Work Text:
March
“Tomato soup – three cans.”
Just ignore it, Lister told himself. And maybe it’ll go away.
“Cream of chicken soup, two cans,” Rimmer went on crisply. “Baked beans.” He smacked a can down on the worktop. “Baked beans – baked beans – baked beans –”
His patience snapped. “Oh, will you knock it off?” he snapped. “I don’t need a running commentary on how many cans of beans we have.”
“It’s vitally important that we monitor our canned food levels,” said Rimmer, still piling cans of beans on the worktop. “We don’t know when it’ll next be safe to go on a supply run.”
“I went on a supply run to the corner shop for milk and ciggies this morning,” Lister reminded him. He was roundly ignored.
“Now. Baked beans – eight cans,” Rimmer went on. “Baked beans with little sausages, two cans –” He took out the next can and squinted at it. “Canned vindaloo?”
“Sure,” said Lister, his mouth full.
“Where in the world do you find these things?”
Lister shrugged. “Asda,” he said, mouth still full.
Rimmer set the can down beside the beans with an expression of distaste. “Vindaloo – one, two, three –” He counted silently for a couple of seconds, lips moving, then said, “Sixteen cans?”
“Can’t have too many.” Lister took another bite of his sandwich. The crunch – which was loud, and distinct – unfortunately got Rimmer’s attention.
“What is that you’re eating?” he said, squinting at it.
Lister made a show of peeling apart the layers of bread and checking the contents. “Sugar Puff sandwich,” he said. “Why, d’you want one?”
Nostrils flaring, Rimmer puffed up in sudden rage. “Oh, no, no, no,” he said, snatching Lister’s plate out of his hands and ignoring his furious protests. “Do you have any idea what the nutritional value of this meal is, Lister? Any idea?”
“I dunno,” said Lister. “Not great?”
“Zero.” Rimmer waved the plate at him. Lister made a grab for it, but it waggled out of reach He contemplated whether it was worth getting out of his chair. “Zilch! Absolutely nil! You can’t put trash like this in your body at the moment, Lister,” he said. “It’s vitally important that we keep our bodies in top condition so we can fight off infection. We need to be eating only the most immune boosting foods, Lister. Honestly.”
Lister gave up trying to pry the plate out of his hands and just grabbed the sandwich. “Since when do you care so much about my health?” he said, crumbs and sugar raining down as he bit into it.
“I don’t care a button,” said Rimmer. “I just don’t want you infecting me. It’s bad enough that we have to share a bedroom and I have to breathe your horrible air all day, with, without you –”
“Hey, you think I want to share a bedroom with you?” Lister shot back.
Rimmer pressed his lips together in a bitter smile. “Might I remind you that this whole dire situation is your fault?”
“What, the coronavirus?” said Lister.
“No, you idiot, us getting evicted,” said Rimmer. “If it wasn’t for you we’d have two whole bedrooms right now. I could have got a hotplate and a chemical toilet and sealed myself in.”
“Hey, hang on,” said Lister. “I got us evicted? You’re the one who told Mr Hollister about Frankenstein.”
“I wouldn’t have had to tell our landlord that you were in breach of our lease if you hadn’t been in breach of our lease,” Rimmer snapped. “Really, you –”
Blissfully, he was interrupted. Into the kitchen sloped a man with fabulously coiffed hair wearing an elderly padded dressing down. Lister watched, chewing his sandwich, as the man poured a bowl of Sugar Puffs, splashed in some milk, and with a polite nod left them to it.
“Poor old Frankie,” Lister sighed. “I hope the other cats at the shelter are being nice to her –”
“Who was that?” Rimmer interrupted.
“Eh?” said Lister. “Who was who?”
“That – that man, who just walked in here,” said Rimmer. “Wearing my dressing gown, I might add. Did you see him too? Or am I already descending into isolation-induced delirium?”
“Oh, you don’t know him?” Lister sucked sugar off his fingers. “He’s been here for a couple of days – I thought he was with you.”
“With me?” said Rimmer. “Why on earth would he be with me?”
“I dunno, man,” said Lister. “I’m not about to start judging who you bring home.”
“Bring home –” Rimmer’s mind seemed to catch up with itself. “Wait, what do you mean he’s been here for days?”
“Oh, yeah, I guess you might not have seen him.” Lister reached into the Sugar Puffs box for a handful. “You keep pretty different hours. He’s mostly up around three AM.”
“So, hang on,” said Rimmer. “You really don’t know him?”
Lister shook his head. “No, why?”
Rimmer stared at him, appalled. Lister stared back, crunching Sugar Puffs. It was an embarrassing couple of seconds before the implications of the situation caught up with him. “Oh, bloody hell,” he said, and trailing Sugar Puffs he leapt out of his seat and dashed out into the hall, Rimmer hot on his heels.
“Hey!” he said to the man in the act of opening their box room door. “Hey, you?”
The man stopped in his tracks. “Huh?”
He looked so nonplussed that Lister trailed to a halt, feeling like a bit of a cock for confronting him. “Look, I don’t mean to be rude,” he said. “But, um –”
“Who are you and what are you doing in our flat?” Rimmer demanded, as ever unconcerned about rudeness.
“Eh?” said the man, who was apparently American. “Excuse me? You said I could crash here.”
“I did no such thing,” said Rimmer. “I’ve never seen you before in my life. I –”
“Not you.” The man nodded at Lister. “You. Remember? Last week? At Club Electric? I told you that I got kicked out and you said I could crash with you as long as I needed to? And then we did tequila shots.” He squinted at them over the Sugar Puffs. “You don’t remember?”
Lister stretched his mind back. He remembered Toddhunter texting the group chat to say that since everywhere was probably gonna close they should go out for one last bender. He remember Club Electric. He remembered doing shots of tequila with half a dozen new friends. He remembered dancing around with an inflatable flamingo on his head.
He turned to Rimmer. “It does sound like something I’d do.”
“You did do it.” The man jammed a spoonful of Sugar Puffs into his mouth.
“We might as well let him stay,” said Lister. “He hasn’t caused any trouble so far.”
“Are you serious?” said Rimmer. “He’s a perfect stranger! You met him in a nightclub! He could be a serial killer for all you know!”
“If I was a serial killer,” the man pointed out. “I’d have killed you by now.”
“He’s got a point,” Lister said.
Rimmer conceded it. “Well, be that as it may, whatever agreement you and Lister may or may not have arrived at in this Club Electric establishment, it most certainly wasn’t legally binding,” he said. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to ask you to leave.”
“What?” The man dropped his spoon back into the bowl with a splash. “You guys are gonna kick me out onto the streets? In the middle of a panini?”
“In the middle of a what?” said Rimmer.
“You know,” said the man. “The fandango.” He ate a spoonful of cereal. “The panorama.”
Rimmer stared at him. “Are you trying to say pandemic?”
“He’s right, Rimmer,” said Lister. “He’s here now and he doesn’t have anywhere else to stay.”
“So he says,” said Rimmer.
“We can’t just throw him out.” Lister turned to their houseguest and offered his hand. “Er, Dave Lister. This is Rimmer, ignore him. Nice to meet you sober. What’s your name?”
The man juggled his bowl and spoon and accepted the handshake. “Pleased to meet you too,” he said. “I’m the Cat.”
“Oh, yeah?” said Lister. “Cool.”
“Sorry, your name is Cat?” said Rimmer, baffled.
The Cat drew himself up to his full height. “The Cat, thank you very much.”
Rimmer stared at him for a moment longer. Then, blinking, he collected himself. “No, sorry, I don’t hold with that kind of nonsense,” he said. “What’s your real name?”
“The Cat,” said the Cat, eating cereal.
“No,” said Rimmer. “You real, legal name, if you please.”
Without a word, the Cat stuck the spoon into his mouth and opened the door of the box room. It slammed behind him and there was a shambling noise inside. A couple of seconds later, the door opened and he came back out bereft of cereal and carrying his wallet. “Here,” he said, sliding out a card and passing it to Lister. “You tell him.”
Lister looked down at the driving license. He looked up at Rimmer. “His name’s The Cat,” he said, and showed him.
Snatching it Rimmer glowered at the text which read, unmistakeably, Cat – The. He glowered at the Cat. “Your parents named you Cat, The?”
“No.” The Cat took back his driving license. “I named me Cat, The.” He grinned at Rimmer, revealing weirdly sharp teeth. “Legally,” he added, and tucking away his driving license he sauntered back into the box room.
The door slammed. Lister turned to Rimmer. “Is he wearing fake fangs or what?”
“Never mind that, he’s wearing my dressing gown.” Stepping forward, Rimmer pounded on the box room door. “Hey! You! Gimme back my dressing gown, you lout, or I’ll come in there!”
Lister watched for a moment longer. Then, bored of the whole thing, he wandered back into the kitchen to make another sandwich.
