Death & the City Book Two

by Lisa Scullard

  The other thing bothering me is what Warren referred to as the first contingent. The ones looking for alternatives to getting old and sick in the current climate, who the opposing contingent are saying goes against nature. I consider the spines on my shelf of alternative remedy and therapy books. No. It’s not that.

  I pick out a dictionary and tap it on the shelf thoughtfully, thinking about Martha and Adam Grayson’s way of doing things. No. There’s better ways of reading people, when the information pipelines are there. I put it back, and switch on the TV News channels, opting for multi-screen as I look at my watch. Will have to go to the Chinese in about fifteen minutes, in order to feed Junior before going out later.

  Hmmm. Animal Rights protesters arrested, for ‘repeatedly avoiding road congestion tariffs’ and facing other criminal action, including moving traffic offences in vehicles unsafe for road use, ignoring flow signs and signals, reckless driving, and ‘animal cruelty’ even - towards their own pets. Leaving them unfed or without water, locked in cars and vans, or tied to lamp-posts for hours. And some of the animals are sick, and being tested for rabies having entered the country illegally in secret compartments in their owner’s vehicles. That other animals might have been illegally trafficked by these protesters, including exotics and dangerous ones, such as spiders or snakes. The worry is now, that the owners themselves might need to be tested for rabies as well, since displaying the psychological symptoms of aggression and disinhibited behaviour.

  That’s an interesting twist in events. They show footage of one goatee-bearded individual - not quite sure if it’s male or female - making a great show for the cameras of rescuing a one-legged pigeon in Hyde Park during an open-air sit-in, while the Newsreader reveals that a dehydrated cat riddled with fleas and ticks was giving birth on the front seat of his car while this was going on. Three teenage hoodies had broken the passenger window to rescue them on their way to school, and took them to a vet for emergency treatment. The youngsters are shown, hoods up, announcing simply and reluctantly ‘It’s not right, it’s not right. These guys just want to be something big on telly, you get me?’

  “Good point,” I mutter.

  The current conflict zone. Weary soldiers hoping that the next season will see them coming home. The same images the News shows us every day.

  Homeless issues. Tramps preferring to sleep al fresco rather than adhere to curfews ‘imposed’ on them by shelters. The police say this is because they make more money and cigarettes approaching the nightlife party crowd than during the day. And are more likely to get a smile or friendly hug - even if it’s a drunken one.

  Entertainment News. Internet gaming in 3-D for a better immersion experience. Zombie games based on War simulators still being the best-sellers of all time. More Transmedia movies emerging tied in to games, than the other way around. The latest being a low-budget showcase vampire whodunnit, based on a DS novella mystery.

  Business & Sci-Tech News. Advances in skincare at the world’s largest cosmetics laboratories. Hoping to halt and even reverse early skin cancers - by a coincidental side-effect of a tan extender cream, which slows down cell regeneration and feeds existing cells natural temporary inhibitors to mitosis.

  It sounds horrendous to me, but then injecting botulism sounded like a stupid idea until Botox became the new black. Not to say that I would ever want it. You have to keep getting it done so that your face isn’t lopsided as it wears off unevenly. But inhibiting cell mitosis - you’d bleed to death if you cut yourself. Tissue wouldn’t repair itself. Maybe that’s why they’re stressing the ‘temporary’ side of the argument.

  Obviously as an inhibitor to cancers it sounds like a great idea - but that implies it should be used medically, not cosmetically. And women will just slap it on, and dive onto sunbeds for tanning binges, if they can buy it by any fair means or foul.

  For some reason, I compare it to Junior’s console games as I hear her shouting ‘Norman! Norman! Fish brains! Fish brains, Norman!’ Supermodels will have to keep sticking their old skin back on, if it stops regenerating naturally. Never mind where their undercarriages might end up.

