by Wilson, Mark
“Michelle… Pardon me, Ms MacLeod?”
Michelle snapped her attention back to the room.
“Sorry, Miss.” She looked up at Mrs Taggart who was standing over her desk, “Could you repeat the question?”
Her biology teacher gave her that smile. The one all the teachers at Bellshill Academy gave her since her mum’s death. It was meant to convey patience and understanding, but instead screamed at her Ah, yes. You’re the damaged one we have to tip-toe around.
“Of course,” Mrs Taggart said. “To which compound does inorganic phosphate bind to, with the addition of energy, to form Adenosine tr…”
“ADP,” Michelle interrupted. “It bonds with ADP.”
Mrs Taggart bristled for a split second at the interruption before fixing that smile back on her face.
“Thank you, Michelle. Exactly so. Now Ms Grey…” Mrs Taggart turned away to quiz a classmate, the empty space her body had occupied now filled with the face of Heather Brown, who was glowering at Michelle.
“You’re such a dick,” Heather mouthed at her.
Michelle sighed and turned her attention back to her workbook.
Heather and she had been close friends all through primary school and had been frequent visitors to each other’s homes throughout their childhoods. Their parents were good friends also. Until the accident. Michelle had taken months to be able to face school again. Once a centre of her year group’s social hub, along with Heather, Michelle returned to find that she was no longer even a part of her group of friends anymore.
In her absence, they’d all moved on and designed for her a new existence, one in which she was the centre of rumours regarding her mental health. She had become suddenly the victim of a torrent of abuse and bullying. Mostly regarding her own mental health and her father’s disability.
At times during her self-imposed exile, she truly thought that she couldn’t face another day. Couldn’t find the will to rise from her bed. The only reason she did at all was to be the anchor her father needed to prevent himself being washed away on a tide of grief. At that time, Michelle couldn’t imagine ever going back to school again. Ever being normal, having fun again. Finally, she’d returned to school motivated, following the pinpoint prick of light… of hope that her friends would help her return to a normal life – as normal as it could be, at any rate. Instead she’d met ridicule and abuse at the words, fists and feet of the people she’d imagined would be her support.
The first year had been the worst. The beatings, the circle around her chanting vile accusations, judgements and names at her and her father; nutcase… spastic… Quasimodo… Their inventiveness and cruelty had shocked her for so long. Of course, with recent events in Edinburgh, Heather had decided that Michelle’s dad deserved the new nickname of zombie. Michelle had begged the school to help her but, aside from a few warnings to her tormentors, they seemed powerless or uninterested in helping. Now Michelle merely endured passively the beatings and the insults that still came her way, although less often, and hid the bruises from her father.
Two things kept Michelle sane: looking after her father and running. Her mother had been a long-distance athlete participating in many endurance trials like Tough Mudder and Iron-Woman events. Whatever genes her mum had possessed to make her ideal of build and mentality for endurance sports, she’d passed an amplified version of them to her daughter. Michelle was on the gymnastics team, the cross country squad and the judo team, some at county level, and international for running.
She would run the Lanarkshire streets and parks for hours, losing herself in memories and dreams. The repeated footfall strengthened her mind as much as it did her body, perhaps more so. Running was her solution to everything at present.
“See you after school, MacLeod.” Heather spat at her feet.
Michelle merely nodded. Great…
Chapter 2
November
2020
dEaDINBURGH: First Broadcast
“It’s coming on, Chelle,” Darcie yelled, a few flecks of popcorn spraying onto the couch.
Michelle yelled in from the next room.
“’Kay.”
Pulling off the battered running shoes she’d been wearing, Michelle wiped herself down with a gym towel. Grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge, she plonked herself onto the sofa beside her flatmate.
“I can’t believe that they’re actually going through with the broadcast,” Michelle said.
Darcie shrugged. “Of course they are. You didn’t think that a little thing like morals or hundreds of thousands of people protesting in George Square would change their minds, did you?”
Michelle grinned bitterly at the sarcasm.
She and Darcie had been present at the massive protest against the decision to broadcast the newest UKBC show. Almost since formation, the UKBC was, by a huge margin, the largest broadcaster in the world after absorbing the former BBC, Sky, ITV and US-based HBO networks. Its newest show had been proposed as a possible venture for the fledgling, gargantuan broadcast company at its inaugural board meeting.
Thanks to the bewildering interest of a voyeuristic general public, some very strategic spin from the UKBC marketing director and funded by a compulsory monthly license fee enforced by the state that proposal was now reality. Tonight was the premier of what many people thought was the single vilest display of exploitation and cruelty the world had seen. Unfortunately, many, many more people were actually thrilled at the concept and had whirled themselves into a state of unprecedented excitement over it.
dEaDINBURGH was about to air. Not a single episode had been broadcast; only that dreadful upper/lower case logo had appeared, along with a few crass images of buildings and, of course, The Ringed, but in the few months the UKBC had been promoting the upcoming show, dEaDINBURGH had become a marketing phenomenon.
