The Grief Team (6 page)

His senses told him that that small, black diary had not only been read but scanned as well, despite this man’s claim. Emmett Strachan was smart enough to back himself up, it appeared. He also hadn’t dropped the diary into the Stream at one of the many public transcoding stations in the mall, sealing it as ‘Director Only’. No, he was here, sweating buckets and stinking of death. He was waiting for his reward.

“It’s the darndest thing, Mr. Kraft,” said Emmett slowly, another flash of red greasing his top lip.

“Yes?”

“In the diary…Gordon…writes about embryos…”  

“…and?”

“…and…a little problem with them.” Emmett’s hand disappeared into a pocket and produced a handkerchief which he used to erase beads of sweat from his forehead. 

Gabriel picked up the diary. He sat for several long minutes, turning the slim black object over and over in his hands as if weighing unspoken options. Then he raised his head and smiled at Emmett. 

“Gordon Latimer,” said the Director of the Grief Team slowly, “was…unlucky…but you, Emmett, you are one of our leading citizens in the malls.” There was a smile which accompanied this, one which prophesized confidence and the prospect of good things to come.

“I…I…why, thank you,” said Emmet, an evident smile of relief washing over his features. He reached out impulsively and shook Gabriel’s hand, wringing it until its owner disengaged himself.

“This,” said Gabriel, nodding at the diary, “is a testament to your belief in Toronto Nation.”

“Yes, yes it is!” There was fervour in Strachan’s voice.

”I’m wondering if you’d mind if I upgraded your Rations listing?” Gabriel purred. “But you know I don’t think that’s an accurate measure of your worth...would you accept a new apartment on B Complex? It’s very comfortable there and the neighbours are very friendly.”

Emmett Strachan’s head bobbed vigorously.  “I…it’s so generous of you…I didn’t expect…”

“Nonsense, man! It’s the least I can do to show my appreciation.” Gabriel rose and patted Strachan’s shoulder. “And let’s see more of you, Emmett. Come to Elias’ next gathering. Bring your wife...Ellen...”

“...Elise...”

“Elise! Of course. Bring her too!”

Moments later, Strachan floated out of Druxy’s, with a look on his face that bespoke pure bliss.

“Who was that asshole?” grumbled Sid, topping up Gabriel’s coffee. “Smelled like fuckin’ death.”

Gabriel palmed the diary neatly and dropped it into his pocket.

“That’s the smell of death all right,” he agreed.

“Human beings are deceptive little fuckers and you have to watch their collective ass every second. Their uncanny ability to deceive is rooted in early development, an indisputable-anthropological-fuckin’ fact, clearly reinforced by the evolution of politicians, journalists, soap-opera stars, talk-show-hosts, and hairdressers. Certainly my experience has always led me to accept the inherent necessity of these particular elements of our species, but I have never given a rat’s ass about politicians and I wouldn’t let a hairdresser touch me!” (see endnote 4)

Emmett was well-versed in the lore of the late, lamented Mayor Dickie who had written, during his years alone in Sleepy Hollow, his Guide To The Human Soul, a series of tracts which every Mall person supposedly knew-by-heart.

Emmett was a consummate liar who was, nonetheless, not very good at it—it’s my nervous disposition that’s what it is…and that damn errant gene—and, as he stepped into the CleanBus which would take him to Scarborough Mall, he was not overly convinced that Gabriel Kraft had been completely taken in by what Emmett considered to be his ‘act.’ Still, Emmett knew, that dominant-obsessed little cocksucker now had his hands on Gordon’s diary and, as Rhonda said, was ‘in with all the udders.’ 

Kraft played his options well, thought Emmett. It was a pleasure to watch him watch work, his charm so exactly conceived, his physiological reactions so controlled. Ah, if I could be one-half as talented and deceptive; I was ever-so-nervous, yet was I ever-so-convincing? The delicious part was the ‘under the drawer’ bit.  A masterstroke on Emmett’s part really, for Emmett had actually stolen Gordon’s notebook out of his locked drawer only minutes after being informed of his superior’s death.

Obfuscation, prevarication, and just plain bold-face-lying...in the end what was the difference? Psychopathy baffles logic, Emmett assured himself, as surely as deathsmoke never dissipates. That Gabriel Kraft was a man-of-logic, Emmett did not doubt. That he himself was not, he rued.  

