Postcards to America

by Patrick Ingle

  In casualty, doctors were arriving having been alerted to the emergency. The first priority was obvious: clear the corridors of trolleys. ‘Easier said than done,’ remarked Henry to another doctor. ‘Where are we going to put the patients that are on the trolleys? We cannot send them home; they need hospitalisation.’

  Is there any large space we can put them temporarily, Henry thought? The hospital chapel would not do; too small. The canteen would do but if he remembered correctly, the tables were screwed to the floor. That would leave only one other option… The other doctors reluctantly agreed with his suggestion and informed the hospital authorities.

  All non-essential personnel were marshalled and the patients on trolleys were pushed and pulled to the enclosed car park. The patients protested vehemently at being moved out instead of being moved in. No doubt at this very minute their relatives would be ringing the newspapers protesting.

  Then the crash victims started arriving. One man and one young woman were DOA. Three people were suffering from severe head injuries and after initial treatment were sent by helicopter to a specialist hospital dealing in head injuries. A dozen others suffered various broken limbs that needed to be placed in casts and two victims were treated for severe shock.

  As Henry finished dealing with the last of the crash victims Catherine entered the casualty and beckoned to him. Henry asked another doctor to take over from him and approached her. She seemed upset.

  ‘There is a man in the waiting room causing trouble. I know you are busy. Can you spare a minute…?’

  Henry considered for a minute. They were nearly finished here for now. He walked to the sink, washed his hands, and then followed Catherine to the waiting room.

  ‘That’s him there,’ Catherine said. ‘He says he is an important politician.’ She pointed to a man with a pin-stripe suit and a beer belly.

  At the sight of Henry, “Beer Belly” stepped forward and extended his hand. Henry shook the proffered hand. The hand felt moist.

  “Beer Belly” placed his hand around Henry’s shoulder as if they were old pals and whispered, ‘Doctor, I know that you are busy but could you… could you have a quick look at my son? I have an important meeting to attend.’

  Henry looked at the young boy standing beside his father. A lollipop stuck out from the corner of his mouth and his nose needed cleaning. A white bandage wrapped around the hand signalled the location of his injury.

  Henry felt his temperature rise. A waiting room filled with patients. People parked on trolleys in the car park awaiting admission and this politician trying to jump the queue. Responsibility for the mess had to stop someplace and in Henry’s mind this politician represented all politicians. With an effort, Henry kept his composure.

  ‘A fine boy,’ Henry said and meant it.

  ‘Doctor! Doctor! “Beer Belly” spoke loudly so that he would be overheard.

  Henry knelt down to the young boy’s level. Carefully he removed the bandage from the boy’s hand. The wound did not seem to be deep. A good cleaning, two stitches and tetanus shot would suffice.

  ‘A fine boy that needs two stitches and tetanus shot.’ Henry informed “Beer Belly”.

  ‘Well…’ “Beer Belly” let the word hang.

  ‘A fine boy that needs two stitches and tetanus shot and who is going to wait his turn.’

  “Beer Belly’s” face collapsed. For a moment, Henry thought the politician near to exploding. Veins stood out in his neck and his face went crimson.

  ‘We have an emergency in casualty. We have patients on trolleys parked in the car park and we have a full waiting room. As a politician, you should be setting an example to the public at large. You may not be personally responsible for this mess but if you have to wait your turn, you may realise what the populace has to live or die with. Now I presume you have a ticket?’ Henry surprised himself at the calmness of his own voice.

  “Beer Belly” looked shocked. His mouth opened and shut in silent rhythm

  Henry pointed to the large electronic sign that displayed the number 47.

  ‘Get a ticket and wait your turn. There are 47 people in front of you so be prepared for a long wait.’

  A look of admiration graced Catherine’s face as Henry left the waiting room and returned to casualty.

  With the emergency over in casualty the patients parked on trolleys in the car park were returned to the corridors and business resumed as normal.

  God, he felt tired. He needed to lie down for an hour or two. Any bed would do. He called Catherine.

  ‘I’m going to find a bed in one of the closed wards,’ he heard himself say as he left casualty.

  An hour later Catherine found him stretched out on a bed in a ward closed to the public because of financial cutbacks. His snores reverberated off the bare walls. Catherine looked down at her sleeping lover. With a glance around to check if they were alone she undid the buttons on his white coat and played with his “stethoscope” for a while before finally throwing a blanket over him and closing the door behind her.

  Chapter 9

  The Internet

  The large sign over the door proclaimed: Computer Sales and Repairs: Cheap Internet rates available.

  “Corner” pushed the door open and stepped inside. Looking around he took in the bank of computers lined along one wall of the premises. A mix of male and female surfers occupied half of the computer places.

  “Corner” had decided to try this new mode of communication after his talk with Liam. After a long and illustrious history, the age of the postcard was ending. You could now send a message to a sheriff in Deadwood in the blink of an eye; or so he believed.

