The Grief Team

by Collins, David

  The sudden thought that the spirits of the departed members of the Latimer family were at this moment infusing the fifteen by ten metres of their former living space rocked Emmett momentarily, but was swiftly rejected as so much hokum. It was, he quickly told himself, a lingering autonomic response, a remnant in the human psyche of the way things used to be.

  A sudden religious urge to consider the transmogrification of the human soul as something more than ashes was silly and not the kind of thought which the Assistant Director—soon to be elevated to the Directorship?—of the modern ovens in Toronto Nation’s Crematoria was expected to have. Such thoughts were nothing more than sympathetic magic, a throwback to other centuries when faith in God or Allah or Buddha or Koresh or Moon or a thousand others vied with various degrees of success for the minds and hearts of the population on Earth. Whatever those deities, or demi-deities, or outright phonies had once represented, they were now so much historical rubbish. Religion had not been popular in the world since Jeffrey Meilgaard had chugged his cocktail of contagion down in the old U.S. more than twenty years ago and everyone’s God had stood by silently and watched him do it.

  Emmett, trained to be responsive to people’s needs in time of death, frequently impressed on his staff and local affiliates that sympathy and compassion should be allowed to flow like sweet champagne within the confines of the Crematoria’s Goodbye Rooms. Family members were encouraged to weep before they were presented with the bill and an invitation to return to the realities of modern Mall-life.

  Yet, the regret which he was now feeling was a stone in his gut. Leigh and Gordon had been his friends and he allowed himself several moments of mourning on their behalf. Cathy, that sweet little girl, was as good as dead, now that she was lost to the Outside. Surely, Emmett reasoned, if there was a God or Supreme Being then it was more likely the Lord of Misrule or, better yet, the Lord of Chaos. Either would be, in his opinion, more appropriate to the history of human civilization.

  Emmett considered the unnerving possibility that the Grief Team would also be paying him a visit. As everyone knew, such an event could presage the termination of parental rights for any shadow of suspicion which fell across a husband or wife charged with raising a child through Stage Two would be bad news delivered abruptly with no chance of reprieve.

  Every citizen in the Malls was aware that the Grief Team was empowered to do whatever it wished, short of breaking the moral code upon which all citizens’ rights were based. The days of police brutality were memories which only a handful of citizens now close to termination themselves might still harbour from the early-00’s, before viruses made law enforcement on the streets virtually unnecessary. The Grief Team’s methodology more than adequately allowed for the humane and lawful treatment of parents and one home visit was always enough to ensure compliance with whatever the Bluebands had in mind. Rumours, chiefly emanating out of Square One, spoke of other, more sinister methods but these were surely unfounded, spread as they undoubtedly were by discontented Mulls. After all, who had ever been dragged away and shot? No one he knew. Any disappearance would be noted in the Stream somewhere and thus answerable to the Mayor. At least that was how he perceived his rights: this was not 2002 and cops were no longer using citizens on the streets for target practice.

  Would they search his home?

  Would they find that all-important package?

  Had someone changed the rules without his being aware?

  A family of three had ceased to exist and someone had decided that all traces of their existence had to be removed. Emmett would have cursed had he known any curses, but non-aggressive language training in preparation for Stage Two parental rights had cleared his mind of that particular ability. About the most he was able to string together was “Deuce, darn and drat,” words he recalled characters speaking in a reconstituted novel by Stephen King. He rolled them around in his mouth as he closed the apartment door, heading for the elevator to E Complex where he lived with his wife and son. He was still shaking his head about the Latimers when the doors opened and the tear-stained face of a small boy appeared.

  “Daddy, Little Arthur says that the Grief Team is coming to lickadate us!”

  Emmett opened his arms wide. “Honour the child! Honour to you, my child Marcus! My love and service to you are beyond measure!”

  Marcus rubbed a small fist across his eyes, trying to smile, not objecting as Emmett pulled him close for a kiss and a hug. Marcus was still in his homeschool uniform, a clean white shirt, pressed dark pants and black sandals. He pressed against Emmett’s waist, his wide-eyed, innocent features dimming suddenly.

  “Why is the Grief team coming, Daddy? What did you do?”