The doors hissed shut and the airseals on the CleanBus closed with a whoosh and began to move. Emmett remained lost in thought, ignorant of the scrolling advertising screens where windows had once been. Mayor Dickie was right, he was thinking, you cannot trust human beings. They say one thing and do another. They believe, yet they betray. They hate the viruses, but they made them anyway.

Emmett was as sure as anything that Gabriel Kraft would have more to say and do about Emmett’s knowledge of the deception in the Embryo Centre. Emmett had confessed that he had read Gordon’s diary and, as he hoped, Gabriel Kraft had offered to buy his silence. Emmett Strachan’s every wish would have to be fulfilled. Emmett, as scared as he was, was counting on it.              

You have chosen me to carry on this great inheritance from the Father-of-the-Malls.  I am charged…I have accepted…I bear this great burden.  The tasks before us are formidable but we are ready for the challenges to come. (
change to upbeat now!
)  I am delighted to say that our Exchange is booming!  That’s what I said, booming!  Last week, Toronto Nation signed a covenant with the Swedes to help repopulate their lands.  In return, we are pledged one thousand credits per embryo, the highest price paid yet for Toronto Nation Embryos!—(
wait for applause, your Worship!
)—It is our duty to help repopulate our allies in Sweden who, need I remind you, bear no blame for any of the catastrophes which befell our world and, indeed, we should be forever grateful to them for reducing Norway, the infamous birthplace of Jeffrey Meilgaard, to that which it is today, a barren rubble.  Yes, our duty is heavy, but no heavier than any we would all willingly bear for our beautiful children. 

Honour the child!  (
three repeats, then wait for silence
). 

But I cannot do this…I cannot ensure a wonderful life in the Malls for you and your family without some measure of sacrifice on all your parts
.  Yes, we all must sacrifice. (
go to story-telling mode!
) You know, I’m reminded of something that I heard Rhonda say on the TV the other night.  You parents, you all know Rhonda, the Udderly Fantastic Cow…why I watch her every time I get a chance.  I know your children love her too.  Rhonda said something the other day that I thought I would share with you because it truly speaks to all of us in the malls tonight—and those of you who are here live in the studio audience with us, here in the Pickering Town Centre studios of TV…this is especially for you.  Rhonda said, and I really believe this myself, ‘Don’t Waste Space!’ 

Yes, it may be hard for each of us to look ourselves in the eyes and decide whether or not we are nothing more than a parasite or a leech.  A space-waster!  We simply must look in the mirror and make that determination. Are we productive? Are we happy? Are we working for a brighter future for our children? You all know that Revelation Night is nigh and we are absolutely assured that this year’s crop of Stage Fives is exceptional. We would like very much to invite twenty-three young people to become citizens of Toronto Nation on this occasion, but I am informed that in order to do so we must open six more spaces. Remember that you do not have to live your full allotment of time...no one’s forcing you to do so. And in the spirit of Mall citizenship, I am anouncing tonight that, up to Revelation Night itself, the Crematoria will be happy to arrange a free upgrading to a semi-precious urn for those who want to help make room for our newcomers.  

Examine yourself, think about it, and then make room! Remember that the Crematoria stay open late on the weekends to help you. No waiting in a line-up. They’ll get you in fast! You think about it and then do the right thing!  

I would also like to announce that the Grief Team has authorized sector sweeps for Wildkids in the Milton, Acton and Orangeville areas over the next month and, also, the operation presently underway near you folks in Yorkdown Mall will conclude on Thursday. Thank you for your patience!  (
wind up
)  Now I would again like to praise my son Gabriel, and the members of the Grief Team, for their valuable and timely actions in maintaining the security of our malls and I will close by bidding you a good night.  (
smile!
)  And remember that there will be a meeting of the Zone Exchange for Level 2 representatives and up tomorrow in Nation Hall number one in E.C.!  Good night, everybody!” 

Mayor Elias Macdonald Kraft slumped back in the overstuffed white leather armchair and quickly wiped his forehead with the large white towel offered to him by his assistant, Ferria d’Mont. He loathed speaking into a lens, pretending that there actually was a live studio audience instead of a technician in the glass booth with an applause track. Normally, he spoke in person in the Malls, loving the warm reception, but Ferria occasionally conned him into delivering one of his pep talks on Mall TV. She claimed that it enhanced his image; he believed that television caused his three chins to mutate into giant coils of white keilbassa.