*
“Rimmer.” Lister banged, once again, on their bedroom door. “Rimmer. Open up, dickhead.”
There was no answer. He pounded a few more times till the trill of Classical FM on the other side cut off, and went on pounding for good measure till the door opened up and Rimmer’s scowling face appeared.
“For Pete’s sake,” said Lister. “Will you –”
“Lister,” said Rimmer. “Might I remind you that, as per our prior agreement, between the hours of nine AM and five PM the bedroom is my workspace, and in accordance with said agreement I am not to be disturbed?”
Lister ignored him. “We’re out of toilet paper,” he said. “I need to get more out of the cupboard.”
“What, already?” said Rimmer. “What are you doing, going out and toilet papering houses?”
“Just let me in, okay?” said Lister.
“Absolutely not,” said Rimmer. “Wait here.” He slammed the door. There was the clink of a padlock being unfastened, and a prolonged rummaging. At length, the door opened.
Lister held out his hand. Rimmer placed three sheets of toilet paper into it. Lister stared at the three sheets of toilet paper in his hand. He stared at Rimmer. “Will you stop taking the piss?” he said. “Give us a whole packet.”
“Out of the question.” Rimmer began to smirk. “Once again, I implore you to remember that we have no idea how long this shortage might last – we need to engage proper rationing procedures. Three sheets should be ample for any bathroom situation. You can have more in four to six hours. And don’t even think about trying to sneak any from the cupboard – I have it all counted.”
He went to shut the door. Lister grabbed it. “I had vindaloo in a can for breakfast, you psycho,” he said. “This isn’t gonna cut it.”
“That sounds like your problem.” Rimmer made another move to close the door.
“Oh, just stop being a dick and give us a whole roll,” said Lister.
“You’ll thank me later when the rest of the world has dirty bottoms and we’re sitting on our toilet paper thrones.” Rimmer slammed the door.
Lister stood for a moment, holding his three sad sheets of toilet paper. Then he pounded once more on the door. “Rimmer,” he said. “I’m not kidding, Rimmer. Give me a whole roll or else.”
“Or else what?” said Rimmer’s voice through the door. Classical FM turned back on.
Putting his face close to the door, Lister said, “If you don’t give me a normal amount of toilet paper, I’ll have to take drastic measures of me own and go looking for something in the laundry basket.”
Classical FM cut out.
“I’ll be starting with your clean socks, Rimmer.”
There was silence on the other side of the door. There was, at length, the sound of a padlock being unfastened.
Then, after a couple of seconds, the door opened and a roll of toilet paper was socked right into his face. Lister fumbled to catch it as the door slammed. Beaming, he called out, “Thank you!”
“Go to hell, Lister,” Rimmer shouted back.
*
April
He was lying on the sofa, dressed in his boxers and an old t-shirt and mismatching fluffy socks, eating an entire family-sized packet of Monster Munch and watching Cowboy Bebop and generally having a pretty good day, when the kitchen door opened and Rimmer blundered on in.
“Right,” he said. “Flat meeting. Urgent.”
Lister rolled his head back on the arm of the sofa and said, mouth full of Monster Munch, “Eh?” The Cat, sitting on the floor with his back to the sofa, didn’t react at all.
Rimmer tapped the pencil he was holding against the notebook he was also holding. “We need to talk about the big shop,” he said. “Now, I know the weekend is still two days away, but I think we ought to start planning now. I don’t want to sit through any more whining about what I didn’t buy so if either of you wants anything put on the shopping list, this is your two days’ notice.”
“Oh,” said Lister. “Okay.”
Rimmer waited for a second as if expecting a bigger reaction. Then turning to the Cat he said, “Hey, you! You on the floor! Hey!”
After a long couple of seconds the Cat paused in the act of stitching sequins onto his facemask, took off his kitty ear headset, and said, “What’s he saying?”
“He wants to know if you want anything added to the list for the big shop,” said Lister wearily.
“Tell him Rice Krispies.” The Cat put his headphones back on.
Lister twisting around to face Rimmer. “The Cat wants Rice Krispies.”
“If he wants Rice Krispies added to the list he can tell me himself,” said Rimmer stiffly.
Lister nudged the Cat’s shoulder with his toe. “He says tell him yourself.”
The Cat took off his headphones. “Tell him I’m not answering any questions unless he calls me by my name.”
Turning back to Rimmer, Lister said, “The Cat says –”
“I’m not addressing you as the Cat,” Rimmer interrupted. “It’s ridiculous and I won’t do it.”
“It’s my name,” said the Cat.
“Why would you change your name to The Cat,” said Rimmer, accentuating the the in an obnoxious way he was prone to. “Have you no dignity? No shame?”
“Coming from you.” The Cat picked up his sewing. “I wanted a name that better fitted by personality and self-expression. Something that really suited me.”
“And you went for The Cat?” said Rimmer in disbelief.
“Sure did,” said the Cat in delight.
“Oh, yeah,” said Lister, sucking Monster Munch residue off his fingers. “I’ve been meaning to ask all month, mate. What’re your pronouns?”
“Anything goes,” said the Cat brightly.
“Cool.” Lister offered him the Monster Munch. Behind them, Rimmer made one of those disapproving noises that meant he was hoping someone would ask him what his problem was so he could explain whatever bullshit he was upset about. Lister had learned to ignore him.
The Cat was a bit behind. “What’s that noise for?”
“Ignore him,” said Lister before Rimmer could so much as draw breath for his rant. “He’s a dick about this stuff.”
“Ah,” said the Cat, and put his headphones back on.
Lister opted to change the subject. “Rimmer, why don’t you let one of us handle the big shop this week, yeah?” he said. “I think the stress is starting to get to you.”
Rimmer pressed the pencil so hard against the notepad that the lead snapped and said, “I don’t know what you mean. Anyway,” he went on. “That’s out of the question. I can’t trust either of you two clowns to follow proper decontamination procedures.”
Lister blinked up at him. “By decontamination procedures do you mean that thing where you spend a full hour scrubbing yourself down in the shower while screaming and crying?”
“And using up all the hot water,” added the Cat.
“Yeah, and using up all the hot water,” Lister agreed.
“I am simply doing my due diligence.” Rimmer shoved the notebook behind his back. “It’s not my fault neither of you are taking the situation seriously. And more to the point, why aren’t you working?”
Lister glanced at the company laptop near his feet. “You aren’t working.”
“I’m on my lunchbreak,” said Rimmer. “And I know for a fact that yours is an hour later than mine. And you’re sitting here watching, watching manga?”
“Anime,” Lister corrected. Rimmer ignored him.
“Don’t you have anything better to do?”
Lister shrugged. “Not really,” he said. “We’ve got the world’s most pointless job. I haven’t worked in two weeks and no-one’s noticed. So no, I think I’m good.”
Rimmer sucked in a breath through his nose and had the rare grace not to rise to the comment about his job being pointless. “You know all our laptops have keyloggers, don’t you?” he said. “It’s only a matter of time before someone notices and someone gets fired.”
“No, see.” Lister licked his fingers clean and reached for the laptop. “I figured out this great lifehack. Watch.” Under Rimmer’s rapt attention, he mashed the control key a few times and then held up his hands as if he’d done a magic trick. “That ought to buy me half an hour or so.”
Smirking the way he did when he was properly pissed off and trying not to show it, Rimmer said, “You really aren’t taking this seriously at all, are you? Do you realise we could be trapped in lockdown for the rest of our lives? Do you propose to spend all your time on the sofa eating garbage and watching mangas?”
“Anime,” Lister said absently. “And it’s not gonna come to that, Rimmer. Things’ll get back to normal eventually.”
“You’d like to think that, wouldn’t you?” Holding up a finger, Rimmer began to pace. “This virus didn’t happen by accident, oh no. I’ve been reading all about this on Twitter.”
Lister rolled his eyes. “Oh, here we go.”
“The virus was created in a secret government laboratory and released around the world via contaminated air fresheners,” Rimmer went on. “And they won’t stop at one, oh no! Once this one’s run its course they’ll release another virus, and another, until the world is brought to its knees – and then do you know what’ll happen?”
“What?” said Lister wearily.
“Then,” Rimmer jabbed a finger at him. “They unleash their mind control technology.” He stood upright, smirking as if he’d played his trump card.
Lister stared at him. He tapped a button on his laptop. “You get that, Hol?”
Holly rolled into view in the open Zoom window. “What’s up?”
“Is any of what Rimmer just said true?”
“What, this secret lab nonsense?” said Holly, and sniffed. “Nah, the whole thing was just a stupid accident. Some bloke in China ate a dodgy bat.” There was the sound of a call coming in and he rolled back to the other end of his desk. “’Cuse me. Good morning, Red Dwarf technical support, how can I help?”
