Heaven Nor Hell

by Paul Greenway

  * * * * *

  The funeral was meant to be low-key, as stipulated by the Prime Minister’s mother, but ballooned into a major event, as dictated by the PM’s Department. So, the service was transferred to the SA Garden of Remembrance in Centennial Park with its reflective pools, contemplative benches and commemorative plaques of servicemen, which included several distant relatives of the PM.

  Dozens of politicians from both divides, as well as selected members of the press and other self-appointed dignitaries, were invited, or attended unannounced in order to ingratiate themselves with the PM. They all mingled while carrying cups of coffee and plates of sandwiches, which made it difficult to shake hands as the networking continued unabated. Among the various police in uniforms and secret service agents incognito, the PM’s Special Envoy, with his crew cut trimmed but snarl relaxed, was staring into the open coffin.

  Seated at a makeshift table at a discreet distance, Ashleigh adjusted her blond wig, wriggled with discomfort at the padding inside her bra, and clutched nervously at the press pass dangling around her neck.

  The vacuous wives of three self-absorbed luminaries recognised the TV celebrity and hurriedly approached Ashleigh. The one with elongated eyelashes sat down first. ‘Oh, Dawnie, it's so great to see you …’ Then, the woman remembered that she wasn’t in the bar at the golf club. ‘… on this very sad occasion, of course.’

  Ashleigh offered her most sincere Dawn-ish smile. ‘It’s so awesome to be here ...’ And then put on her most genuine frown. ‘… on this very sad occasion, of course.’

  Another with noticeable breast implants peered closely at Ashleigh. ‘You do look different.’

  ‘This is reality, darling.’ Ashleigh waved her arms the same way Dawn had done on YouTube clips of the morning TV show. ‘No makeup artists and favourable lighting here.’

  The three women cackled with delight.

  Breast Implants passed over a pen. ‘Can I get your autograph, Dawn?’

  ‘Of course, darling.’ Ashleigh cheerfully signed autographs on napkins for the three women before realising that she had, in fact, used her own name. Each woman inspected the napkin and frowned. ‘Aliases, darlings. I forget who I am sometimes.’ Ashleigh impersonated Dawn’s chuckle perfectly, and the sycophantic women chortled on cue. Ashleigh signed another three napkins with “Dawnie xxx”.

  The woman with cracked fingernails extracted her mobile phone. ‘And a photo?’

  Ashleigh shook her head solemnly. ‘No, not at the funeral, darlings.’ She glanced briefly at Special Envoy as he meandered past. ‘Later. Let’s do photos after the drinkies.’

  * * * * *

  The Royal Adelaide Hospital is spread along North Terrace, not far from the University, although a long-overdue relocation is due within a year or two. Having played all sorts of sports badly, resulting in all kinds of injuries, Todd knew the RAH well. He strolled past patients and visitors milling around the newsagent, florist and kiosk before veering towards the Admissions desk. Of the two receptionists working diligently at their computers, one was attractive with an alluring cleavage and the other had a bulging waistline.

  Todd decided subconsciously within a nanosecond which one to approach. ‘Hello. Is Doctor King here?’

  ‘I can't tell you if she is.’ Alluring Cleavage didn’t bother looking up from the screen. ‘And I can't tell if she is not.’

  ‘But I have to see her urgently.’

  Todd leered as Alluring Cleavage pushed a blank form across the counter. ‘You'll have to take whatever doctor is available. Sign this.’ She fastened a button on her blouse and glanced at Todd suspiciously. ‘Are you sick?’

  Todd’s attempts at flirtatiousness rarely succeeded. ‘Only with the ache in my heart from peering into the sparkle of your eyes.’

  Alluring Cleavage groaned and secured another button on her blouse. ‘God, I'm far too old – and far, far too married – for that crap.’

  ‘I’m not,’ said Bulging Waistline. ‘Hey, weren't you on TV yesterday?’

  ‘Um …’

  ‘They crucified you.’

  ‘So, you know why I'm here.’

  Bulging Waistline checked a schedule on her computer. ‘Doctor King starts her shift in an hour. You can see her then, but you’ll probably have to wait with the others.’ She pointed to the growing number of outpatients and glanced back at Todd. ‘But you don't look injured or sick.’

  Alluring Cleavage pressed some keys. ‘According to our records he is.’ She raised her voice. ‘And we can fast track you with severe gonorrhoea!’ She pointed towards an empty seat in the waiting area as patients hurriedly shifted to a distant corner.

