“Well, no. It’s people,” Jerry had painstakingly explained. “People equals new, not facts, however important.” Jerry didn’t have much of a grasp of satire. Humour for the old warhorse of a news editor revolved around life’s sick ironies. Health freaks dropping dead of heart attacks while jogging would make Jerry laugh, or paranoid cyber geeks with state-of-the-art security getting fried to death by their own computers. That was a real newsman’s humour.
Steven felt his eyelids sliding closed again as the sound of the kettle lulled him towards sleep. He searched the nearest armchair for the remote and flicked on the TV in a bid to wake up. There was a moment of electronic humming before brutal power chords ripped over a rabid drum machine’s beat, accompanied by the sight of some masked freak bellowing guttural noises into the microphone. It was too early on Saturday for MTV. He quickly flicked through the programmes until he found INB. The screen told him it was 09:21 and the local news infill was just minutes away. Great, he thought.
“Some fall victim to bankruptcy after losing their jobs or businesses, others fall foul of the draconian Eurostate correctional system. But many end up there through mental health problems, emotional or psychological traumas. They slip through the safety net…or are even dumped there by members of their own families!” It took a moment to realise the bearded charity worker with an intense holier-than-thou stare was talking about non citizens. Steven’s interest pricked up. “I’ve even come across cases where unwanted children, often born with deformities or physical disabilities or learning difficulties, are dumped there by their parents. And what about the innocent children who are born out there?” The camera switched to the anchorman.
“We’ve been hearing these arguments since the so-called Exiles Act was passed by the Eurostate six years ago and the latest official figures show that ninety-eight per cent of those stripped of their citizenship are hardened criminals who repeatedly flout the laws of our society. Only two per cent are economic exiles, bankrupts or the terminally unemployed who refuse to take up re-training schemes, military service or places on Eurostate employment programmes.”
“You’re talking about official government figures again. They don’t paint the full picture! We do not accept that there should be any criminal or economic exiles, legitimate or otherwise, never mind thousands who live in our industrial wastelands simply because the system…our society…has failed them. It’s…”
“Surely the point, Mr Benson, surely the point this morning is how many of your colleagues at Justice for Exiles and volunteer workers with other such groups must die before the Eurostate Parliament has to pass legislation banning you from accessing these wastelands?”
“That is not the point! The point is…”
“The point is your north-eastern co-ordinator…”
“Let me finish, please!”
“…Germaine Phelan is, this morning, dead…”
“Please!”
“…brutally murdered by waste-dwellers…”
“I must point out…”
“…and that she is the eighteenth victim in British Eurostate this year!”
Steven smiled and flicked channels. Menna was right. Talking heads. He heard the kettle boil and padded back to the kitchen portion of his living area. As he poured the water into his mug his mind returned to last night’s mystery. Where to begin? He had the medal, and surely Jerry’s military contacts would be able to explain its significance. He had the photographs, but how could he establish the identities of the bodies he had seen…and then find out why the police had released the names of three waste-dwellers? He flicked back to INB. The anchorman was winding up, settling back into the plush red armchair as he introduced the regional news teams.
“This is Steven Elan reporting…”
It would be so much easier to ring up the police press office, explain he had taken snaps at the scene and that the three corpses were not the people described in the official statement…and what the hell was going on? “But then,” Jerry had explained, “they would know that you were onto them. You’d put them on their guard and they’d have time to really cover up what they’re trying to hide, good and proper. All you’d have then is a police statement apologising for the previous erroneous statement and no story!” Assuming, of course, it was a cover-up and not simply a genuine mistake. Habeas corpus, body of evidence.
The mortuary. Of course! Why hadn’t he considered it before? Whatever the official line on the Jaguar’s occupants, their bodies would have been taken to the mortuary. The easiest way to prove the information in the police statement was wrong would be to compare the three bodies in the mortuary with the descriptions given for the three waste-dwellers. The city mortuary, that would be his first port of call. Did it open on Saturdays? Did it open to members of the public? Where was the city mortuary?