The friends sat watching the images flash across Darcie’s new Holo-Screen, a gift from her parents, as the UKBC trailed yet another series of promos and images from inside the city. As media students attending Glasgow University, Darcie and Michelle had followed the rise of the UKBC closely and with a growing sense of dread at the extent to which the massive company had become so intrinsically tied into the UK government.
Following the Scottish referendum in 2014, the widely discredited UK mainstream media were there for the taking. Initiated by the newly-in-power Conservative and UKIP coalition government, and emboldened by their success in keeping the UK together despite a massive political movement demanding that federalism be employed throughout the island, the new government passed law after law and formed the single most powerful broadcasting corporation of any age or nation. Government and public-funded, of course.
The UKBC was touted as a network for the people and a mandatory license fee instated. The people loved the concept, the sense of ownership, of belonging.
An infomercial played out as the friends crunched on their popcorn. The UKBC was showing how it had tapped into the dead city’s former CCTV network and was using a powerful fibre-optic broadband network, along with a city-wide Wi-Fi network, to transmit images from the quarantine zone. The networks had been installed shortly before the city fell. Edinburgh’s power had been cut years before and all communication networks severed. Any devices that could be employed to utilise the newly-reinstated network had long since lost their capacity to do so, but the UKBC had measures in place, just in case.
As well as utilizing the existing resources, the UKBC had developed miniscule cameras and microphones. Connected to suitably-sized insect-like robots, the cameras and mics had been distributed in their thousands throughout the former Edinburgh and had been wirelessly broadcasting their images and sounds successfully for months.
The images, seen only by a handful of technicians and reporters so far, were as compelling as they were horrific. The executives knew that they had a hit on their hands before the first image was even made public and were more than happy to fill fifteen minutes in the run-up to the prem
ier showing the viewers how clever their team had been.
The final trailer told of the good work of the UKBC’s charity foundation. An undisclosed percentage of the proceeds from its new cash-cow would be ploughed into researching the infection in the former Scottish capital and other worthwhile projects, including financial support of the quarantined people’s relatives.
Michelle tutted loudly and left the sofa. Leaning on the window ledge, she surveyed the streets outside their first-floor flat in Glasgow’s West End. They were virtually empty. It seemed that everyone, whether for entertainment or because of outrage, was inside anxiously awaiting the UKBC’s new crown jewel. Most of her classmates had opted to go to one of the local bars or had gathered en masse in the living room of a friend who had the latest HD-Holo-screen, like Darcie’s.
She and Darcie, all too aware of how unpopular their views on the UKBC generally and dEaDINBURGH specifically were amongst their peers, had opted to watch the show alone.
Two commercial-free hours later, she and her best friend sat gaping, open-mouthed at what they’d witnessed. Unable to speak, Michelle slid her finger across the screen of her iPad and watched as Facebook lit up with comments on the show.
Post after post, image upon image filled her newsfeed. Memes with moments from footage just aired mocked this survivor or that Ringed. Little videos of ‘great kills’ or favourite Ringed or survivors began to gather momentum. Footage of a former marine minister fighting an overwhelming number of The Ringed and surviving went viral. Almost instantly the man became the biggest celebrity who’d ever existed.
Michelle ran to the little apartment’s bathroom and vomited violently. Darcie sat silently on their sofa trying to absorb what she had seen.
Chapter 3
Spring
2027
“What the hell is the purpose of having so many mobile cameras roaming the bastard place if we’re not catching everything these people do and say?”
The man in the very expensive grey suit banged his fist petulantly on the large mahogany table. Scanning the other faces in the room, he smiled at the nods he was receiving in response and turned to face the youngest man in the lavishly appointed boardroom.
“Mr Donnelly, sir.” Addressing his one-time protégé in this manner grated but he hid it well from their relatively new Chair of the board. “Sir, it’s time to utilise our full resources. Let’s get the cameras into every dwelling, into every life. We’re missing out on some truly special moments here between the characters, and whilst they are alone. We have more than enough resources at our disposal and we can bring in a whole new team of people for editing.”
The man in the grey suit lifted his eyebrows in the direction of the executive in charge of editing the show, prompting his support.
The editor nodded his agreement at Mr Donnelly.
“Sir, we can easily accommodate a new wing off the main building. In the meantime, whilst construction takes place, we can occupy the former BBC building. We can have the new feeds in place in two weeks, and the staff to monitor the footage in six weeks.”
Grey Suit winked his thanks to his colleague and picked up the thread once more.
“Mr Donnelly.” He paused for effect and offered a smug grin. “The audience will lap this up. They’re so invested in these characters at this point that a move like this would give us viewers for life.”
A very loud and very derisive snort came from a young lady seated at the opposite end of the expansive table from Grey Suit. Face instantly red, he rounded on her.
“You have something to offer, Miss?” He left his final word hanging. He damned well knew her name – they all did – but she needed put in her place.
Unimpressed, she rose from her seat, smoothing down her skirt. Smiling pleasantly at Grey Suit, she said one word: “Ms.”