“Beautiful job, Mayor!” beamed Ferria, each and every one of her polished white teeth a product of a real dentist with real facilities and equipment...well, there was only one in the E.C. as everyone well knew. Just try and get an appointment with him!

As it happened, this dentist was particularly pleased to maintain Ferria’s complete set of white beauties for the pivotal privilege of inserting something other than his fingers into her mouth on a regular basis. Completely illegal, of course, as she was still only a Stage Five. That perfect smile had taken three visits and Ferria thought that she had made a good bargain. The dentist had been more than satisfied at his end.

“One of your better ones,” agreed the Mayor, blowing his cheeks in and out to help himself unwind. Ferria wrote all of Elias’ speeches, inserting the prompts to make sure that he followed a rhythm. Speaking live on TV always brought out the child in Elias. He had difficulty controlling his bladder on such occasions as he peered into first one, then the other of the cameras, never really knowing which one was on because neither of the red lights above the teleprompter ever seemed to be working. This struggle with his bladder often led the sensation that he was floating on a big rubber inner tube on a quiet lake. The sensation was pleasing, yet ultimately necessitated an immediate visit to the facilities when someone finally said, ‘That’s it!’. 

And it was with that overwhelming intent that Elias heaved himself out of the chair into a standing position, the full weight of his bladder immediately confirming what he already knew.             

“Nice touch with the Rhonda thing. I thought that damn cow was dead!” Elias lurched past Ferria only to… “not you again, Bonham! I said I don’t have the power to throw people out of the street!”

Ferria took a step back. She watched Elias fob off the segment’s producer, a cream-suited, cream-faced eel. He seemed desperate to obtain the Mayor’s permission to evict his tenants in #365 Scarborough Mall in order that he might open a tearoom for respectable clientele of toe-fetishists. Elias fled for the washroom and his sanity, closely pursued by the insistent producer. 

Ferria was feeling intensely alive in the studio, drinking in the excitement of live broadcasting, captured by the theatrical allure of hot lights, tensionsweat, wires, cables, and buttons to press. It was safe to say that only she was affected given the bored look on the faces of the technical staff.

Her bright auburn hair bubbled like brookwater over her shapely shoulders. Pleasant, cheerful features crinkled with amusement below cat’s eyes.  And those perfect teeth.  Her physical beauty was further enhanced by her intelligent choice of fashion, presently demonstrating the excellent fashion sense of an oyster white silk blouse and jet black skirt.  It was her third visit to TV, all of them in the company of Elias, who swept her breathlessly with him past security and fans, and through a myriad of doors accessible only to very important people.

It thrilled her, this sense of now!  being provided instantly anywhere in the malls.  No wonder the Grief Team had exclusive control over the facilities, she thought, for here was the power to make stars. Like many others, Ferria dreamed of having her own show, reaping the adulation which always seemed to accompany the excitement of appearing in people’s homes as part of their everyday lives. Oh, to be one of the select seven citizens appointed to appear on camera!

Perhaps it should have been enough to actually meet these honoured few—Elias, of course, being the first—and spend time in their company in the secretive surroundings of the studio, but for Ferria it was not. For her, one of the benefits of intelligence was the ability to realize that one was intelligent.  It then followed logically that some intelligences functioned at a higher level than others. With the mall population maintained at precisely 16,135 inhabitants, she had deduced that there was little doubt that, statistically, her Stage Five results were extraordinary. It was with significant relish that she had been able to reckon her future standing in the malls as somewhere between Elias and his son Gabriel. Clearly, someone was taking up space. Ferria’s space.     

Ferria found herself wandering toward the door leading to another set where Countdown to Horror was about to go ‘live’ across the Malls.  In her final days as a Stage Five and with her citizenship on Revelation Night assured by virtue of the fact that she was Elias’ Executive Assistant, Ferria was closer than ever to being allowed—finally!—to announce that something deep inside her eagerly responded to the grotesque.  