  Emmett forced a smile. “Nothing, Marcus. Little Arthur is just teasing you. And it’s bad teasing.”

  “What does ‘lickadate’ mean?” Marcus raised his bright blue eyes to examine his father’s reaction. He did not fully understand what he saw there but he was old enough and aware enough to sense that his father was afraid. Afraid of the Grief Team? The Grief Team was everybody’s friend. Rhonda, the Udderly Fantastic Cow, said so on her show every day at four o’clock.

  Emmett smiled again, mustered a stronger level of self-confidence, and ruffled his son’s abundance of blond hair, a feature which he and Elise had selected together. “’Liquidate’ is a word which you don’t need to know and Little Arthur will be have to be cautioned for his silly comments. I am certainly going to speak with his father.”

  “But why is the Grief Team coming, Daddy? Are you afraid?”

  “Now, now, it’s not absolutely certain that they are coming. I am expecting them but it’s nothing to be worried about. One of Daddy’s friends at work has died suddenly and the Team wants to ask me some questions to see if I can help them understand why. It’s very simple.” He cupped Marcus’ face in his warm hands and tickled his nose with his thumbs. Instantly there were delighted giggles.

  Emmett fought the icy prickles of panic which were forming in his gut. Of nervous disposition in times of stress, Emmett took great care to preserve an outward appearance of normality. He blamed his parents for his slippery-slidy grasp of even temperament and, in darker moments of reflection, was convinced that an errant gene would eventually provide the impetus for his descent into madness.

  You have the package! You have the ticket to a better future! Don’t blow it, Emmett!

  “I want to visit Cathy,” demanded Marcus suddenly.

  Emmett tweaked his son’s nose lightly. “O.K., we’ll do that very soon.” How he was going to break the news to his son about his playmate, little Cathy, was something he needed help deciding. He held his son tightly, assuring him while pushing his own feelings of panic out of the way.

  “Are you content with the manner in which the Mayor operates our malls, Mr. Strachan?”

  Emmett nodded quickly. “Yes, yes I am. I have always been supportive of Mayor Elias. It has always been my pleasure to acknowledge what he has done for me and my family. As you know, my wife and I have been parents for two years, one month, and twenty-seven days. Marcus is our pride and joy. We honour the child in our home, Mr. Scott.” Emmett began to lick the dryness out of his top lip, realized what he was doing, and stopped. The Greenband was looking at him sharply. Emmett quickly decided that a question of his own was in order. “Surely no one doubts our sincerity or suitability? I am the Assistant Director of Crematoria, you know. I am not without responsibilities.”

  “Not at all, Mr. Strachan,” assured his interrogator deftly, managing to produce the words in such a tone of perfect neutrality that Emmett felt no wiser for having asked.

  Elise squeezed his left hand in support and he was grateful. Thus far, the questions posed by this single representative of the power of the malls had been disarmingly pleasant, even banal. A relieved Emmett had begun to regard the visit as perfunctory, a mopping-up of the details surrounding the terrible events which had overtaken his colleague and his family. He answered every
question concerning Gordon’s activities and interests with complete honesty; moreover, he did so willingly given the fact that he didn’t know that much about Gordon anyway. They had often shared a drink and their wives and children knew each other quite well, but the substance of his own relationship with Gordon rested in their mutual concern in handling the Crematoria properly. Surely this Blueband was aware of that?

  But the questions had suddenly detoured into an examination of Emmett and his own particular views...about the Mayor, about Mall operations, shopping choices, and his extra-curricular affiliations. Emmett dutifully recorded his favourite stores in the mall, his prejudice towards Mulls, and his ongoing problem with shoes that were too tight.

  His interlocutor was a Greenband, a fact that had offered some initial relief when he appeared on the Strachan’s doorstep a scant twenty minutes after Marcus’ worry about imminent ‘lickadation’ had been resolved. Greenbands meant a low-key investigation: interview only, no injections, no removals. When Elise, returning from the mall cooking centre several floors below in the E.C., joined her husband a few minutes later, she sat protectively by his side on the small sofa in the living room. Emmett had experienced an enormous sense of relief when Elise joined him. They were a team and would face this intrusion by the Mall into their lives together. Ultimately, he told himself, whatever Gordon had done—what did you do, Gordon? How much did you know?—it should be obvious to the Greenband that Emmett had not been involved.