Lister ate more Monster Munch.
“Oof, I’m sorry to hear that, ma’am,” said Holly. “Just let me put you on hold while I consult the manual.” He rolled back into view. “Sorry about that.”
“You see, Holly’s working.” Rimmer nodded at the screen.
“Yeah, cause unlike some people if I stop doing my job it actually matters,” said Holly. There was the sound of him henpecking at the keyboard. “Let’s see, now,” he muttered. “W – w – w – dot – Google – dot com.”
“This is getting wildly off track.” Rimmer flapped the notepad at them. “Can we please talk about the big shop?”
The Cat took off his headphones. “You need to take a nap.”
“I’m fine,” Rimmer snapped.
“Cat’s got a point – you don’t look good,” said Lister.
“I’m fine.” Sticking the notepad under his arm, Rimmer produced a bottle of hand sanitiser and squirted a generous dollop onto his palm. He rubbed it into his hands as he spoke with sharp, aggressive movements. “Need I remind you once again that it was due to your stupid actions that we’ve been forced to share a room,” he said. “And I have to lie awake all night listening to you farting and snoring. It’s small wonder I could be better rested.”
“I don’t snore,” Lister protested. “And I can’t help farting at night. Everyone farts at night.”
“I don’t.” Rimmer squirted more hand sanitiser onto his fingers and rubbed it in still harder, hands getting a little shaky. “I keep it buttoned up until I’m in the bathroom like a civilised person.”
Sighing, Lister sat up properly. “Rimmer, we’ve been sharing a bedroom for almost two months,” he said. “Trust me. You fart.”
“Everyone does it,” Holly chipped in.
“Nonsense.” Rimmer was still rubbing at his hands, which were starting to redden.
Lister eyed him, a little nervously. If he actually cared about Rimmer’s wellbeing he’d have been getting a tad worried. The other day he’d walked into the kitchen to find him washing his hands over and over and muttering covid infection statistics under his breath. Lister’d backed out of the room and pretended like he hadn’t seen anything.
“While I’m here I’d like to remind you that I’ll need the bedroom this evening,” said Rimmer.
“Yeah, I know.” Lister licked crisp dust off his fingers.
“It’s time for the weekly Rimmer family Zoom call,” said Rimmer. “Once again.”
“Hope you have better luck with it this time,” said Lister.
“Ah – yes.” Rimmer pressed his lips together. “We have had had luck with the technology side of things. Last week my microphone kept muting itself – I was talking and talking but no-one could hear me – very funny.”
“Yeah?” said Lister vaguely.
“And then the week before that everyone’s cameras stopped working at once so we had to call the whole thing off – very peculiar – some kind of computer virus, I imagine.”
“Fancy that,” said Lister.
“Well, anyway, I shall put a reminder about the big shop in the group chat,” said Rimmer. “And if I don’t hear anything from you by Friday then you can eat boiled lentils all week.” He went to squeeze out more hand sanitiser and found the bottle almost empty. Shaking it, he swore under his breath.
“I’ll do the big shop,” said Lister. “Okay? I think you’re a bit stressed out.”
“I’m perfectly fine.” Rimmer looked at his sticky, shaky hands. “I just need to – take a shower.”
He fled the room.
The Cat took his headphones resolutely off. “Why do you live with that weirdo?”
“Oh.” Lister shoved another handful of Monster Munch into his mouth. “I needed somewhere to stay and he was the only person I knew with a room going,” he said around it. “Couple of months in he reported my cat to the landlord and got us both evicted. Neither of us could find anywhere else at short notice so we moved in here.” He swallowed the Monster Munch. “It was supposed to be temporary but then – you know.”
“Ah,” said the Cat. “The plague.”
Lister offered him the Monster Munch. “I have a plan,” he said. “Don’t worry. Soon as it’s safe to move me and me mates Peterson and Toddhunter are gonna find a place together.” The Cat crunched his Monster Munch. “You want in?”
“Hard pass,” said the Cat. He didn’t elaborate and Lister didn’t press him.
“It’s me own fault, really,” he said. “We’ve worked together for years. I knew what he was like, I just figured he had to be more relaxed outside the office. I’d say stay out of his way but we don’t have enough space for that.”
The Cat nodded very seriously. Then he beckoned Lister closer. “You know,” he said in a conspiratorial manner. “Between the two of us, we could definitely take him.”
“What?” Lister ate more Monster Munch. “I wouldn’t need your help. Man’d go down like a house of cards – I could take him by meself.”
He grabbed the remote and began re-winding Cowboy Bebop.
*
Lying face down in the top bunk, groggy and hungover with something stuck to his face, he was very rudely awoken by someone banging on his door. “Mmwhat?” he said, not opening his eyes.
The door banged against the wall. “Lister,” said Rimmer’s voice, about three inches away from his face. “Are you awake?”
“No,” he said, eyes still closed.
“It’s almost noon – you’d better be awake.” A hand jabbed at his shoulder. “Lister. Lister. You lazy bastard, I need to talk to you.”
Opening his eyes, groaning, Lister raised his head from the pillow. “What is it?”
Rimmer was standing by the bunkbed, gripping the rail so hard that the blood had begun to drain from his knuckles. He scowled. “Are you aware that you have a Magnum ice cream wrapper stuck to your face?”
Lister investigated the thing stuck to his face and determined that it was a Magnum ice cream wrapper. “Oh, yeah,” he said, peeling it off and dropping it absently down the back of the bunkbed. “So?”
Rimmer looked for a second like he was going to comment further on the Magnum wrapper. But then he said, “Lister. There is at this very moment a very large, bald Canadian man cleaning our oven who says that you told him he could stay here. I did explain to him that there was absolutely no way you’d have invited anyone else to stay with us considering that this flat barely has enough room for the two of us, let alone waifs and strays, but he wouldn’t budge. Will you please come and tell him to get out?”
“Oh, yeah.” Lister rubbed at his eyes foggily. “That’ll be Kryten.”
Rimmer’s grip on the rail, if such a thing was possible, tightened. “Who is Kryten?”
“The large bald Canadian man cleaning our oven,” said Lister. Rimmer fixed him with a glower and sighing he wriggled out from under the duvet and heaved himself towards the ladder. “I’ll come talk to him.”
The kitchen had a strong chemical smell. Kryten, wearing a set of pink rubber gloves that definitely didn’t belong to anyone in the flat, was kneeling in front of the oven, diligently scrubbing at the door. “Oh, good morning!” he said as Lister wandered in, the duvet wrapped around his waist. “I hope you don’t mind – I just noticed your oven needed doing.”
“Lister.” Rimmer jabbed a finger at Kryten, voice creeping into a petulant whine. “Lister, tell him.”
“Alright, Kryten,” said Lister, hitching up the duvet. “How’s it hanging?”
“Oh, fine – fine.” Kryten stood up. “You have a very comfortable sofa. My compliments.”
“That’s cool.” Aware more and more as he talked of how dry his mouth was, Lister shuffled over to the fridge for the juice. He hadn’t even managed to get the top off when Rimmer grabbed his arm.
“A word,” he bit out, heaving him back out into the hall. Lister yelped, almost tripping over the edge of his duvet.
“What’s wrong?” He swigged juice.
“What’s wrong?” Rimmer jerked his head back at the kitchen. “Make him leave!”
“No?” said Lister.
“Who is that man?” said Rimmer. “Why did you say he could stay with us? Where do you imagine he’s going to sleep?”
“We’ve got a sofa,” Lister pointed out. He adjusted his grip on the duvet and drank some more juice, ignoring Rimmer’s look of distaste at him drinking out of the carton. “Look, he’s a decent guy and he needed a place to stay,” he said. “We got talking in the Asda car park, and –”
“Asda car park?” Rimmer repeated, incredulous. “Asda car park? Asda car park? You met that man in the car park of our local supermarket?”
Lister shrugged. “Yeah, why?”
“You met him in the Asda car park and invited him to live with us?” said Rimmer. “How could you do this to me?”
“Dunno.” Lister shrugged again and drank a slug of juice. “He seemed nice.” Done with the conversation, he shuffled back to the kitchen for some cereal.
“Lister,” Rimmer said, chasing after him. “Lister –”
“Pardon me,” said Kryten, gloved hands held up. “I couldn’t help overhearing – I understand your anxiety, Mr – Rimmer, is it?” Rimmer scowled at him. He began to strip off the gloves. “To put your mind at ease, I can assure you that I took a lateral flow test this morning and am definitively – covid negative. As for where I’ll sleep, as it happens I’m a chronic insomniac, so you needn’t worry about not having use of your sofa.”
“Is that so,” said Rimmer. Lister shook Rice Krispies into a clean-ish bowl.