  ‘Can I help you, friend?’ The eager young man with pimples on his face and tattoos adorning both arms asked when “Corner” approached the counter.

  ‘I’d like to send emails to America,’ answered “Corner”.

  ‘No problem. That’s what we are here for.’ The young man smiled.

  ‘Pick any of the vacant computers.’

  “Corner” looked at the blank monitors, then back at the smiling assistant. ‘I have no experience of the Internet; I’m used to sending postcards. Can you show me how to send emails?’

  With no other customers looking for assistance, the young man decided to help “Corner”. He also wanted to show off his skills to this stranger.

  Guiding “Corner” to a swivel – chair in front of a monitor, the young man leant over the newcomer’s shoulder and started up the computer.

  ‘The first thing we have to do is to set up a user account for you,’ advised the young man.

  ‘What’s that?’ replied “Corner”.

  ‘It’s an account that gives you a unique name. It allows you to send and receive messages to any place in the world.

  ‘Even the next town?’

  ‘Even as far the next town.’

  The young man looks from the monitor to “Corner”. What have we here…?

  ‘No wonder the Red Indians stand no chance.’

  At the mention of “Red Indians”, the young man looks around to make sure that the two of them were not alone.

  ‘You have to answer a few simple questions about yourself before you choose a user name.’ The youth went through a list of questions and in each case, “Corner” gave him the first answer that popped into his head.

  ‘Now, what name do you want to use? All the familiar names will be long since gone. Try something different.’

  “Corner” thought for a few minutes before replying. ‘What about “Nighthawk”? It has a western flavour about it.’

  The youth tried the name and the system accepted it.

  ‘Now you need a password. Every time you log on, the system will prompt you to enter your password. The youth pointed to a box on the screen and said, ‘Enter your password here.’

  Again “Corner” spent a few minutes before typing “Pueblo”.

  With the account set up, the assistant showed “Corner” how to open an email appli
cation and type an email.

  ‘When you have typed your email,’ he explained patiently, ‘just click on the send button and your email would be sent to whatever addresses you type in the address box. They will receive your message in seconds if their computer is on at that time.’ ‘Marvelous,’ replied “Corner”.

  ‘As a matter of interest,’ asked the youth, wondering if he should venture down this particular path, ‘do you have anybody to send emails to?’

  ‘No. Perhaps you could help me there…?’ “Corner” gave the youth a stare.

  ‘What are your interests?’ asked the tattooed youth.

  ‘I’m interested in the “Wild West”.

  Oh! That explains the “Red Indians”, thinks the youth, feeling a lot more comfortable with the stranger.

  So he showed “Corner” how to use a search engine. ‘Just type in a word and click on the button,’ he explained, ‘and it will give you a list of sites. Then type in another word or words to narrow the search still further.’

  ‘Have you got the hang of it?’ asked the assistant as he left “Corner’s” side to serve a new customer.

  ‘Nearly,’ answered “Corner”.

  After typing words into the search engine for thirty minutes, “Corner” finally found a site that showed promise. He clicked a button and a site showing the flag of the Confederate States of America appeared on the monitor. Overwritten on the flag “Corner” could see the address of the site: www.friendsoftheconfederacy.com

  ‘I’ll send them an email to cheer them up. Yes, that’s what I will do. I will send them a few words of encouragement.’

  When “Corner” finished typing, he looked at his few carefully chosen words. “Don’t give up hope: All is not lost. From a friend”. Satisfied with the message, “Corner” clicked the “send” button.

  After a further period of searching, “Corner” found another site that showed promise so he clicked on: www.siouxreservation.com.

  They definitely need help, “Corner” thought. Therefore, he typed out a short warning: “Beware, General Custer is on your trail. From a friend”. As on the previous occasion he pressed the “send” button.

  That’s enough messages for one-day, thinks “Corner” shutting down the computer and approaching the youthful assistant.

  ‘How much do I owe you?’ he asked.

  ‘That will be two Euro.’

  “Corner” handed the money over and said, ‘Thanks for your help. I think I’ve mastered the Internet now. It’s a great means of communicating.’

  ‘Did you send many emails?’ the youth asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

  ‘Yes I did,’ “Corner” replied. ‘But…’

  The youth waited as “Corner” turned towards the door and then looked back.

  ‘ But I got no replies. They must have all been out.’

  *

  A day later “Corner” returned to see if his emails had been answered. The friendly assistant showed him how to open his inbox. There were two messages there for him. He read the first message, which was from friendsoftheconfederacy.com.

  ‘Thanks for your message of support but I have to tell you that Savannah was burnt last night.’

  The second message “Corner” received was from siouxreservation.com. Eagerly he read the message.

  ‘Your warning was timely. We wiped out the “long knives” and the “short knives” too. We left one horse escape. We are not partial to horsemeat – we leave that to the French.