  * * * * *

  Jordan thumped the ping pong table in a futile effort to appear authoritative. ‘Right. You've all seen the minutes from last week. Memorized them. Spell-checked and played around with the font. Now for some serious shit.’ The Four Nerds grunted as an indication of some latent interest.

  Jordan switched on a projector connected to his laptop and displayed images on the only wall of the garage not plastered with Star Trek posters. The first image was a document lined with a series of numbers. ‘This was on that recording given to us by the two doctors before they disappeared. I believe these 32 numbers are the code for the formula of the Eternal Drug.’ He pressed some more keys and projected a clip taken from the TV show the previous morning.

  The Four Nerds glanced up from their laptops because they all fancied Dawn and Ashleigh.

  ‘–and the other recording you claim is the formula for the Eternal Drug, but is just a list of numbers.’

  ‘Which none of our experts can decode.’

  ‘According to my source ...’ Jordan sighed as he stroked the sideburns crafted by Asian Makeup Girl. ‘… these so-called experts who tried to crack the code were just the sports reporter–’

  ‘I bet he's gay.’ The nerd with patchy clumps of hair across his chin giggled.

  ‘–and the weatherman.’

  ‘Oh, he definitely is.’ The nerd who had never clipped the hair in his nostrils nodded.

  * * * * *

  Ashleigh continued glancing between the coffin and Special Envoy standing nearby as the three women carried on gushing. ‘Dawnie, is it true that you and Layne–?’

  Ashleigh nodded jauntily. ‘Of course it is, darling.’

  ‘Really?’ Elongated Eyelashes was thrilled.

  ‘Oh yeah, Layne and I shag every chance we get.’ The women gasped with delight and shuffled closer to Ashleigh. ‘In the dressing rooms. Before and after the show. In the limo. On the coffee table in the studio.’

  Breast Implants clasped her hands. ‘I knew it!’

  But Cracked Fingernails wasn’t that impressed. ‘I fancy the sports reporter, anyway.’

  Ashleigh wobbled her head. ‘Save yourself, darling. Steve is as gay as they come.’

  ‘What?’

  Ashleigh offered a smile laced with sympathy that Dawn would’ve been proud of. ‘Yep, he and Danny, the weatherman, they're a couple.’

  The three women gasped collectively. ‘What?’

  ‘Oh, everyone on our silly little morning TV show, darlings, is having marital affairs. Or is gay. Or both. And they all have truly disgusting toilet habits.’

  The responses from Breast Implants, Cracked Fingernails and Elongated Eyelashes were immediate.

  ‘No way.’

  ‘How horrible.’

  ‘I never knew that!’

  Ashleigh lifted a lipstick-stained coffee cup to her mouth. ‘So, I suggest you watch the other channel. Better still, darlings, switch off your TV sets.’

  The three women silently dropped their jaws.

  * * * * *

  At the waiting room inside the Royal Adelaide Hospital, Todd was able to stretch out and watch the TV screen unperturbed while other patients maintained their distance by huddling together in isolated corners.

  Dr King strode in and glanced at the reception d
esk, where Alluring Cleavage nodded in Todd's direction. ‘Follow me,’ said the doctor. As Todd followed Dr King through the Outpatients Block the remaining patients began moving back cautiously towards the empty chairs.

  Inside a consultancy room, Dr King peered at a computer and indicated for Todd to lie on the bed. ‘Take off your trousers.’

  ‘But I don't have, um–’

  ‘Do you want me to check?’

  ‘No, I'm sure. No, I know I don't have gonorrhoea.’ He zipped up his trousers and shifted to the other side of Dr King’s desk.

  ‘This has to do with Doctor Olsson and Doctor Mitchell, doesn't it?’

  ‘Do you know where they are?’

  ‘No.’ Dr King was clearly troubled. ‘Do you?’

  Todd shook his head. ‘Do you know anything that can help us find them?’

  Dr King contemplated Todd and his curly hair for a moment before extracting a phone and pressing some keys. ‘A few days ago, Doctor Olsson sent me this before …’ She inhaled deeply. ‘… they went missing. An email.’

  ‘What does it say?’

  ‘That’s the thing.’ Dr King passed the phone to Todd, who stared at it blankly. ‘It says nothing. Just a bunch of numbers that mean zilch to me.’