“Unfortunately I’m not currently in a position to contribute financially to the household,” said Kryten. “But as I’ve already assured Dave here, I’m prepared to compensate by taking on the brunt of the daily chores –”
“Mmph.” Lister took his spoon out of his mouth. “I already told you, mate, you don’t need to do that –”
“Ah, bup, bup, bup, bup.” Rimmer held up a finger. “It’s not a terrible idea.”
“It’s not fair,” said Lister. “Be nice, okay?”
“It’s really alright,” Kryten assured him. “I enjoy cleaning – I find it excellent stress relief – I thought I’d deep clean your kitchen and see how I get on.”
“Can you do behind the fridge?” said Rimmer.
“He’s not doing behind the fridge,” said Lister.
“I’ll need to finish the oven first,” said Kryten.
“Good man,” said Rimmer. “Kryten, is it? Is that Polish?”
“Ah, I get asked that a lot,” said Kryten. “It’s actually –”
“Hey, hey, hey!” The Cat dashed into the kitchen, slid to a halt on the linoleum floor, and did a twirl. “Do I look glam or do I look glam?”
“Ohh!” said Lister. “You finished it?”
The Cat held open the jacket of his freshly bedazzled hot pink suit and did another twirl. “Came out pretty great!”
“Very nice,” said Kryten. “Very sparkly.”
“Anyway, I’m ordering McDonalds,” said the Cat. “Who’s for McDonalds?”
“Sure,” said Lister. “Big Mac and a McChicken. You want anything, Kryten?”
“Not for me, thanks.” Kryten held up his hands. “I’m a bit short on funds.”
“I can cover you –”
“Really – it’s alright,” said Kryten. “As it happens I’m allergic to, ah, red meat and gluten, so there’s not a lot on their menu I can eat.”
“They have fries,” said the Cat.
“I’ll pass.” Kryten put his rubber gloves back on and knelt to inspect the oven.
The Cat had gone back to admiring his new jacket. “Man, this came out so great.”
“And what are you supposed to be in that get-up, then?” said Rimmer.
“Fabulous,” said the Cat, grinning at him toothily.
Rimmer didn’t take the hint. “No, really,” he said, hands on hips. “What are you?”
“I told you – I’m the Cat,” said the Cat.
Rimmer scoffed. “The Cat,” he said. “That’s not a name and it’s certainly not one of the two genders.”
The Cat leaned an elbow on Lister’s shoulder and jerked a thumb in Rimmer’s general direction. “Get a load of this guy,” he said. “Still thinks there’s only two genders.”
As Rimmer sputtered in indignation, Lister snorted a laugh.
*
May
Across the kitchen, Kryten was, puzzlingly, doing the ironing. Lister hadn’t been aware that there was an iron in the flat, let alone an ironing board. He was slumped on the sofa drinking milk out the bottle, listlessly stabbing at random keys on his work laptop.
A Zoom alert went off. He answered it. “Oh, hey, Hol,” he said. “That’s a new look on you.”
“Yeah, I know,” said Holly. “I just figure, y’know. Gender’s a social construct, it’s all made up, life is meaningless and nothing matters, I might as well give being a woman a go for a bit. See how I like it.”
“Oh, yeah?” said Lister, perking up, curious. “How’s that working out?”
“S’alright, yeah,” said Holly. “How’s your new flatmate?”
Lister the laptop around so she could see Kryten at the ironing board. He waved. “Oh, hello,” said Holly. “I didn’t think you people owned an ironing board.”
“It was a bit buried, yes,” said Kryten cheerfully.
Rimmer came into the kitchen, eyes on the notepad in his hands. “Ah, Lister, there you are,” he said, as if there were more than two places he could realistically be. “I wanted to talk to you about the state of the bathroom –” He stopped short, squinting at the screen of Lister’s laptop. “Holly? Why are you dressed like that?”
“Eh?” said Holly, playing dumb. “Dressed like what?”
“Like a woman!” said Rimmer.
“Well, I am a woman,” said Holly. “Isn’t that right, Lister?”
There was, Lister judged, only one realistic way to handle the situation without Rimmer being a prick about it. “Uh, yeah?” he said, twisting around on the couch to face him. “Of course Holly’s a woman. Right, Kryten?”
“Oh, yes,” said Kryten, not pausing in the act of ironing a set of underpants. “She always has been.”
“But – I –” Rimmer stuttered. Then he scowled. “No,” he said. “Nope – no. You three are trying to mess with my head. Well, it won’t work.”
“No-one’s messing with you,” said Lister.
“If I wasn’t a woman I wouldn’t be dressed like this, now, would I?” said Holly.
Rimmer jabbed the notepad at her. “How stupid do you think I am? You –”
Before Rimmer could say anything actually offensive, the Cat wandered in wearing Rimmer’s dressing gown. “Hi, guys,” he said. “Rimmer. Did we eat all the Cup-a-Soup?”
“I think there’s one more at the back of the cupboard,” said Kryten.
“Hey – Cat,” said Lister. “Holly’s a woman, right?”
The Cat’s eyes went to the screen of the laptop. They went to Rimmer. Taking in the fullness of the situation, he said, “Uh, yeah? What else would she be.” He went to turn on the kettle.
“But, I, I don’t,” Rimmer stammered. “She’s not – I –” He pressed a hand to his mouth. “I’m sure –”
He looked so genuinely lost for a second that Lister almost felt bad – almost. “You wanted to talk about the bathroom, mate?”
“Hm?” Rimmer shot him a look. “Oh – no – never mind,” he said vaguely, and turned tail out of the room.
Toying with the milk carton, Lister waited till he heard the bedroom door slam before turning back to the others. “I gotta tell you,” he said, jerking his thumb the way Rimmer had gone. “I was fifty-fifty on whether that’d work.”
The room collapsed into chuckles. “What a dingus,” said the Cat.
“Thanks, Dave,” said Holly. “I don’t think I could handle his nonsense today.”
“Any time, Holly,” said Lister. He opened up YouTube.
*
“Alright,” said Rimmer, seated alone at their tiny kitchen table. “Flat meeting now in session.”
From the sofa, where he was lying down with one leg dangling over the back and his arm flung over his face, Lister said, “No.”
“As per the previous discussion, in order to maintain harmony and order within this establishment, it’s important that we have these sessions –”
“Whatever you want to say, will you please just put it in the group chat,” said Lister.
Rimmer, predictably, ignored him. “I will begin by running over the minutes of the previous meeting,” he said. “Now –”
Sitting up, Lister squinted at him over the back of the sofa in disbelief. The Cat reacted even more strongly. Stepping away from the fridge, he grabbed Rimmer’s notebook. “Nope.”
“Hey – hey!” Rimmer protested, as the Cat ripped off the front couple of pages. “That’s mine!”
“We’re not doing that.” The Cat tossed the minutes in the direction of the recycling. “Ya weirdo.”
Rimmer’s eyes went to the crumpled paper, which had missed the bin by several inches. “Well, in that case I shall have to skip to our first item of business,” he said. “Which is that some of us – Cat – have not been pulling their weight around here in terms of household chores. And I don’t want to name names, but if I were to name names, I would mention the Cat –”
“Hey, now?,” said the Cat. “Why’re you singling me out? When did Dave last clean something?”
Rimmer stabbed his pen at him. “Lister is at least paying rent,” he said. “You, sir, are a moocher. You mooch.”
“What about Holly?” said the Cat.
“What?” said Rimmer. “Holly doesn’t live here.” He felt around in his pockets and produced his hand sanitiser. “And, and in spite of that I’d say she’s still somehow a more productive member of this household than you are.”
“What’s that, now?” said Holly, sliding into view on the screen of Lister’s laptop. “Heard my name.”
“I’m a productive member of this household,” said the Cat. “Who says I’m not a productive member of the household?”
Furiously sanitising his hands, Rimmer said, “Oh, really. Name one way you actually contribute to the flat.”
The Cat beamed. “Uh, I’ll give you two,” he said. “My radiant personality and perfect ass.”
“Neither of those things help anyone,” said Rimmer.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Kryten. “The Cat certainly does brighten my day with their presence.” The Cat beamed still wider. Then the oven timer dinged and Kryten bustled across the kitchen. “Aha – my bread!”
“You could, say,” Rimmer suggested to the Cat. “Empty the bins from time to time?”
“With these nails?” The Cat spread his hands, showing off his long, glossy and pointed false nails. “No way. I just did these.”
“That’s your problem,” said Rimmer. “Now –”
“Ooh,” said the Cat, wandering away from the conversation to inspect Kryten’s bread. “That smells good.”
“It’s parmesan and sage,” said Kryten.
“No – no, I’m talking,” said Rimmer, twisting around in his seat. “I’m – still talking –” Breaking off, he scowled. Then as Lister watched, disinterested, he scrambled out of his seat and went to the window. “They’re going it again,” he said, grabbing for his binoculars. “Lister – I think they’re doing it again.”