That might prove the police statement was a fiction, but how could he find out who the three victims were? Who did he know who moved in the elitist circles of Eurostate officialdom, never mind who would also have fingers in military pies? Nobody, that was the short answer. Nobody he knew moved in those kinds of circles…except…”
“Giles?” The face on the vidiphone screen certainly looked like the Giles Spearbrand he remembered, though the years had certainly not been kind to his former journalism training course cohort. “Giles, is that you?”
“Who the fuck is that?” croaked a voice that betrayed an owner who smoked and drank too much and slept too little. “And how’d you get my number?” There was a pained moan somewhere in the background. Steven heard the rustle of bedsheets…bedsheets of a luxurious kind.
“Giles, it’s Steve…Steven Elan. Remember me? Merthyr Express, now with the South Wales Echo.” Giles was staring blearily up at the two-way screen, as if trying to focus.
“Steve…course I fucking remember you! But what God forsaken time of day do you call this? Have you no manners?” The body behind him moaned again. Steven was unsure if it sounded male or female. Giles had always been prolific when it came to the pleasures of the flesh and he never seemed fussy about which direction those pleasures came from.
“It’s nearly ten.”
“But it’s Saturday for fuck’s sake! Saturday!” Giles screwed his face.
“Sorry, Giles, but I need a favour.”
“Fuck off! Call me some other time.”
“It’s important. I need your help. You’re the only one I could think of.”
“Whatever it is can wait.”
“You’re still with the party press office, aren’t you?”
“Don’t sound so surprised. Just because you haven’t heard from me since the last election.”
“You know how you like to flit around.” The smug public schoolboy look flashed across Giles’ puffy features as he glanced behind at his unseen bed companion.
“I see you’ve moved on from the Merthyr Depress then.”
“Onward and upward. Look, there’s a free lunch in this for you and, of course, my undivided attention at the next election.”
“When?”
“I dunno, two years. It’s your lot that call the shots on…”
“No, you twat! Lunch!”
“Today.”
“Can’t. Daddy’s having some old Eaton chums around for dinner. Thinks it might do me some good to show my face.”
“They’re mostly the other side, aren’t they? I thought your lot frowned on establishment public schools.”
“Well, you never know. They might get in next time round.”
“You tart! Can I quote you?”
“No, you fucking well can’t. Listen, can’t we do lunch next week sometime?”
“No Giles. I’ve got this major league story. We’re hoping to break it on Monday. I figured you could help me fill in some of the gaps. I’d owe you, big style.”
“Major league, eh? Well you’ve got my attention. Tell me more.”
“The police are trying to cover up some kind of…scandal.” Giles loved th
at word, and would automatically assume it was of the political variety. “I can’t say much more over the phone. Please, Giles.”
“Scandal, eh?” Giles put on his best effort at indecision but Steven already knew that, despite the play acting, his mind was already made. “Well…I guess I could squeeze in an early lunch. Say…the Brasserie, at one. That suit?”
“Great! Thanks Giles. My tab.”
“But of course! A light lunch, mind. I’m watching my figure!”
“See you at one.”
*
The city mortuary turned out to be at the University Hospital of Wales and, although it was by prior appointment only, Steven’s Echo credentials had smoothed the way for access at 11am. Deprived of the pool car, he made his way by bus, remembering to hang on to his receipt as he swiped his card through the autofare. A major league story deserved a major league expenses claim…and Giles would see to that with his ‘light’ lunch.
As the bus approached the hospital, Steven wondered how long he would be able to maintain the element of surprise. The police, assuming they were involved in the cover-up, would not expect anyone to come snooping around the mortuary. As far as anyone, other than himself and Jerry, was aware yesterday’s crash was nothing more than a routine RTA with four fatalities, only one of which was of any concern. Nothing for the press to get excited about. It was unlikely the bodies would be guarded. Steven winced. It was more likely that three of the four bodies would not be here at all. He would find out soon enough.