  The Greenband had introduced himself as John-Roger Scott and seemed to be following a prepared list of questions, although he kept them just outside Gordon’s view. He hinted that a number of Latimer’s colleagues, associates, and friends were also receiving brief visits. Everything seemed quite straight-forward, but Emmett was aware that a subtle shift in focus had taken place toward the end of the interview and that now his own personal views were being carefully weighed. He took care to speak clearly and concisely, employing language which bespoke his fervent admiration for the Mayor and the Malls. He aimed his voice directly toward the microphone in front of him and spoke with all the confidence he could muster.

  John-Roger Scott placed a neat tick beside the twenty-fourth of the twenty-five questions on his list. Possessed of enormous black eyebrows—and more than a little vain in his cultivation of them—the two overfed, succulent caterpillars began to slowly undulate. Aside from the standard Grief Team tattoo on his glans, Scott considered them his most redeeming feature and he employed them liberally in his assignments, allowing them to express at different times incredulity, humour, suspicion, or fury. With his stylus poised above the final question, Scott’s fuzzy appendages assumed the arched position of twin Doubting Thomases.

  “Mr. Strachan, are you aware that Gordon Latimer may have been a spy for the Papal State?”

  Emmett’s jaw, rescued abruptly by his right hand, did not quite hit the floor. When he finally found his voice, it had the pubescent squeak of a thirteen-year-old boy. “No-o, I...I had no idea. That is, Gordon never said...he never...I had no idea that he was a recidivist Catholic!”

  “I don’t believe that for a minute,” Elise said sharply, unamused by the ugly little black caterpillars crawling across the man’s forehead.

  John-Roger Scott made the appropriate tick in the appropriate column and smiled. “No one ever does really. These religious types are very good at disguising themselves.” John-Roger Scott stood, clipping his stylus neatly onto his shirt pocket. “Thank you very much for your cooperation, Mr. and Mrs. Strachan. I believe that I have everything I need.”

  Emmett offered a wan smile of gratitude, somehow masking the tidal wave of disbelief which swept over him. Gordon Latimer? A spy for the Papal State? What had he been doing in the Crematoria that Emmett did not know about? There was barely room in his astonishment for the possibility that this Greenband was lying, but it squeezed its way in regardless. It had to be a red herring, designed to keep him off-balance. Gordon and the Pope? Ridiculous!

  “Thank you for your hospitality,” announced Scott, his caterpillars squaring up in strict formation. “Before I leave, I would appreciate the privilege of offering to your son, Marcus. As you know, a Greenband does not have parental rights.” The caterpillars stretched wistfully. “I hope to be promoted soon and meet my wife. I hope that she will want a boy too.” He smiled wistfully at Elise, adding sotto voce, “I’ve been to Cedarbrae to look at the Embryo Listings. I’ve always been partial to red-hair.”

  Elise smiled, but did not give voice to her hope that the child would not be programmed with bushy red caterpillars. Emmett followed them into the mallway as Elise called for Marcus.

  Emmett was awash in conflictions. While supervising and enforcing the regulations of the Crematoria, Gordon had somehow discovered the problem in Cedarbrae. The package in Emmett’s possession…something in Emmett’s stomach lurched violently and his hands flew to his mouth to prevent whatever was on its way up from escaping. He forced himself to gulp and swallow; fortunately, out of the line of sight of the Greenband.

  He didn’t think he wanted to know any more. Whatever Gordon Latimer had done or was doing at the time the Wildkids signed his death warrant with a zipstick, it could only lead to disaster for Emmett and his own family if further suspicions were raised. The package had to be destroyed. Thus decided, Emmett made a show of presenting Marcus to John-Roger Scott, making it abundantly clear that the Strachans were loyal Mall citizens with nothing to hide.

  Deuce, darn, and drat!