Lister pulled a cushion over his face. “Who’s doing what again?”
“It’s those girls across the road,” said Rimmer, peering at them through the binoculars. “They’ve got people coming and going all hours. I’m certain they’re in breach of lockdown. I need to document this – someone hand me my notepad, quick –” He flapped a hand at the Cat and Kryten, who were in deep conversation about bread. “Guys!” He hissed. “This is – important –”
“Not to worry, Rimmer,” said Holly. “I’ll commit it to memory for you. Let’s see, it’s the eighth – or maybe the ninth – one Pmish – yeah, I’ll remember that.”
Rimmer glowered at her. “Are you mocking me?”
“Certainly not,” said Holly. “Lockdown procedure. Very serious business.”
Turning back to the window Rimmer took up his binoculars. “Maybe we should install a camera – video them in the act.”
“You can do whatever you want,” said Lister. “I don’t care. Is that the flat meeting over or what?”
“Well, I had an agenda, but someone threw it in the bin,” said Rimmer, binoculars still trained on the flat opposite.
“Sounds like you’re done, then,” said Holly.
“Actually.” Still wearing his oven gloves, Kryten stepped away from the stove. “While we’re together, I did have a small announcement I wanted to make.”
“Oh, yeah?” said Lister.
“Yes, you see,” said Kryten, fidgeting with the gloves. “Well, I’ve had a lot of time to think these past few months – what with the general state of the world – and, and ever since Holly announced her transition I’ve been giving a lot of thought to the matter of gender identity and, well. I think I’d like to explore my own a little.”
Lister sat up properly on the sofa. “Yeah? How so?”
Kryten took off the oven gloves. “Nothing dramatic at present,” he said. “But if it’s not too much trouble, I’d – well, I’d really appreciate if you could try using they/them pronouns to refer to me sometimes.”
“Oh, cool,” said Lister.
“Sure, we can do that,” said the Cat.
“No problem,” said Holly.
At the window, Rimmer took the binoculars away from his face.
“Thank you,” said Kryten, heaving a sigh. “Oh, that’s a weight off my shoulders. It’s not that I mind being a he,” he added hastily. “I’d simply like to try out both for a while.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Rimmer burst out.
“Hm?” said Lister. “What’ve the girls done now?”
“No.” Rimmer slammed down the binoculars. “This is getting silly. I won’t have it. Nope. There’s, there’s the social order – and basic biology – not to mention grammatical conventions – I, I –” He stammered to a halt, then throwing up his hands in disgust stormed out of the room leaving an uncomfortable silence in his wake.
“That wasn’t in response to my announcement,” said Kryten. “Was it?”
“Probably, yeah,” said Holly. “He can be a bit funny about this stuff.”
“He’s an asshole,” said the Cat.
They all went quiet. Lister became aware, uncomfortably, they all eyes had fallen on him. He sighed, exasperated. “I’ll go and talk to him.”
He found Rimmer in the bedroom, lying flat on his back on the bottom bunk with his arms folded in that vampire-like way he had, sulking. Leaning against the ladder, Lister said, “What’re you sulking about, then?”
“I’m not sulking,” said Rimmer. “Who’s sulking? Not me.”
“Right, then,” said Lister. “What’re you doing?”
“Lying down,” said Rimmer. “What does it look like I’m doing?”
“It looks like you’re sulking.”
At that, abruptly, Rimmer got up. “You know what this means, don’t you?” he said. “You see what this means?”
Lister sat down on the bottom bunk. “What what means?” he said.
Beginning to pace up and down their tiny bedroom, Rimmer said, “You and I, Lister, are now the only remaining reasonable people in this household.”
Snorting a laugh Lister flopped back against Rimmer’s pillow. “Seriously?” he said. “Don’t think anyone’s ever called me reasonable before.”
“You know perfectly well what I mean.” Rimmer flapped a hand at him. “You and I are the only ones holding the line against this, this gender nonsense.”
Lister stared at him. He looked, puzzled, at the wall. He turned back to Rimmer. “You what?”
“We are the only normal people left!” Rimmer threw up his hands. “At this rate I fear that by the end of the year we might be outnumbered in general society as well. That’s probably why they sent the virus. To, to trigger a collapse of the social order and destroy traditional gender roles. That’s what this is all about.”
Lister went on staring, trying to force his sluggish brain to catch up with whatever insane train of thought Rimmer was on. It was a long couple of seconds before it clicked just what fundamental misunderstanding was going on.
He sat up on the bunk. “Rimmer,” he said. “You know I’m trans too, right?”
That stopped Rimmer in his tracks. “What? No, you’re not.”
“Yeah, I am?” said Lister.
“You aren’t.”
“Am so.”
“Are not.”
"Rimmer, I’m literally wearing,” he did a quick tally up of the contents of his jacket, “three trans pride patches right now, man.”
Rimmer ducked his head, inspecting them. Then he shook it. “Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “You honestly expect me to believe this?”
“Well, yeah,” said Lister. “I thought you already knew.” He’s sort of taken it as a rare point in Rimmer’s favour that he hadn’t been a dick about it.
“This is absurd.” Rimmer flapped a hand at him. “I’ve known you, what, four years? Almost five? And now suddenly you tell me you want to be a woman? Come off it.”
“You –” Lister once again had to fumble to make sense of the conversation. “Oh, God,” he groaned. “Rimmer, no, you’ve got this backwards. I’m trans the other way, Rimmer.”
“You’re what now?” said Rimmer.
Taking his head in his hands, Lister saw that he was gonna have to be very direct about this if he wanted Rimmer to understand what was going on. He got up off the bunk and headed for the door. “Rimmer,” he said, clapping a hand on his shoulder as he passed. “I was born with a vagina.”
Not bothering to wait for a response, he left the room. It was just as well, cause he was most of the way to the bathroom before he heard behind him a mortified cry of, “You what?”
*
June
Someone had been banging on his door for a while. Lister groaned into the pillow and squeezed his eyes shut, willing them to leave. The banging went on, growing, if anything, still more insistent.
They weren’t going to let up. He made to roll out of bed, collided with the rail, and remembered where he was. It took him several attempts to navigate the ladder. Then, scrubbing at his face, he pulled open the door. “What?”
It was the Cat, clad in his stolen dressing gown. “You have to come.”
“Y’what?” said Lister.
“You gotta come,” said the Cat. “He’s finally cracked.”
“Who has?”
“Rimmer,” said the Cat. “He’s cracked. He’s gone by-bye. He’s been locked in the bathroom for two hours and we can’t get him to come out. You have to come and do something, he might listen to you.”
Lister rubbed a hand over his face. “Since when do you care about Rimmer having a meltdown?”
“I don’t,” said the Cat, proffering his sponge bag. “I just wanna shower, man. You gotta do something.”
He breathed out. “Yeah – already,” he said. “Give me a sec.”
This seemed like an experience he’d prefer to have in trousers. He pulled on yesterday’s, downed the half a cup of water that was sitting on the bedside table, and headed out into the flat.
He knocked on the bedroom door. “Rimmer?” he said. “You in there?”
There was a groan from inside.
He knocked again. “Rimmer, answer me, mate,” he said. “Or else I’m gonna have to call us an ambulance.”
That did it. “I’m fine,” came the response. “Go away.” Then the sound of his voice was replaced by a steady thud, thud, thud like something being thumped against a wall.
Queasily, it occurred to Lister that it might be Rimmer’s head smacking the wall. He wouldn’t actually hurt himself in there, would he? Rimmer could be a little intense, but he wouldn’t –
He knocked on the door yet again. “Rimmer,” he said. “Let me in.”
“Go away,” said Rimmer. The thudding resumed.
“Rimmer, I’m serious,” he said. “You’re freaking me out, man. I just wanna make sure you’re okay.”
There was a mumbled response that he thought might be like you care.
“Last chance, Rimmer,” he said. “Open up or I’m fetching a screwdriver.”
“Go to hell, Listy,” said Rimmer through the door.
Lister rolled his eyes. “For Christ’s sake,” he said, and went into the kitchen to search for the toolbox.
The lock on the bathroom door was pretty loose. It took a minute or two’s jimmying to get it to open up from the outside. Then it swung open to reveal Rimmer, standing between the shower cubicle and the sink, his forehead pressed against the wall.
Lister got to his feet. “You alright, mate?”
“Go away,” said Rimmer. “You can’t be in here. It’ll get you too.”
“What’ll get me too?” Lister stepped into the bathroom.
“I’m serious,” Rimmer said. “You have to stay out there and I have to stay in here. It’s the only way.”
“What’re you on about –” Lister’s eyes fell on the pile of rapid tests by the sink with their conspicuous double lines. “Ah. Right.”