  Another image shows an elderly couple making a stand for euthanasia. Now facing intervention by scientists applying for the right to research what keeps some people alive longer regardless of choice, in the interests of those whose lives are threatened with being cut short otherwise. And whether this is negotiable as a condition of allowing euthanasia to follow in the advances of medicine - or just an excuse to prolong the suffering of individuals making the choice. In the callous pursuit of money and immortality. A quite chirpy one-hundred-year-old, upon asking what keeps her young, giggles and says ‘Gin and tonic!’ and when asked whether she would allow scientists and doctors to look her over to find out what keeps her so healthy, she says ‘Ooh. It would have to be a very LARGE gin and tonic!’ It seems to be the lighter note at the end of the News today.

  I’m not sure. I have a suspicion, but it still seems like psychosis rather than a reality. I need Connor’s input. As I make a quick cup of tea, before yelling upstairs to Junior to put her shoes on and come to the takeaway with me, I recall Connor’s research on the computer that I looked up earlier. Combined with the quote I accidentally caught from Batman & Robin, at the same time.

  I feel as though Connor’s perspective is the one that’s missing to complete the picture. Like me, I think he’s been a bit preoccupied. Specifically, with ensuring that I trust him first.

  I ring head office as we wait in the Chinese takeaway, while Junior talks to their fish in the giant wall tank, asking what their brains weigh with the speculation of what breed of fish will be healthiest for Norman the Zombie. Who apparently has a bit of a fat issue, and is on a diet.

  “What’s on your mind?” head office greet me.

  “Is there a new list coming up?” I ask. “I’ve noticed something. Warren dropped a hint earlier about these cars turning up armed, and who’s behind it.”

  “Nothing definite confirmed, but the feelers are always out,” they reply. “What is it?”

  “Something to do with zombie War games and rabies,” I tell them. “Warren reckons soldiers are coming out of the Army with a new form of PTSD. And I’ve noticed that what were originally designed as training simulators are now being sold to the public - as zombie shoot-em-ups. I’ve told you before what it looks like when you kick out of a nightclub at the end of the night, and the customers are left lurching around outside with the tramps, like Sean of the Dead. I think soldiers who get into online gaming once they leave duty might risk experiencing a psychosis where they think they’re still in training, and the target threats are civilians and zombies. I’ve just seen rabies on the TV, and you remember what the symptom warning commercials were like about that before. A News drama about that sort of outbreak could trigger a rabid zombie hunt.”

  There’s a muffled silence at the other end.

  “Yeah, we were figuring something else similar, not zombies though,” they respond, after conferring. “What informed you?”

  “My daughter. Zombie games are the best thing since sliced bread. She can tell me the whole background story of Metal Gear Solid and she’s only seen my brother play it once. You don’t want troops coming home and going on a trophy hunt for zombies, that they believe exist from brainwashing by War games. Because new public surveillance technology means they won’t be clinically diagnosed as psychotic or schizophrenic, simply because all paranoia about being watched by invisible cameras and stuff is justified now. Meaning they’ll just be classed as ‘stressed’ and told to get more sleep.”

  “All right, we’ll get Diagnostics to check it out, and see if we can put a hold on any new rabies stories in the Press. We had a different project running already,” they tell me. “There are rewards being offered to trophy hunters by minorities interested in the existence of vampires and werewolves. Most of these trophy hunters are ex-military, like you said. Recently they’re starting to kit themselves ou
t more, with the cars etc. We just thought it was to raise their profile and demand higher fees, intimidate the competition. Not preparation for a mass outbreak of so-called undeads. But it’s possible.”

  “Yeah - Warren called them Apocalypse cults,” I put in. “In my experience, someone with a serious psychiatric illness or personality disorder could merely see a game title like Call Of Duty and think he’s being called back up to fight in his own living-room.”

  “Good point.” I can hear some urgent discussion going on in the background, with the phrase ‘New de-briefing format required.’

  “What’s being done to chase up these people putting the rewards up for trophy hunters?” I ask. “Because the money is going to be the first incentive.”