  In appreciation for your help we are offering you the chance to purchase at a special discount hair taken from the scalp of the “long knives”. For the low, low price of nine dollars and ninety-five cents including all federal taxes, we will send you twenty-five strands of the white man’s hair.’

  Shortly afterwards “Corner” left the caf� to withdraw nine dollars and ninety-five cents from his account.

  *

  Chapter 10

  The Raid

  Bobby cut himself shaving. He also tripped on the bathroom mat and banged his knee off the side of the bath. So, he knew the omens were bad even before the day had properly begun. Those of a superstitious nature would say that bad luck always came in threes; so, what else awaited him today. He soon found out.

  Five minutes after he opened the shed doors two unmarked police cars pulled up outside the door. With a screech of brakes another two police cars stopped and disgorged uniformed officers. Two plain-clothes officers alighted from the unmarked car and approached Bobby.

  This is the third piece of bad look I didn’t need, Bobby thought.

  The two plain-clothes officers approached and Bobby instantly christened them “High” and “Low”. “Low” came in at a full foot shorter than his partner in law and Bobby wondered how he passed the minimum requirements.

  “Low” handed Bobby a sheet of paper. ‘We have a warrant to search these premises.’ The accent placed “Low” as an officer from out of town.

  Bobby looked at the search warrant. He could see a judge’s signature. But what the hell did he know about search warrants? He supposed the signature verified that the search document would stand up to scrutiny.

  “High” and “Low” pushed passed Bobby and entered the tiny office.

  ‘Your name is Bobby Byrnes?’ asked “High”. The accent originated in the North of the country.

  Bobby nodded.

  ‘You need to answer our questions, Mr. Byrnes.’ This came from “Low”.

  Bobby amazed at how calmly he felt, composed his face and looked at the officer. Of course he and his mechanic had gone over such an eventuality and knew their stories by heart.

  ‘My name is Bobby Byrnes.’

  As one plain-clothes officer asked a question the other officer wrote the response.

  ‘What are your names?’ Bobby asked the two officers. Bobby really didn’t care but one question deserved another.

  ‘We are not required by law to give our names.’ “Low’s” countenance did not change as he delivered this gem. ‘I am Number ‘57’ and I deal with Social Services.’ Number ‘57’ pointed to his partner in law enforcement. ‘This is Number ‘24’ and he deals with Revenue matters. You may not be aware that recent legislation has given us wide-ranging powers.’

  What the hell is going on here, Bobby reflected. Officials of the state can come into your home or place of business with a search warrant and remain anonymous. Where has the concept of accountability gone?

  “Low” brought Bobby back to the present. ‘Mr. Byrnes, we need to look at the books of the company. We believe that you have traded without registering with Companies House and that you have not returned the proper VAT remittances on time as required by law. There are also the requirements of the various insurance regulations. The penalties for infringements are severe but can be reduced with co-operation...’

  “Low” left the threat hang.

  ‘Are the books of the company kept in manual form or on computer?’ “Low” looked around the small office as he spoke. It should have been obvious that there were no books in the office and certainly no computer.

  ‘What company? What books?’ Bobby answered the question with a complete look of innocence on his face.

  ‘The company you are running. The trading that we know you are carrying out of these premises. This time “High” intervened.

  ‘There is no company. Did either of you see a sign over the door with my name on it? Can either of you see a car in this shed? Are there any cars in the lot?’ Bobby was enjoying himself now.

  The two detectives looked at each other with arched eyebrows. Bobby caught the exchange.

  ‘Come on, Mr. Byrnes. Stop playing games with us. We know that you are buying and selling cars. You even have a business telephone.’ “Low” lifted the telephone and placed the receiver to his ear. No sound pervaded the silence in the small office.

  Bobby turned away to hide his face from the two detectives. Little did they know that each evening befo
re he went home he disconnected all the telephone connections and switched the power off. On opening the shed that morning he had switched the power on but did not get a chance to reconnect the telephone line before the raid commenced.

  “Low” tried a different approach. ‘We need the name, account number and the branch where you bank, Mr. Byrnes.’ He readied a pen to write the reply.

  ‘I don’t have a bank account,’ answered Bobby telling the truth.

  ‘You cannot run a business without a bank account.’ “Low” jabbed the pen at Bobby as he spoke.

  ‘I don’t have a business,’ countered Bobby.

  ‘Then what are you doing with this shed,’ “Low” continued.

  It only took Bobby a second to reply. ‘I repair my car here. It has a tendency to break down frequently.’

  Just at that moment the baton-wielding sergeant placed his head around the door and shook his head.

  “High” dismissed the search party with a wave of his hand.

  Returning to Bobby, “High” asked, ‘How can you afford to run your car on the amount you receive in social benefits?’

  Bobby knew this question would be asked from the moment the detectives walked in the door so he answered in a deadpan voice. ‘I believe in prudent management. That is the secret of living within your income.’