The Grief Team (5 page)

“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!

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 emotional 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. 
             

Gabriel continued to scan the Chronicle, knowing that he was wasting time but still drawn to the moving screen. It was a quad-daily—he was reading the last edition—and was typically 100 screens long, most of it discount ads. In the old days, he knew, what passed for news had been available on newsprint in something called a tabloid.

Attention Parents! The most favoured names for Stage One children this month are Rhonda and Donaldo. This fashion hint is brought to you by Aldalowich Family Outfitters & Candy Kitchen for the best in Revelation Night fashions!

Gabriel grunted as he polished off his donut. People were so fashion-conscious about naming their children these days. “Must have something to do with that damn cow,” Gabriel muttered.

Sid squinted at him from the other end of the counter and decided that Gabriel wasn’t expecting an answer.

Rhonda, the Udderly Fantastic Cow, seemed to be all the Mall-children talked about these days. Gabriel remembered that he’d actually caught himself whistling the ‘Rhonda Song’ the other day, despite his belief that Rhonda was a total marketing ripoff and that she was going to blow an udder once too often and finally self-destruct. ‘Wished to hell I’d bought in low on that one though,’ he thought.

When the Mall Directory pages appeared, Gabriel stuck out his right forefinger for no real reason and stopped the scroll. The directory page onscreen was number 9 of 1,052 screens listing currently available lusts, perversions, sick habits, and semi-unmentionable desires.  They were always outlined in red on the screen, just beneath the list of job specialities. Gabriel  scanned what was offered, pausing at…

Hamshift, Lewis Malcolm Donald. 22
WM. Room 1653. D Complex. Scarborough Mall. Owner/Operator. Hamshift Antique Chairs & Dentistry. Best chairs anywhere! Special this month on re-fillings (amalgam only!) Lewis, who is into Vacuumware and VirtSex, wants to meet people who cheat at screencards, women with huge breasts, and anyone who knows how to 69.

Puzzled by the numerical reference, Gabriel tapped the screen, highlighted the numbers and waited the two seconds it took to identify ‘69’ as:

“The placement of two nude bodies atop each other in opposed directions for the purposes of engaging in simultaneous oral stimulation of the genitalia. Instructional videotape available at Nation Library, Level One, E.C..”

Gabriel frowned. He preferred using an Autoblow hologram delivered from Tony’s Sex-2-U once or twice a month. Sometimes, Mary would give him the little nudge in his ribs that meant she was ready to see him that evening. ‘69’? Not likely. In his ordered mind, how could he ever trust someone who screwed around with numbers? His surprising wit brought a smile to his face.   

Abruptly, he snapped off the Chronicle and pushed it away. Too much of that was habit-forming. He turned to scan the mall, still fairly busy with last minute shoppers rushing about with lots of children in tow. Gabriel loved watching the children, loved their voices, their inquisitiveness, their joyous exuberance as they lived and played.  He loved every stage of their upbringing. It was something he shared with his father, Elias, this deep need to love and protect.

Gabriel was their Guardian of the Malls, their knight, their hero on the TV, who told exciting stories of Grief Team adventures, showing their exploits Outside, and often using various types of explosives to reduce Wildkids’ haunts to rubble. Sometimes the Team managed to kill a Kid or two in the process, but those images were edited out and available only on the Jumbotron in SkyDome, where WK’s in the pens were shown every frame in vivid detail. Mall-children were educated about the dangers of Outside and, if they sometimes had nightmares about Wildkids, all the better. Danger was danger after all and it didn’t make sense to teach a mallchild to think otherwise. As for the Kids in the pens, it made them think twice about causing problems for their handlers.    

Gabriel felt strangely free of all timely constraints today. He knew he should make his way back up to the office but the gentle flow of mall traffic was proving seductive. Everything seemed so...ordered, he thought. 

“Let me have another Nescafé, Sid.” 

Sid set up the replenishments, all the while keeping his yellow eyes on the stocks scrolling on the TV perched on the other end of the counter. 