Rimmer said nothing, still pressed up against the wall. Lister shoved his hands into his pockets and heaved a sigh. “Well, I suppose this was gonna happen sooner or later. I’ll tell Kryten and Cat, shall I?”
“I don’t understand,” Rimmer said, his voice very tight. “I’ve been so careful. I’ve done everything right.”
Lister shrugged. “One of those things, I guess. Are you feeling okay?”
“It must be because I went to the shop the other day,” said Rimmer. “Stupid. Stupid. We could’ve done without milk for a few more days.” He thumped his head against the wall. “Stupid.”
“Whoa – Rimmer – don’t do that,” Lister pleaded.
“I’m weak.” Rimmer went on smacking his forehead against the tiled wall. “Weak – weak – weak –”
“Rimmer – seriously.” Grabbing his elbow, Lister made a valiant attempt at leading him away from the wall. “Stop that, you’re gonna hurt yourself.”
Rimmer shrugged him off, but did, at a bare minimum, stop slamming his head into the wall. Turning, breathing out shakily, he leaned back against the sink and said, “I should have known my immune system wasn’t up to scratch. Father was always saying I was weak.”
“Ohh, God,” Lister groaned.
“This can’t be happening.” Rimmer clutched at his head. “It’s not fair. It’s not fair.”
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” said Lister. He’d been at this for two hours? God, the Cat hadn’t been kidding. He really was cracking up. “Rimmer – c’mere.” He grabbed his arm again and succeeded in dragging him away from the wall. Slamming down the toilet seat, he said, “Sit.”
Unresisting, Rimmer dropped down onto the toilet. Lister went back to the sink and filled up the tooth mug. “Here,” he said, pressing it into Rimmer’s shaking hands. “Drink some water.”
Rimmer sipped the water. Lister set a hand on his shoulder. “You feeling okay?” Rimmer shook his head. “Physically, I mean? You got a cough or anything?”
"I don’t know,” said Rimmer. “I test every week. It’s the only way to be sure. I don’t know.”
“Alright, well, it doesn’t sound like it’s too serious,” said Lister. “How about you go lie down? Yeah?”
“I have to stay in here,” Rimmer said. “I can’t go outside. I’ll infect all the rest of you.”
“Well, you can’t quarantine in the bathroom, can you?”
Rimmer looked up at him, gaze a little steadier. “Why not?”
“Cause other people use the toilet?” Lister squeezed Rimmer’s shoulder. “C’mon. Up you get.”
In the kitchen, Rimmer lay on the sofa, clutching Lister’s Liverpool FC cushion to his chest and staring vacantly up at the ceiling. “Here we go,” said Lister as gently as he could, setting a mug on the coffee table. “Nice cup of tea.”
Rimmer glanced at the tea. He looked back up at the ceiling. He said, “I’m going to die.”
“You’re not going to die.” Lister perched on the edge of the table. “You’re not even symptomatic or whatever. You’ll be okay.”
“No, no, I can feel it,” said Rimmer. “It’s going to kill me. This is the end.”
“You’re being daft,” said Lister. “Look, Toddhunter and Petersen and a bunch of the guys from work have all had it and they’re fine, so.”
Rimmer turned to look at him, eyes wide and face bleak. “Is that actually supposed to make me feel better?” he said. “Do, you, do you have any idea how unlikely it would be for everyone you know who gets covid to be fine? The more people you know who’ve had it and been fine the more likely it is that I’ll die, statistically speaking.”
“I, er,” said Lister. “I don’t think that’s how statistics work.”
“I can feel the virus in my body.” Rimmer scratched absently at his neck. “I can feel it crawling around, Lister. It’s like bugs inside my skin. It’s trying to kill me.”
Lister rested his elbows on his knees, and squeezed his hands together. He wondered if he ought to say something. “Alright, look,” he said. “Rimmer, I want you to know I mean this in a nice way, yeah?”
“Hm?” Rimmer glanced at him.
As nicely as he could, Lister said, “I think there might be something really wrong with you.”
“Well, yes,” said Rimmer witheringly. “I have the plague, Lister.”
“No, I mean –” He dithered for a second, wondering if he ought to drop it given the state Rimmer was currently in. No time like the present, he reasoned, and soldiered on. “Have you ever thought about getting some therapy?”
“Therapy?” Rimmer scoffed. “Oh, my, no. It’s like my father always said.” He relaxed his grip on the cushion to raise a decisive finger. “Therapy is for weak-minded people who can’t handle the real world. I can take care of my own problems, thank you.”
“I think therapy might also be for people who can feel bugs crawling around inside them when they’re sick,” Lister suggested.
Unfortunately, that set Rimmer off again. Mumbling in distress he went back to scratching hard at his neck.
“Don’t.” Lister took him by the wrist, trying vainly to guide his hand away. “Hey – don’t.”
“I feel faint,” said Rimmer. “I can feel my lungs collapsing already. I think I need to go to hospital.”
“I don’t think you need to go to hospital,” said Lister. “Alright? You’re barely even sick.”
“My whole body’s shutting down,” Rimmer whined. “I can’t feel my legs.”
Lister sat back on the coffee table. “You want to know what I think you need, Rimmer?”
Rimmer looked over at him. “Enlighten me.”
“I think you need at least a year of CBT,” said Lister, “a big bag of weed, and to have that stick surgically removed from your arse. You get me?”
Clutching the Liverpool cushion tighter to his chest, Rimmer was staring at him. An expression of horror was building on his face.
“What?” said Lister.
“Cock and ball torture?” said Rimmer faintly.
Lister blinked. “Oh, Jesus,” he said, and began to laugh. “Oh my God. You’re such a weirdo, you know that?”
“What?” said Rimmer, still looking mildly panicked.
Sighing, Lister got up from the coffee table. “Sit tight,” he said. “I’ve got some weed in my room, so we can check that one off the list, at least.”
*
A few minutes later, Rimmer was sitting on their tiny sofa, squashed up between Lister and the Cat, a joint in his hand. “There you go, buddy,” said the Cat, surprisingly gently, guiding it once again to his mouth. “Does that feel better?”
Rimmer looked at his hand. “A little, actually.”
“There, there.” Lister rubbed circles between his shoulder blades in a manner that he hoped was comforting. It was impossible to say. Rimmer was just kind of staring glassily forward, evidently still in shock.
“Here we are,” said Kryten, bustling over from the kitchen and setting down his tray. “Snacks for everyone – do help yourselves – I made madeleines.”
The Cat took three and a handful of crisps. Rimmer, meanwhile, shrugged off Lister’s attempt at a comforting hand and slumped back against the sofa.
Kryten eyed the joint in his hand nervously. “Is that really a good idea, in his condition?”
Lister shrugged, rolling another one. “I figure it’ll either calm him down or make everything worse,” he said. “Fifty-fifty shot. You want some?”
“Oh – no, thank you.” Kryten shook his head. “I don’t smoke.”
Lister offered the joint to the Cat instead, who accepted. “Does this mean none of us can go outside?” he said. “Cause I’m out of hair spray –”
“Can it,” said Lister. “Not now.”
The Cat looked like he was going to soldier on anyway, but before he could, Rimmer spoke up. “No-one’s ever going to love me,” he said to the ceiling. “Are they?”
They exchanged an uneasy look. “Well,” Lister sighed. “They were decent odds.”
“I’ll just – take that,” said Kryten, leaning over to pry the joint out of Rimmer’s slack hand. He replaced it with a madeleine. Slowly, as if on autopilot, Rimmer began to eat it.
“That’s not true, eh?” Lister squeezed his knee. “I love you, man.”
“Don’t lie to me,” said Rimmer. “You don’t even like me.”
“He’s got you there,” said the Cat.
“Alright, fine,” Lister conceded. “But, y’know. I’d like to think I have love and compassion for everyone in the world –”
“Oh, don’t give me that nonsense,” said Rimmer. “No-one actually feels that way, it’s just something people say to make themselves feel good. And even if you did, it doesn’t count. You don’t like me. None of you like me. Will you please stop whatever this is?”
“Stop what?” said Kryten.
“Stop pretending to care about me,” said Rimmer. “Honestly, how stupid do you think I am?”
“Well –” said the Cat.
Lister waved at him to shut up before he made things worse. “Alright, so we don’t like you very much,” he said. “But you’re a human being and you’re having a nervous breakdown, so –”
“I’m not having a nervous breakdown, stop saying I’m having a nervous breakdown,” Rimmer snapped. Kryten put another madeleine in his hand. He ate it. “If I die,” he said. “I’m taking you all down with me.”
“We ought to get some food in you,” Lister sighed. “You want pizza? I’m ordering you a pizza.”
The evening wore on into night. The Cat retreated back to his nest in the box room. Kryten dozed off on their one armchair. Rimmer sat on the sofa, with most of a pizza and several cans of beer in him. Lister wasn’t sure he’d calmed down, but he’d at least become a bit more tolerable to be around.