  “We’re on it,” they tell me. “Don’t worry. It’s morbid science and vanity collectors rather than sport hunting, so not likely to be on a scale comparable to a rabid zombie outbreak like your indicated profile suggests. There’s enough Goths and Emos still parading around in a fantasy world to keep the trophy hunters guessing for a while, where the real vampires are. Drawing that sort of attention to themselves. But there’s one or two contract takers coming up for you and Connor shortly, who think they’ve got actual targets lined up already. We’re going to need a few brought in alive to find out what’s going on with them psychologically and what their basis is for identifying those targets. We’ll detail you as and when.”

  “I guess nothing interesting came out of the drivers you’ve picked up so far, then.”

  “On the contrary, the U-Hire van guys admitted to unlicensed firearms offences and use of a police scanner, and the FTO driver is still talking, even though he was just a courier hired to drive the car between breaker’s yards and ask no questions. But he’s observant enough to have some useful stuff to disclose, while he mends himself in hospital,” they tell me. “Most interesting is Ian Dyer. That kid knows a lot about street drugs and their uses, and who’s currently buying and selling for various purposes. Very helpful and co-operative.”

  “Why did he try to poison Terry?” I ask.

  “The contractor promised him double because the target was family and owed a lot of maintenance, which made it personal. Ian’s mum has been on Prozac for ten years trying to cope on her own, and Terry’s ignored the kids and never visited. Didn’t even know Ian on his own doorstep. Waste of good carbohydrates, that man,” they announce cheerfully. “The contract was your basic old school Mob business competition vendetta. Very puerile to hang onto grudges nowadays. Apparently he’s been eating dodgy pizzas for over twenty years from that source, his body must be resistant to everything short of napalm by now. Maybe he’ll turn out to be a zombie, and nobody even noticed he was a walking undead because of all the food he consumes.”

  “Yeah, that would pretty much explain everything,” I joke. “Apart from the heart attack, of course. Or stroke or whatever.”

  “Undiagnosed. Possible angina. He’s doing okay in hospital, as to be expected. Waiting for head and thoracic CT scans, and blood toxicology reports. Eating, as you can imagine.”

  I’ve seen enough of Terry eating over the years not to bother with consulting a mental image.

  “Fine,” I say at last. “Cheers for that.”

  “What time is Connor picking you up for tonight’s stakeout?”

  “Eight.”

  “Cool. Yeah, that works for us. Talk to you later. Thanks for the input.”

  I say goodbye, and disconnect the call as our food arrives. Junior bounces over to the counter, to seize the takeaway bag as it is presented to us.

  “Mummy, if you were a fat Zombie, and you had a choice of old boot, fish brain, foot stew or skipping rope, which would you eat to lose weight?” she asks me, leading the way back outside.

  I ponder. Perhaps if people knew that skipping ropes were meant to be taken internally, the diet world would seem a bit different. More challenging, mostly.

  Chapter 25: Under The Influence

  Elaine rings while we’re eating Chinese, and is in a very happy mood.

  “I never knew a biker could be so nice!” she confides. “Especially one who’s a doorman! I always thought he was a bit scary, with all the tattoos on, and piercings, and that long chain thing he keeps his wallet on, which always made me think of dungeons and stuff jangling and clanking everywhere. When he was polite to me at work I thought he was just being cheeky charming, and I bet he was just as dirty as the rest of them any other time.”

  “We are still talking about Ben Trovato, yes?” I confirm, aware that with Elaine I could easily have missed some other scoop since.

  “Yes, Ben. Sorry. Oh. I’m still in shock, I think! I’d had these guest tickets for NME on the back of the desk at work for ages, and he asked me a few times was I going, and I never decided. Two nights ago when he asked I just said no, I hadn’t thought about it really, and needed to stop by The Zone and say hello to Manager Stacie anyway, and he asked if he could have them for a friend. So I said, of course. Then he turned up last night, with his sister’s leathers for me to wear, told me to get changed - he was taking me to the gig as I deserved a break, and we could say hello to Stacie on the way. Which is when you saw me.”

  “Yeah, I thought you looked really cool,” I encourage her, chasing a noodle around my plate with chopsticks, while Junior spears chicken in batter on her fork and whispers ‘Deep-fried brains!’ into her DS console, probably to tease poor dieting Zombie Norman.