  FOUR

  An opportunity to sit on one of the stools at the Druxy’s counter enjoying a chocolate-frosted donut (or two) and several hot cups of the best instant coffee in the mall—Druxy’s private stock had been purloined from the old Nescafé warehouse—was always a pleasurable experience for Gabriel. Every man had his failings, of course. Gabriel, passionate only about his life’s work, would allow that the donuts at Druxy’s, particularly the double-dipped, were irresistible. Unlike Elias, who gained pounds by merely thinking of donuts, Gabriel ate freely with no visible results. Elias envied him for it and it was a sore point between them at meals on those few occasions when their schedules overlapped and father and son shared a meal in their apartment.

  To the Mall-children, Gabriel was the Grief Team; a celebrated hero, regardless of his own private, slightly-less-glorified assessment of his own worth. Children quickly picked him out whenever he descended from his office in one of the two available glass-enclosed elevatorpods, stepping off at the main level,only to find himself, a little embarassed and somewhat awkward, surrounded by a clutch of kids tugging excitedly at his sleeves, shouting their questions at him, and calling his name. As the star of his own programme on TV—something which Elias had practically forced him to do—the subsequent dramatic effect visited upon the mallchildren when he appeared in public proved to be as regular as clockwork. Every child seemed to have a need to be near their hero and more and more would surround him, shouting, praising, laughing, until he was practically forced to demand that they cease-and-desist. He was firm with them when he had to be, but pleasantly so. On occasion, Gabriel would display his Deathleaf, a gold maple leaf with its implanted holographic skull. This symbol of his authority always reduced the squealing fans to awestruck, gape-mouthed statues for a moment or two and, thus quelled (and impressed!), they would finally allow Gabriel to slip away and have his coffee in peace.

  To say that he did not enjoy the adulation of children was false. To infer any deeper significance or to assume that such devotion had any effect on his character, other than a transitory boost to his ego, was also false. Gabriel, wholeheartedly and logically, was committed to preserving life in Toronto Nation, the last fragile piece of what had once been a thriving nation—ad mare usque ad mare—called Canada. The children were the future of this brave little outpost called Toronto Nation and that meant that every child was precious and must be protected, nurtured, and loved. He believed this fervently, not in some overwhelmingly em
otional sense, but rather with a complete, logical acceptance of the rules of life in the malls as Mayor Dickie, the father-of-the-Malls, had conceived them in the midst of the wreckage of all he had once known as a child himself. In pursuance of these principles, the same kind hand which lovingly petted the admiring heads of mallchildren was equally capable of smashing his fist into the back of a fourteen-year-old WildKid with enough force to snap his spinal column in half.

  Elias had told him, “You were born at the beginning of the end of the old life. While the world was dying, you were just beginning to live. It died because of intolerance, greed, hate, and that fuckin’ bastard Jeffrey Meilgaard! It died, you lived. Take your purpose in life from that!” Gabriel had done so and now, as the Director of the Grief Team, he knew his purpose all right. His purpose was to enforce the rules.

  “You want this, Gabriel?” Sid, the server, held up a square viewer. With a practised flick of his wrist, the Nation’s Chronicle slid down the counter and stopped within a hair of Gabriel’s cup.

  “Thanks, Sid.” Gabriel could read the headline without adjusting the depth of his glasses. It didn’t surprise him.

  SWEDES BUY BLONDS BIG-TIME!

  POPULATION PASSES FIVE THOUSAND MARK!

  “Them Swedes, huh, Gabriel?” offered Sid.

  Gabriel nodded. How would Sid react if he knew that the Swedes had secretly been palmed off with five-and-six-year-old Wildkids, not embryos hatched in the labs in Cedarbrae?

  “They make too goddamn much fuckin’ profit,” Sid declared. “Me, I make only tips.”

  Gabriel smiled. He knew how many ‘tips’ Sid had in the bank. He pressed the scan icon on the palette, letting the day’s events slide by…someone had reported seeing a live fish in the pool in the E.C.—a miracle subsequently disproved and the ‘visionary’ fined two credits and busted two categories for food rations…five Mulls sent to the Crematoria for possession of human bones in their apartment. Some Mull dive in the basement of Vegasville had been strewn with the grisly remains of a Wildkid. Stomachs bloated from their best meal in weeks, the perpetrators hadn’t felt up to getting rid of the evidence and had fallen asleep. Redbands made the easiest bust of the week and the Stream had flowed brightly for several hours with the exciting news and congratulations from across the network.