“If I die,” he said thoughtfully.
“For the last time,” Lister said into his hands. “You’re not gonna die.”
“Well, he’s gonna die someday,” put in Holly from Lister’s laptop screen. Scowling at her, he half-closed it, ignoring her squawk of protest.
Rimmer fixed him with a hard look, and said, “If I die. Will anyone miss me?”
“Probably,” said Lister.
“Will I leave any legacy?” said Rimmer. “Have I impacted on the world in any meaningful way? No. My entire life will have meant absolutely nothing.”
“That’s not true.” Lister rubbed at his bleary eyes and wondered if the evening would get more or less tolerable if he opened another beer. “I don’t think anyone’s life means nothing.”
“Mine has,” said Rimmer smugly. “In fact, I’d say most people’s lives don’t mean anything – it’s just that, unlike yours truly, they aren’t smart enough to see it.”
Lister reached for a beer. “Oh, yeah?”
“Most people go through the world like contented little sheep,” Rimmer went on. “It’s only a select few of us who are intelligent enough to see the truth. Life is naught but a long, bleak tunnel with no exits and no respite until our inevitable demise.”
“Open me up – I’ve got something to say,” said Holly. Lister opened up the laptop. “Right. That’s better. Rimmer,” she said. “That’s not being smarter than other people. That’s clinical depression.”
Rimmer scoffed. “Depression is just a word lazy people made up to justify their behaviour,” he said. “That’s what my father always used to say.”
“Jesus,” List huffed. “Your old man sounds like a real piece of work, you know that?”
“Hm?” Rimmer glanced at him. “Oh – yes, he was, probably.”
Lister paused in the act of swigging his beer. “He was?” he said. Rimmer shrugged. “He’s – gone, then?”
“About a month into lockdown,” said Rimmer, and heaved a sigh. “Not the virus,” he clarified hastily. “Sudden heart failure. Tragic. Big shock.”
He downed a good measure of beer. Lister sat, frozen, on the sofa, at a loss for how to respond. From the laptop was the distant sound of Holly typing.
“Oh, Jesus,” he managed. “Jesus Christ, Rimmer, I’m sorry. You never said.”
“Well, you never asked, did you?” said Rimmer. He settled back on the sofa, looking oddly wistful. “I’d have liked to have been at the ceremony, but there were size restrictions. Lockdown procedures, you know. Someone had to stay home and I got the short straw.”
“Jesus, Rimmer, that’s awful,” said Lister.
Rimmer heaved another sigh; then he said, bitterly, “God, I hated him.” He necked the rest of his beer and turning to Lister added, “Do you believe in life after death?”
“Eh, what?” said Lister startled.
“Jesus, this is getting dark, isn’t it?” said Holly. “I’m opening the wine.” She bobbed out of view. He heard the sound of her fridge opening and closing.
“Well, do you?” said Rimmer.
“I dunno, really,” said Lister.
“You don’t know?” Rimmer glared at him. “What do you mean, you don’t know? How can you not know?”
“I dunno,” Lister protested. “I guess I don’t really think about it much.”
“Really.” Rimmer seemed genuinely startled. “I think about it all the time.” He grabbed the remains of the six pack from the table and began to extricate another beer. “Yes, I imagine myself dying,” he said. “And arriving at the pearly gates – and as I kneel before the Almighty,” he went on, “he takes one look at me and says eurgh, what’s that, something the cat dragged in?” He opened his beer. “And then he tosses me in a hole to rot for eternity.”
Lister mulled that over. “Bleak.”
“It’s what I was brought up to believe,” said Rimmer.
Toying with his beer, Lister scooted a little further along the sofa. “Listen, mate,” he said. “I dunno if I believe in god or in an afterlife or any of that. But if there is a god, I don’t think he’d be going around condemning people to spend eternity in a hole.”
Rimmer hmmed sharply, not convinced.
“You want to know what I’d like to think happens after you die?” Lister poked his leg. “Eh?”
“Go on, then,” said Rimmer.
“I like to imagine that when you die, you wake up in this giant auditorium,” said Lister. “Full of thousands of people. And then they give you a guitar – and you get to sing a song about your life. But not just any song,” he added quickly. “I mean like, the biggest, flashiest, bangingest contest ever, all about you. And the crowd goes wild cheering and clapping like you’re a rockstar, and you take a bow – and then you’re done.”
“And then you’re done?” said Rimmer, still not sounding convinced. “What happens next?”
“Dunno,” said Lister. “I guess you find out.”
Rimmer looked at him, oddly, for a moment longer. Then turning away he said, “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Well, each to their own,” said Lister. “How about you, Hol?”
“Eh, what’s that?” said Holly, gliding back onto the screen. “What happens after death? S’total oblivion, innit.”
“Lighten up, Holly,” said Lister. “That’s not gonna make him feel better, is it?”
Holly blinked dispassionately. “Who said anything about trying to make him feel better?”
Rimmer huffed a bitter laugh. “There, see, Holly’s at least honest,” he said. “Holly doesn’t pretend to care about my feelings.”
“I’m not pretending,” Lister insisted.
“Lister, really, I’m not stupid,” said Rimmer. “I do know, you know. I know you hate living with me. I know all about your little plan to move in with your mates Toddhunter and Peterson as soon as you can get shot of me.”
“Hey, now, you don’t want to live with me either –”
“I know the three of you get together and watch your silly cartoons and play your stupid video games without me,” said Rimmer. “Have you ever asked me if I wanted to join in? Even once? Hm?”
“You don’t like video games,” Lister protested.
“That’s not true,” said Rimmer. “I’m a pro at Minesweeper.”
“Well – okay,” said Lister. “But that’s not really a multiplayer game –”
“You honestly expect me to believe you haven’t been leaving me out on purpose?” said Rimmer. “Huh?”
“Of course we haven’t,” said Lister.
“Oh, really,” said Rimmer. “Really.” He shifted his beer into his other hand, held up a finger with the air of one about to play his trump card, and said, “Do you – or do you not – currently have two group chats on your phone – one called ‘flat group chat’ and one called ‘flat group chat without Rimmer’?”
“Hey, how’d you know about that?” said Lister.
“Never you mind,” said Rimmer.
“Well, anyway,” said Lister, floundering, trying to recover. “That’s just where we talk about things we don’t think you’d be interested in.”
“Yeah,” put in Holly. “That’s where we post memes and jokes and that.”
“Oh!” Rimmer scoffed. “And you think I don’t like memes and jokes?” When neither of them answered he sat forward on the sofa and jabbing a hand at his chest said, “I’m fun! I, I’m nice! It’s not my fault everyone hates me!”
“Look – Rimmer,” said Holly. “I’m just gonna level with you, okay? Nobody likes you because you’re just not a very likeable person.”
Rimmer looked at her, appalled. “Holly, don’t be mean,” said Lister.
“Well, someone’s got to tell him, don’t they?” said Holly.
“I’m not that bad,” said Rimmer dismally.
“You’re nasty to everyone,” Holly said. “You’re irritating, and frankly you’re tedious.” She turned away momentarily from the camera to chug wine out of the bottle. “It’s not a nice combination. Do everyone a favour and work on yourself.”
“Tedious,” Rimmer scoffed. “In what sense am I tedious?”
“You could try having a normal conversation from time to time,” suggested Lister.
Rimmer huffed. “And how exactly does one have a normal conversation?”
“Well, you could, I dunno,” said Lister. “Talk about what you’re binging.”
“Binging?” said Rimmer.
“Yeah, you know,” Lister explained. “Like, we’ve been watching all of Naruto. What’ve you been up to?”
Rimmer sipped his beer and considered the question. Then he said, “I found this website with a complete archive of the shipping forecast going back over twenty years.”
“Oh, my god,” Lister groaned, rubbing at his forehead.
“It’s cracking stuff,” said Rimmer.
“Yeah, see, this is part of your problem,” said Lister. “You aren’t into anything any normal person enjoys.”
“Lots of people enjoy the shipping forecast,” Rimmer protested. “There’s loads of us on Reddit.”
“Yeah, but you see what I mean –”
“Anyway, I don’t know where you think you get off talking about what normal people are into,” said Rimmer. “Do you think I don’t know what your game is? Hm?”
“What?” said Lister.
“I’ve read all about it on Twitter,” said Rimmer. “You people and your agenda.”
Lister blinked. “What are you on about now?” he said. “I’ve never had an agenda in me life.”
“Oh, Gordon Bennett,” Holly groaned. “Not this bullshit.”
“What bullshit?” said Lister.
“He’s being weird about trans people again,” said Holly. “I’m logging off. Night, Lister.”
The screen went dark.
“Alright,” Lister sighed. “Rimmer –”
“I’ve figured it out,” said Rimmer. “I figured it out yonks ago. You’re trying to transition me.”