“Pardon me?” Grey Suit asked sarcastically. He threw her a threatening glare.
“My title. It’s Ms, Mr Solveson,” she replied, smiling warmly.
Solveson unbuttoned his expensive suit jacket, keeping his arms tight to his body, certain that the underarms were growing slightly darker grey than the rest of the material, and leaned onto the table-top.
Cocking his head to one side like he was addressing a toddler, he asked, “And we have something to offer, do we, Ms MacLeod?”
Michelle supressed her anger and replied simply once again.
“Yes I do, Mr Solveson.”
She shoved her chair with the back of her legs and opened her palms outward in an open gesture intended to convey the exact opposite demeanour of her superior across and along the table.
“I believe that this is simply a step too far. We film and broadcast almost every aspect of these people’s existence. We market their struggles, their images and their pain. We merchandise their humiliation and their battle to simply survive the rotted, putrid streets we’ve abandoned them to.” Michelle’s smile vanished. Turning to address Donnelly directly, she noted that his PA was whispering into his ear. Probably telling the chairman who Michelle was and which department she worked for. She ignored the exchange and continued.
“We do these things, these acts of betrayal and voyeuristic contempt so casually, without their knowledge and without attempting in any way to assist them or even improve their circumstances. We use them to entertain. This,” Michelle placed her hands on the table, imitating Martin Solveson’s posture, mocking it, “this is obscene. What you want is to take even the illusion of privacy from them. To rape their most private moments in order to titillate and emotionally engage the masses. Haven’t we done enough to these people?”
“Get the hell out of this boardroom,” Solveson roared across and along the table.
Michelle merely raised her eyebrows in amusement.
“Sit down, Martin.” Mr Donnelly spoke quietly, but firmly.
Michelle watched Solveson’s face turn from red to purple, as he fought the urge to argue. After three long seconds he decided to sit down. Michelle laughed outright, causing the purple to deepen.
Mr Donnelly surprised her by smiling warmly at her before speaking.
“You’re covering for Simpson today, is that right?”
Michelle nodded. Simpson was her department head. She was a junior producer, which essentially meant that she did most of Simpson’s work for him whist he schmoozed new sponsors and investors on the golf courses and yachts.
“Yes, sir. Mr Simpson had to attend a client meeting today.” She returned his smile. “Three other people in my department called in sick today, so here I am... taking notes.”
Donnelly laughed loudly. “And a fine job you’re doing of it too, Ms MacLeod.” The smile vanished and was replaced by his usual poker-face. “So you decided this was your big moment, to tell us how horrible we all are and how much you detest our show, our network and us as people? Surely you haven’t worked here for…” he paused as his PA whispered once more, “for four years – and with an unbearable ass like Simpson as your department head – just to put us in our place for a few minutes on a rainy Tuesday afternoon?”
“Not at all,” she replied, instantly grateful that Donnelly was every bit as intelligent as his reputation indicated. Michelle put her own poker face in place and drilled her eyes into Donnelly’s. “This was my big chance to help you fix what you’ve done.” She let her words hang for a few seconds and scanned the face of the Chairman.
“You have a growing number of people outside your offices every day protesting against your show, demanding that your cameras are removed and the people inside the city are left in peace. Sure, the majority of people in the UK and beyond are buying what you’re selling, eagerly, but the minority outside are getting louder. They’re getting angrier and they’re demanding that change comes… soon. You need a human rights department that’ll monitor and regulate how the survivors are portrayed on camera and ensures that every effort is being made to reinvest the vast moneys being earned from these people’s misery into researching a cure a
nd planning an exit strategy for any who remain. I’m going to head up that new department.”
Donnelly’s face was granite.
“You are?”
“Yes… I am.”
Donnelly stared at her silently for several very long minutes. Butts shifted, brows sweated, knuckles cracked. Michelle MacLeod simply stood, waiting for Donnelly to make up his mind. When he did, she knew before he spoke that her gamble had paid off.
“Everyone out,” he barked. “Ms MacLeod and I have a lot to talk about.”
Fraser Donnelly stood from his usual seat at the head of the table and walked with a lighter step than Michelle might have imagined around to where she still stood, poker face firmly in place. He indicated the seat next to hers, wry amusement dancing in his eyes.
“May I?”
She gave him a smile and nodded.
Despite herself she liked Donnelly. Having aided in the establishment of the UKBC and as a huge advocate of the dEaDINBURGH show, he was absolutely everything that she detested – the human representative of everything she was determined to change and eradicate in the organisation she’d so deliberately chosen to work against from within. Still, he was fairly likable… for a detestable parasite.
He unbuttoned his suit jacket. Removing the jacket, he swung it around the back of the plush chair then seated himself. Throwing a genuine smile at her, he indicated that she should sit also, and crossed his legs, reclining back into the soft leather.
“So, Ms MacLeod. Not a fan then?” Fraser motioned at a nearby Holo-screen that had a loop of the dEaDINBURGH intro playing.