“Hello Mr Elan.” The quiet monotone voice reminded him of his school librarian, whose hushed tones were never more than a whisper, even when admonishing rowdy pupils. “You said you were doing some research.” The attendant, a short, slightly built man in his twilight years, shook his hand limply. “It is normal procedure to make prior arrangements through the hospital trust press office, given the sensitivity of this facility and the nature of your…profession.” The attendant rubbed at a patch of sweat on his balding forehead and wiped his hand casually on his white protective overcoat. It occurred to Steven that hygiene might not be such an issue in this section of the hospital.
“Yes…sorry for the short notice. It’s just that I’m wrapping up a feature on people with unusual jobs…this weekend…and it struck me your job…well.” The attendant smiled warmly. Steven knew at once he had chosen the perfect ploy.
“I see. Well, lucky for you, the mortuary supervisor is not on duty today. She likes to play golf on Saturdays. Or else she would have insisted you clear things with the press office, and they’re not back until Monday.”
“That would be no good. You see, the feature has to be…” The attendant reached out a soothing hand to his sleeve. Steven wondered where else, other than his sweaty head, it might have been today.
“Don’t panic Mr Elan. I’m sure we can bend the rules a little for the good old Echo. This way please.” The attendant began leading him from the reception area toward a large oak door that seemed out of keeping with the otherwise clinical fixtures and fittings. “I’ve been reading the Echo now for…goodness…forty-odd years. I doubt I’ve missed many editions in that time. Of course I recognised your name at once.”
“Not many people bother taking notice of bylines.” Steven followed into a subdued ante-room, sparsely furnished with a handful of chairs. He was led toward a second oak door.
“You’d be surprised. My name, incidentally, is Gwynfor, that’s g…w…y…n…f…o…r Evans. I’ve worked here for 32 years. Before that I was a mere porter at Llandough Hospital. You’ll be glad of your coat through here. So what other unusual professions have you been writing about Mr Elan?” Beyond the second door was a large white room with a white polished floor, brightly lit and with no obvious features other than a large funereal black curtain, eclipsing the far wall, and a further door, this time white, to the side. Steven was instantly aware of the sudden drop in temperature.
“Oh…a stunt registrar, a bridge painter…” Steven dug deep from memory. The ‘unusual professions’ feature was an annual in-the-bag-for-Christmas-standby-space-filler.
“A stunt registrar?” Gwynfor was busily pulling back a large funereal black curtain that tastefully obscured what could only be described as a giant filing cabinet.
“Yes…you know, for people who want to get married in unusual places…like while abseiling, bungee jumping or wing walking, that sort of thing.”
“Fascinating! I never knew Cardiff had one of those.”
“Two. There’s two in Cardiff, as it happens.”
“Fabulous. Never married myself.” That came as no surprise to Steven. “Now, this is what my job is all about.” Gwynfor gestured at the rows of numbered doors. Steven had never been inside a mortuary before but it did not take much guessing what lay behind each door. “It’s a shame that midwifery is not such an unusual profession or your feature might have had a hatched, matched and dispatched theme to it!” The diminutive mortuary attendant chuckled.
Gwynfor Evans proceeded to explain, in laborious and sometimes uncomfortable detail, how important his ‘unusual’ job was. Steven, keen to sustain the necro-enthusiast’s trust, faithfully took down shorthand notes, occasionally asking for the spellings of technical terms. Jargon aside, as far as Steven could tell, Gwynfor’s vocation revolved around booking bodies in and booking them out again, after ensuring he had the necessary signatures on the release papers, of course. In between, his function was to ensure that the specialist equipment – a glorified refrigerator – was properly maintained, that nothing untoward happened to the bodies while they were in his care. An occasional highlight, usually when the supervisor was off duty, involved assisting relatives of the deceased and their police escorts in formal identifications. It was, Steven concluded, an altogether macabre and exceptionally unrewarding profession.