  * * * * *

  Jordan was well aware that the Four Nerds had a collective attention span of a gnat, so he raised his voice and thumped the ping pong table again. ‘So, the two gay reporters and Dawn, the blond bimbo with the fake boobs–’

  ‘Ahhh, fake boobs.’ Patchy Beard sighed.

  ‘–just sat there for a minute on set during the ads trying to decode these 32 numbers while drinking coffee and scoffing donuts.’

  ‘Ahhh, donuts.’ Hairy Nostrils whimpered dreamily.

  As usual, Jordan ignored them. ‘We also have to assume that the biggest and brightest nerds in the government haven't decoded these 32 numbers yet for one simple reason.’

  The nerd renowned for his proclivity for nose-picking nodded. ‘Because we haven't.’

  ‘Exactly. And that's because we didn't have all the numbers. That is until now. A few minutes ago, Todd rang me on a payphone–‘

  ‘What's a payphone?’ Nose Picker was as confused as the others.

  ‘His iPhone was disabled somehow.’ The Four Nerds collectively shuddered and caressed their smartphones as Jordan continued. ‘Todd gave me an extra set of 32 numbers. So, I've combined the two sets to make sixty four, which we have to assume is the complete code for the drug.’ Jordan bent over his laptop and pressed some keys. ‘I've just sent an email to all of you a second ago with the entire set of numbers. There'll be a prize for the first person who can–‘

  ‘Got it.’ Patchy Beard smirked.

  Hairy Nostrils nodded. ‘Yep, easy.’

  ‘I, um ...’

  Patchy Beard sniggered at Nose Picker. ‘C'mon, it's a simple algorithmic equation using Pythagoras' formula for numerical equivalency, with an ingenious splash of the er-76q code formula used by the Nazis.’

  Nose Picker pressed a multitude of keys within seconds. ‘Oh yeah.’ His head wobbled with embarrassment.

  Jordan peered at his cohorts with pride. ‘Well, nerds. What have we got?’

  ‘Nothing useful,’ said Patchy Beard.

  ‘Just a list of letters,’ added Hairy Nostrils.

  ‘And?’ Jordan stretched out his arms.

  ‘We don't know anything about letters or words,’ explained the nerd with the worst body odour, as the other three nodded in agreement. ‘We only deal in numbers.’

  * * * * *

  ‘You are so much prettier and nicer in real life, Dawnie. And younger.’

  Ashleigh offered Elongated Eyelashes a grateful grin. ‘Oh, thank you, darling.’

  Breast Implants turned to the other two women. ‘And isn’t Dawn so sincere …’

  ‘… honest ...’ Cracked Fingernails nodded.

  ‘… and genuine.’ Elongated Eyelashes pointed at Ashleigh's chest. ‘But are those for real?’

  ‘I'm all implants and Botox, darlings.’ Ashleigh bowed forward. ‘Can you three ladies keep a secret?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Are you kidding?’

  Ashleigh continued to whisper. ‘I attend AA meetings. Never give money to charity. And I fart while eating baked beans in bed.’

  The women muttered their responses while furtively searching for phones in their handbags.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I would never have thought.’

  ‘Gosh!’

  Ashleigh stood and straightened her dress, something she almost never wore in real life. ‘I have to mingle now, darlings. The curse of being a celebrity. God, I need a drink.’ She glanced admiringly at some snugly-suited men sauntering past. ‘… and a shag.’

  As Ashleigh merged into the line of mourners meandering past the coffin, the three women glanced at each other before dispersing to different parts of the garden to whisper intently into their phones.

  ‘Have I got a story for you?!’

  ‘Hold the front page!’

  ‘You will want to hear this!’

  Ashleigh watched as two Secret Service agents furtively prodded and pinched the body of the Prime Minister’s mother. Several guests nearby were horrified by their actions, but forcibly moved away by a third agent. The other two agents stopped prodding and pinching, turned towards Special Envoy in a far-off section of the garden, and shook their heads. 

  Special Envoy’s firm nod prompted immediate action: Secret Service Agent 1 spoke into his shirt cuff; Agent 2 stealthily extracted a walkie-talkie and began whispering into it; and Agent 3 made a call on a mobile phone. Special Envoy scanned the garden before directing his menacing glare at Ashleigh. She gulped and scampered through an exit.

