandora into collaborating, Wang wasn’t giving her time to grow a backbone.
“Remind me. None of you need to breathe?”
Wang nodded curtly. “You know this.”
“And cold doesn’t affect you?”
“So long as we aren’t frozen solid,” said Ling Ling. “We have a pretty big cool store here if –”
“Then I’d like to propose Plan B.”
When she had finished explaining, everyone except Wang looked relieved. Taking absence of objection as consent, Pandora made it official. “We’re agreed, then. I promise to keep the hotel running after it’s legally mine, but you need to help me with a shipment.”
But first she had to clean her face.
Fan was assigned the job of tailing Brother Benedict for the evening. Catching up with the priest on the steps of the Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception on Caine Road, she followed her quarry through Mid-levels and down to SoHo. After a short walk along Hollywood Road, she watched the monk peeking through the windows of the Foreign Correspondents’ Club. He loitered, sauntered around the block a few times, and stood on the opposite side of the road, frowning. The cowled crusader for emancipation from the tyranny of the Gregorian Calendar was biding his time. He waited with the patience of the saint he thought himself, until the closing hour came and the last journalist staggered out onto the pavement.
Walking up to the undefended doors, Brother Benedict produced a paper scroll, a handful of tacks and a hammer from his satchel.
While the priest was hammering his Twenty-five Thesis On Temporal Restoration to the door of the venerable establishment, a blacked-out van pulled up to the double yellow line. Ling Ling and Wang leapt from the side door, the former with a tranquiliser gun concealed beneath her jacket, and joined Fan. Pandora followed, wanting to make sure Wang didn’t revert to Plan A.
Nishal remained behind the wheel and kept the engine running.
They cornered Brother Benedict just as he finished desecrating the FCC’s door. “The muckrakers will take up the cause!” he shouted defiantly, but the only people still on the streets were there because they’d spent the night making generous contributions to Lang Kwai Fong’s economy.
Ling Ling whipped out the tranq gun and pulled the trigger. The feathered syringe embedded itself in Brother Benedict’s chest.
It took all four of them to manhandle the portly priest into the van.
When they reached the security checkpoint at Chek Lap Kok, Nishal passed a fat envelope through the window, and they were waved through into the cargo handling area. Parking behind endless rows of crates, Wang, Fan and Nishal shoved the drugged rabble rouser out of the side door. Brother Benedict would have a few bruises and a headache when he got to his destination.
Jabbing a catheter into his arm, Ling Ling hooked him up to an IV drip and tapped the tube to make sure it was flowing. “Given our slow metabolism, there’s enough to last him a week,” she explained. They were more careful packing him in the crate, in order to ensure there was no damage to the consignment of hairy crabs that were his travelling companions. Helping to remove enough crustaceans to make room, Pandora didn’t need unearthly prescience to know that the Greybar’s gourmet restaurant would be offering a crab special tomorrow.
Before nailing down the lid, Pandora sought one final reassurance. “He’ll be okay, won’t he?”
Wang nodded. “The journey won’t do him any harm. What happens when they unpack him, though ….” He shrugged his heavy shoulders.
It wasn’t the comfort Pandora wanted, but this something was infinitely better than the something that would happen if Brother Benedict remained in Hong Kong.
Wang slapped a customs declaration form and addressee labels on the top of the chilled container:
His Holiness Pope Leo XIV
Apostolic Palace 00120
Vatican City
“He can discuss Temporal Restoration with his boss,” said Ling Ling. Using a red marker pen, she scrawled “REDDERE MITTENTI” on the crate.
Originally from New Zealand, Simon Berry is a recovering lawyer who calls Hong Kong home. He has completed an MFA in creative writing and a PhD in English literature at City University. In addition to writing short stories, his novels A Wasting Asset, A Debt To Pay and A Road To Follow and his first short story collection Some Not So Good People are available on Amazon. He is multitasking on his next novel and another collection of short stories.
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