  “Well, the gig was brilliant, we met SO many nice people, and I’ve rounded up a few more acts to do guest appearances for us as well. Ben was teasing the band that they’ll have to do our wedding, and I’m afraid I got a little bit tipsy and was playing along with him as well. Is that very naughty?”

  “Not if it was just for fun,” I reassure her. By the sound of it, she’s keeping herself in check. If it had been a date with any of the Fire Service, she’d have had their pants down before the end of the first song, never mind bothering to meet people and think about future gigs for work. But that’s only because she’s allowed herself to get so worked up about the Fire Service already - from a distance, at least.

  “Then he took me for dinner afterwards to this place called The Grand Hotel, and I thought, he’s joking, we’ll never get in here wearing leathers. But he’d actually booked a table and they were expecting him, knew his first name, shook hands, even! We had a special table to ourselves, in a nice corner by the grand piano with this Liberace impersonator playing some special anniversary dinner concert - it turned out Ben had renovated all their original cornicing, and restored the ceiling paintings, which were amazing, like Michaelangelo. He’s so talented, and such a dark horse. I was so impressed and shocked I forgot to ask him in for a cup of tea when he dropped me home, but he’s already called to say he had fun and would I like to go out again. I said yes. Is that too keen? Do you think I’m sending out mixed messages not asking him in?”

  “No, I think you’re being sensible,” I grin to myself. At least on the one real date Connor and I have been on so far, he didn’t expect anything more than a goodnight kiss either. “What was it that made you so easily persuaded, once he turned up with gig tickets saying ‘Right, get your kit off, we’re going out’?”

  “I was talking to Martha about when she met Aaron the Artist, and she said, one day she just decided to have a day off from the man she’d pictured in her head for years, and not to look for him or use her telepathy to try and find him, or do any spells or anything. She just wanted a break, to go to the beach, and be friendly to the first random person she met after that, with no agenda or attachment to the outcome,” Elaine tells me. “And it was like, there he was, in the pub when she popped in with her beach pebbles. Both of them regulars, neither had ever crossed paths before. It was like magic, she said. But bigger magic and better magic and stronger magic than the magic she was always trying to control herself.”

  It’s odd being out with Connor in public as a couple, both
as civilians for the first time. In a way I guess having to use it as our cover for work helps allay some of the weirdness, but not all of it. I remember we’re putting on an act, but I’d feel more comfortable alone with him being myself, where at least we can talk openly.

  Connor had picked me up on time, and head office had told me to wear something nondescript and ‘Bluesy’ so I’d grabbed Junior’s old black, white and silver skull badge cowboy boots, a denim skirt and white Soul Cal t-shirt, going for the casual linedance class look, and a leather jacket. Connor had also picked a white Nascar t-shirt and leather jacket with his jeans, and smirked and said at least the synchronicity looked like we got dressed together. I’m just bothered that the dress code makes us look a bit too Hollywood. Plus we were off to hang out in a bar, in public. Talk about stereotyping.

  “Head office mentioned the work projection you gave them earlier,” he had said, as he started the car. “Sounds like it could be useful. Will keep me busy if it does, but that’s the way things go, I guess.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “You never asked me about Pest Control,” he remarked, as we set off. “It wasn’t like I woke up one day and decided I wanted to shoot animals for fun. It started with a tribal land rights issue, and a claim by Tribe A that another tribe, call them Tribe B, had left the ground cursed, that crops would disappear, babies would be stolen in the night, and it was all the work of hereditary witch doctors. So a tribal contract came up for the latest in the generations of these witch doctors.

  “I was working for the police at the time, and went over to investigate why this so-called witch doctor farmer had a price on his head. It turned out there was an old land ownership rights issue, and if the farmer in Tribe B was found guilty of witch doctoring, his land would be given to Tribe A as compensation. What Tribe A was predicting was happening, but I had to prove to them that the culprits were vermin and natural predators - not spirits, controlled by the farmer in the other tribe, or his ancestors.