Lister’s mildly drunk brain ran slap into a brick wall. “You what?”
“You people,” Rimmer went on. “You’ve got Holly and Kryten and you’ll be after me next. I’ve worked it all out. That’s why you keep trying to get me to buy soy milk.”
Lister rubbed his forehead. He could feel a headache coming on. “Rimmer, we’ve been asking you to buy soy milk because Kryten’s lactose intolerant.”
“First of all, there’s no such thing as lactose intolerance,” said Rimmer. “It’s a conspiracy to weaken everyone’s skulls and make us more susceptible to mind control technology. And secondly –” He ground to a halt. “Secondly, ah.”
“Rimmer,” Lister interrupted. “I promise you, no-one is trying to make you be trans, okay?”
“I’m remaining constantly vigilant,” said Rimmer. “I’m watching for the signs. You won’t get me. Oh, no.”
Hand over his mouth, Lister slouched back on the sofa and tried to figure out what the hell was going on. “Do you think about this a lot, then?”
“All the time,” said Rimmer. “Constant vigilance. As I said.”
“Alright – look,” said Lister. “I’m gonna try and explain this really simply, so you’ll understand.”
“Alright,” said Rimmer. “Do you want to stop being a man?” said Lister.
“No – of course not.”
Lister toasted him with his beer. “Then don’t,” he said. “It’s that easy, mate.”
Rimmer stared at him for a moment. He shook his head. “It can’t be that simple.”
“Sure it is,” said Lister. “It’s like Holly’s always saying. Gender’s basically fake and you can do what you want.” Rimmer looked dubious. “Alright, think of it like this.” He hunched in closer. “We don’t like you, right, so why would we want you in the club?”
“Huh,” said Rimmer.
“You’re a total dickhead and we only want people we think are fun,” said Lister. “So of course we aren’t trying to get you.” He patted Rimmer on the shoulder and settled back down against the cushions.
Rimmer considered that concept. Bizarrely, it actually seemed to be helping. “I suppose that’s true.”
“There you go,” said Lister.
Folding his arms, Rimmer mulled the whole thing over a little more. Then he seemed to relax. “Can I tell you something, Lister?”
“If you must.”
“I don’t understand this transgender thing at all,” said Rimmer. “But I do respect your commitment to choosing the winning team.”
Lister blinked. “I’ll take that as a compliment, shall I?”
“I’m going to level with you,” Rimmer went on. “Until recently I didn’t know you could be transgender that way around.”
“You can be trans any way you want.” Lister swigged beer. “Hang on, then, so where do you stand on Holly?”
“Quitter,” said Rimmer, not skipping a beat. “No stamina.”
Lister snorted a laugh. “Y’what?”
“You see, Lister,” Rimmer said, gearing up for what was evidently going to be a lengthy one. “Being a man is pain. Women don’t realise how easy they have it. Manhood is a constant, daily uphill grind over broken glass and knives and if you slow down for even one moment,” he held up a finger, “they’re on you like sharks.”
Lister looked at the wall. He looked back at Rimmer. “I don’t think it is, mate.”
Rimmer looked momentarily taken aback, as if it had honestly never occurred to him that Lister might not see it the same way. Then he waved him off. “Oh, what would you know about it – you just got here.”
Lister thought about pointing out that he’d been here almost a decade and decided against it. “Look – Rimmer,” he said. “I do get what you mean. You know? But you don’t have to worry about any of that stuff with us if you don’t want to.” He prodded Rimmer’s arm. “Chill out, okay?”
Rimmer shook his head. “I know I’m bad at it,” he said. “I’m not under any illusions. My father thought I was a failure of a man and he was right.”
“I’m sure he didn’t think that,” said Lister.
“Shortly before he died,” said Rimmer. “He looked at me on a family Zoom call and said Arnold, I consider you a failure as a son and as a man.”
Lister blinked. “Alright, maybe he thought that,” he conceded. “But that doesn’t mean he was right.”
“Wasn’t he?” said Rimmer. “I achieved nothing – nothing – my entire life. I have no career prospects, no romantic prospects, and the closest thing in the world I have to a friend is a person who doesn’t even like me.”
“Oh, yeah?” said Lister. “Who’s that, then?” Rimmer shot him a bleak look – and the penny dropped. “Oh! Oh, me, eh?”
Rimmer was looking at him with an unreadable smirk. “D’you know how many times I’ve had sex in my life, Lister?”
“Oh, hell,” Lister groaned. “I don’t want to know.”
“Well, I want to tell you,” said Rimmer.
“No, you don’t,” said Lister.
“Yes I do,” said Rimmer.
“You’re drunk, alright?” said Lister. “You’ll hate yourself for this in the morning. Please, please don’t tell me.”
“I’m going to,” said Rimmer.
“God, please don’t,” said Lister. “I don’t want this in me head forever.”
Rimmer looked smug. “Once.”
“Oh, God,” Lister groaned. He slumped forward on the sofa, doing his best to stick his head between his legs. “Jesus Christ, Rimmer, why’d you have to tell me that?”
“Yvonne McGruder,” Rimmer pronounced.
“Eh?” Lister looked up at him. “From accounting?”
“The very same,” said Rimmer. “We got phenomenally drunk one year at the office Christmas party and did it in the ladies toilets. The next day I tried to ask her out on a date and she pretended not to know who I was.”
That was the mad thing about Rimmer, Lister reflected. Just when you thought you’d heard the saddest thing in the world, he’d come up with something even sadder.
“You want to know the worst part?” Rimmer went on. “It was one of the best things that ever happened to me – and I’m pretty sure I only remember the first half.”
“Bloody hell.” Lister scrubbed at his eyes. “Remind me to add getting laid onto the list of things you need.”
“Not going to argue with you on that one,” said Rimmer. “However, I have no interest in your help achieving that particular goal.”
“No?” said Lister.
“No,” said Rimmer bluntly. “You’re disgusting.”
“I’m not,” said Lister, scratching at his crotch.
“I’ll never understand why in the world multiple women have slept with you,” said Rimmer. “Absolutely baffling.”
Lister shrugged. “Some girls like a bit of grime.”
“Some girls need their heads examined,” said Rimmer. Lister snorted. Rimmer necked the last of his beer and then did an exaggerated whole-body shudder. “Lister, I think I’m smashed.”
“Yeah, beer’ll do that,” said Lister. He set his mostly empty can down on the coffee table. “Listen – do you want a hug or something?”
“From you?” said Rimmer. “No offense, Lister, but if you hugged me I think I’d need to take a shower afterwards.” He hiccupped. “Anyway, you shouldn’t get too close. I’m probably infectious.”
“We share a bedroom – if I’m gonna get it I’m gonna get it.” Lister spread his arms. “C’mon. Just once. No-one ever has to know.”
Rimmer’s face was hard, but his lip was quivering a little.
“Come on,” said Lister. “When was the last time you got a hug?” Rimmer looked away. Lister squished in a little closer, arms still outstretched. “Humour me?” he offered.
“Alright – fine,” Rimmer sighed. “If you insist.”
It wasn’t the best hug. For one thing, Rimmer just sort of sat there without making any move to reciprocate. He was tense and angular in Lister’s arms. His t-shirt was clinging clammily to his skin. Lister patted his back firmly. “There, there, mate,” he said. “Buck up. Everything’ll be alright.”
“No, it won’t,” said Rimmer into his shoulder. “But thanks for saying it.”
*
Monday evening, Lister knocked on the bedroom door. He waited for the sound of the shipping forecast to cut out. The door opened a crack and Rimmer’s furious eyes peered out.
“Alright,” said Lister. “How’re you feeling?”
“Never better,” said Rimmer. “Fighting fit.”
“Great,” said Lister. “Cat’s a bit feverish but the rest of us are all fine. Listen, do you want to come watch TV or something?”
Rimmer’s eyes narrowed.
“Doesn’t have to be anime,” Lister added. “But if you pick something boring we get to veto it.”
“Is this some kind of joke?” said Rimmer.
“Why would it be a joke?” said Lister.
“Why would you want to watch TV with me?”
“You’re part of the group, aren’t you?”
Rimmer slammed the bedroom door. Lister waited a moment to see if he was coming back. Nothing happened. Sighing to himself, he turned away. Ah, well, he thought to himself. No-one can say I didn’t try.
But behind him, the door clicked open. Rimmer’s head poked out. “There’s this military history documentary on iPlayer I’ve been wanting to watch,” he said cautiously.
“Sure,” said Lister. “Sounds alright. But you don’t get to complain if we talk during it,” he added hastily.
Rimmer squinted at him, considering. Then he accepted the compromise. “Alright – fine.”
“C’mon, then.” Grabbing his shirt Lister towed him towards the kitchen. “We have snacks.”