“I expect you’ll want to see a body, while you’re here.” Gwynfor finally offered.
“Well…” Steven did not want to appear overly keen. “Not really…but I suppose I’ll have to if I’m to get a true feel…” he squirmed inside, “…for the amazing job you do.”
“Of course. I believe you journalists refer to it as…colour.” Steven nodded. “Well, we had an overdose victim in first thing this morning. Only 28 she was, body absolutely riddled with needle puncture marks. Her left foot has early traces of gangrene too, by the look of it. Why the hell they do these things to themselves…” But Steven had been preparing for this scenario.
“What are the worst things you see in your job? What about the really gruesome cases? Perhaps a grisly murder…or a car crash victim? Perhaps I should see something like that to get a real…flavour…of how difficult your job is.” He was not aware of any murders within the last few days and he could only hope there had been no fresh fatalities on the roads this morning.
“Well…” Gwynfor scratched the back of his scalp, where the last of his greying hair clung with determination. “…motorbike victims are the worst usually, if we’re talking about physical damage, especially the despatch riders because they still use petrol bikes…higher speeds. Personally I find the who more upsetting than the how.” Gwynfor gestured to the giant cooled filing cabinet. “I hate to see little children brought in here…the years that should have been ahead of them…and teenagers. An awful waste.”
“Of course.” Steven agreed, hopes rising.
“We did have four RTA victims in last night. My supervisor booked them in.” It was too good to be true.
“What happened to them?” Gwynfor reached the wall of corpses.
“I only know what I heard on the radio news this morning. A stolen car, old Jaguar I think they said, came hurtling down the slip road onto Western Avenue, straight into the front of a bus. Amazing there were only four. Bus driver and three from the car. Waste-dwellers they were.”
“Uh-huh.” Steven’s legs were tingling with anticipation. Gwynfor was in for a surprise when he opened the relevant cabinets. “Sounds awful. Really messy w
as it?”
“I haven’t seen these ones yet. I’d imagine so. I think they were put in 191 to 194. Here we are. Take a deep breath now!” The first container, which held the body of 22-year-old waste-dweller Sally Redmountain according to its LCD display, slid open with a hiss and an icy draft. Steven felt instantly numb as the colour drained from his face, his stomach curled with nausea and the tingling in his legs turned to the shakes.
“What the hell…”
*
Steven was still off colour by the time he reached the Brasserie. It was 1:10pm and there was no sign of Giles so he bought a half pint of German Eurostate lager and barely glanced at the display cabinets of fresh steaks, seafood, game, salad and vegetables that he no longer had an appetite for on his way to a suitably discreet corner near the back.
His hand trembled as he lifted the glass to his lips and drank. He was in the mood for drinking…and for forgetting a weekend assignment that was already filling him with an unprecedented dread. Who would go to such lengths to conceal the identities of three deceased military or government personnel? And why?
There was no doubting the corpse he had seen less than an hour ago was that of a waste-dweller. True, she looked older than her 22 years but that was to be expected. The hallmarks were all there: missing or rotten teeth, filthy, knotted strands of hair, lines of deeply ingrained grime, the ugly scars of old untreated wounds and the deep trenches between each rib that signified severe malnutrition. Sally Redmountain was every inch the perfect example of a non citizen…or a make-up job to make Hollywood proud. Either way, she was not the woman whose picture he had taken on the roadside yesterday evening.
It was unlikely to be a mistake. Gwynfor, dismissing his outburst as “normal for a first time viewer”, went on to show him the other three bodies, each tagged in line with last night’s police statement. The only victim that looked familiar, certainly in terms of the uniform and the physical damage, was that of the bus driver. Strangely, the injuries of the three waste-dwellers appeared consistent with those you might expect for car crash victims, although all three’s features were intact, unlike the faceless corpse of the uniformed man he had photographed.
Experiment With Destiny Page 7