“Lost a fuckin’ fortune on the Celts yesterday,” he grumbled. “‘’bout time you gave me a half-decent tip, Gabriel.”

Gabriel returned excited waves and smiles from a girl and boy running past the counter and then rotated his stool back to anonymity. 

“Now you know that I can’t do that, Sid. How do you know that I didn’t lose a bundle on the Celts myself? The whole world knows their population needs a boost; they were the safe choice.”

Sid nodded. “That’s what I thought. Fuckin’ Celts!” He put the coffee pot back on the warming stand and scratched his nose with a plastic-gloved finger. “A man can’t make a decent living with people like that still on the planet.” He turned and went back to the TV screen, no wiser. “Fuck the Swedes when they’re at home too.”

The foul odor of smoke brought Gabriel out of his reverie. Embedded deep within the fibres of the dark brown suit worn by the man standing beside him, this smoke had its own distinctiveness and Gabriel, had he not recognized Emmett Strachan, would have marked him instantly as an employee of the Crematoria anyway. There was no smell quite like it, not even radburns gone terminal could match it. The material and cut of the suit, although of best quality and obviously well-cared-for, was no guard against the absorption of carbons in the workplace. Gabriel experienced a distinct pang of unease.

He took a sharper account of the man. This distinctly unimpressive, nervous bureaucrat had worked side-by-side with Gordon Latimer. Latimer must have been bored out of his mind, the man had the look of a syphlitic radburn case and smelled of death. Gabriel felt his nose crinkling.  “Hello, Emmett.” 

The red face beamed at him.  “I hope you don’t mind me interrupting you.”

Gabriel turned his face away for a moment and had a swallow of coffee while he tried to get the feeling back in his nose. Emmett Strachan eyed the last bite of frosted donut. He glanced at Gabriel, took the piece, and gobbled it down.

Gabriel stifled a sudden urge to laugh. “Help yourself.”

“Thank you.  Very kind.” Emmett used a wrinkled handkerchief, dabbing at his top lip while glancing surreptitiously to the right-and-left, eyeing disinterested shoppers.

“Emmett?”

“Yes? Oh, of course! You are wondering why I am speaking with you? I hope you don’t mind my slipping up here, but I have brought you something.” His voice  became a conspiratorial whisper. He reached into the left inside pocket of his jacket and removed a small package, placing it on the counter in front of Gabriel. Then he sat back expectantly as if Gabriel might now pronounce a judgment of yea or nay.

“What’s that?” asked Gabriel, making no move to pick it up.

“A diary. A hand-written diary.” There was a unmistakable note of triumph in the man’s voice.

“Yours?”

“No! Oh no! Gordon’s! I found it inside his desk at the office. It was taped under the main drawer.” Strachan’s tongue darted out to moisten his top lip.  “That’s the first place a detective looks,you know.”

Gabriel tried not to laugh.

“That’s what I thought,” nodded Emmett, misunderstanding the look.

“The Crematoria office?”

“Yes.” The top lip was moistened again with the dexterity of a frog nailing a fly. Strachan’s tongue was quick, but not quick enough. The bright-red stains of betrayal along the inner lining of his mouth said ‘Redlets’ loud and clear. Gabriel gave no indication that he had noticed. It was interesting to note that the Assistant Director of Crematoria had a habit, but how unusual was that considering his job? Gabriel filed the fact anyway as Emmett continued, “I took the liberty of assuming that you might like to scan...um, read it.” He grimaced as though the effort had cost him something.”

“Did you?”

“I did, yes.” Another interpretation occurred to him. “That is, I read it. I didn’t scan it.”

This is a man who is dying to unburden himself, Gabriel thought.  He looked at the diary, outwardly without much interest, inwardly he was superstitiously aware that it was the real reason why he had banished time and stayed for the extra coffee. Curious, he thought, this sympathetic-magic…designed as intricately as the delightful conundrum of déja vu, it was human as human could be. In his life and work, Gabriel enjoyed these primeval gifts.