  * * * * *

  After working out how to use the payphone and calling Jordan, Todd strolled down a corridor within the hospital while again disobeying the warning signs and turning on his iPhone. Immensely frustrated that he was still incommunicado, he failed to notice a doctor with spiky hair speaking into his phone. The doctor nodded, hung up, and slid the phone into the top pocket of his bleached-white coat.

  Todd glanced up as Dr Spiky Hair and another doctor with a hopeful moustache grabbed him and forced him down on to a stretcher. ‘But I don't need surgery for gonorrhoea!’

  Dr Spiky Hair continued to pin Todd down with surprising force as Dr Hopeful Moustache injected a needle into a vein along Todd’s forearm.

  ‘Hang on, I don't ... even ... have ... gonn … o ...’ Todd's speech slurred and his words eventually halted as his eyes closed. The doctors peered along the corridor before wheeling the stretcher into an empty room.

  * * * * *

  Secret Service Agents 1, 2 and 3 soon found the garage in which Jordan and the Four Nerds were housed. As they strode towards the door, Agent 1 extracted a special remote control from his suit pocket and pressed a button. Jordan and the Four Nerds stopped perving at lesbian websites on their laptops and stared slack-jawed as the garage door rolled upwards. As the three agents slid under the half-opened entrance, Agent 1 pressed the “close” and “lock” buttons on the remote control.

  * * * * *

  Ashleigh was inside the ladies toilet near the funeral garden frantically planning her escape as Special Envoy entered. ‘Haven't we met before? Perhaps in similar surroundings?’

  Ashleigh crossed her arms and answered with Dawn’s renowned Queensland drawl. ‘I don't know, sweetie. Maybe. I often entertain gentlemen in places like this. It's a benefit of being a B-grade TV celebrity.’

  Special Envoy’s snarl returned. ‘But I don't think you are.’

  ‘Are you part of a group called GROUP?’

  Special Envoy abruptly grabbed Ashleigh’s shoulders and shoved her into a cubicle. She stared, shocked into silence and immobility, as he reached inside his jacket and unfastened a holster.

  * * * * *

&nbs
p; Doctors Spiky Hair and Hopeful Moustache stood over Todd as he was sprawled unconscious across the stretcher.

  ‘Are you sure the serum will work?’

  Hopeful Moustache nodded. ‘He'll be singing like a bird in a few minutes, telling us everything we need to know.’

  * * * * *

  As Agents 1, 2 and 3 spread to separate corners of the garage and crossed their arms Jordan and the Four Nerds began blabbering and quivering. They jolted in unison as the garage door clunked to a final locked position.

  Patchy Beard mumbled fretfully to Agent 1. ‘What do you want? And who are you?’

  ‘You're meant to say it the other way around,’ hissed Jordan.

  ‘Jeez, it smells in here.’ Agent 1 peered around the garage with contempt. ‘Disarm the nerds.’ Agents 2 and 3 yanked out every USB stick offering mobile broadband from each laptop and snatched every phone and tablet spread across the ping pong table. ‘Now stand up.’

  Jordan and the Four Nerds silently obeyed. The five of them were skilfully and intrusively frisked by Agents 2 and 3, who confiscated various other mobile devices found in their pockets and strapped to their lower legs, like knives hidden by criminals.

  Agents 2 and 3 forced them to sit down as Agent 1 again crossed his arms. ‘You're all now isolated from the rest of the world. Totally. You can't Gmail your geeky pals ...’

  ‘But–?’ Patchy Beard started whimpering.

  ‘… play any pointless video games ...’

  ‘W-what?’ Hairy Nostrils was sobbing.

  ‘… or send tweets every nanosecond.’

  ‘Help!’ Nose Picker shouted towards the garage door. ‘Get us out of here! They're torturing us!’

  Agent 1 pointed to the drum kit in the corner. ‘The garage is soundproofed.’

  Jordan hadn’t broken down completely yet. ‘I think I speak on behalf of my friends when I say …’ Then, he began to screech. ‘… that we will do whatever you want!’

  ‘We simply want you to work out the code. We need the formula for the Eternal Drug. And we bloody well need it now.’

  Jordan was the only nerd still able to speak, although barely. ‘W-we, er, worked out the c-code, but they're, they’re not num-numbers. They’re a-a random set of l-letters that, um, mean n-nothing.’

  ‘Then, you'd better quickly create some sort of program to work out what the hell the letters mean. You need to find out what words these letters make …’