Already she had served the Mayor in more ways than one for, poised atop that mountain of flesh like a cherry on top, at seventeen years of age, Ferria d’Mont had experienced a depth of orgasm that even her contraband Male Substitute couldn’t provoke.  She was experiencing the first adult delights of her true nature and, come Revelation Night, Ferria was planning a Personal Listing in the Chronicle that would go a long way towards satisfying everything she wanted to experience.  And she’d be happy to start with sneaking into Countdown to Horror if only the Mayor would turn a blind eye; unfortunately, a rather unlikely prospect. 

“The Craft Centre people worked all night on her,” said Ferria, walking quickly to the Mayor’s side as he and the producer returned. The man had finally uncoiled his grip on the Mayor and he slithered away, his mission accomplished.

“What?”  The Mayor was in an ebullient mood. Granting favours always brought out the best in him.

“I was answering your question.  You said that you thought Rhonda was dead.”

“I thought she was dead!”

“She’s not.  Apparently there is a problem with the inflatable bladders that they use. The foreman says that sometimes the rubber they get has been reconstituted so many times that it becomes unreliable.  They want new supplies moved higher up on the Zone Exchange. Do you want to do that?”

“What is it likely to cost us?”

Ferria frowned.  “Only the Deutsches have better rubber than we do.  They know that, so the price will be high.”

“How high?”

Ferria pulled out her screen and tapped the touch-sensitive pad twice. She read her notes and quickly pecked at the numbers. “The technicians are asking for one metric ton of rubber compound. The Deutsches are likely to ask for three sixpacks of embryos but we’ll get it for two because they owe us for providing the sampling mechanism on their joint venture in the Celtic oil rig in the North Sea.”

“Two sixpacks. Twelve embryos. Nordics, I assume.”

Ferria smiled.  “You assume correctly.”

“What the hell,” the Mayor said, attempting to paste an errant curl with saliva against his forehead, “two sixpacks is reasonable to keep Rhonda’s Fan Club off my back. Put it just below hemorrhoid cream and the new pump for the air circulation system in Oakville Place. We have to have that soon before everyone dies of carbon monoxide poisoning.”

“It’s already being installed. I told you that yesterday evening.”

Elias smiled and took her left hand, clasping it warmly between his own. It was like wrapping a bird in warm, moist dough. “I was too busy with you yesterday evening,” he growled.  “Maybe I misheard what kind of pump you were referring to.”

Ferria laughed, removing her hand gently as she did so. Public displays of affection from the Mayor were still a little disconcerting, torn as she was between the shame of her attraction to those hectares of fat and the stabbing thrills of desires fulfilled. It was, she knew, one of the Seven Sexual Dilemmas
(see endnote 5)
that she had learned about in school, but learning about something was a lot different than actually experiencing it. Even after the tremendous build-up in the classroom about how great sex was and how the history books told of Mayor Dickie twinning the sexual experience and the social experience, permitting free expression of both, Ferria was a churning dichotomy of new experiences and emotions, almost afraid of her desires, yet learning to love the intensity. What she had felt at fourteen, she knew now, was not sexual fulfillment but sexual disadvantage. It was completely different at eighteen. The sudden impulse that she wanted the Mayor to seize and mount her right there on the cable-strewn floor of the studio almost overwhelmed her.

”I wonder if we might get a few extra minutes of screen time for you tonight? An interview with Wilson-Wilson? I know he’d like to have you on his show.” 

“Fuck that, I get enough screen time already and that ass Wilson-Wilson is always available.  More people suck that pseudo-historian’s dick in a twenty-four hour period than a WildKid has fleas.”  Elias was now busy combing his long dark locks, displeased and frustrated that several perspiration-soaked ringlets were again bobbing out in stark perpendicular relief against the flushed skin of his forehead.  “Is there a hair dryer available?” 

Ferria quickly scanned the small studio for the skinny make-up kid who had powdered the Mayor’s features. “Would you like me to ask for one?”

The Mayor winced.  “Damn these ringlets! Schedule an appointment for me at Maria’s tomorrow. Make it early.”  

Ferria smiled and nodded, making the note. Some days she had so little self-control. Jumping Elias’ bones right here in front of the technicians and security people? What would her parents say if she did something like that before she became a citizen? Still, Ferria wasn’t particularly concerned; she was only following what the textbook said, the one she got for her evening Sex Education course in the Academy at the Children’s Mall.  It warned that there would be wild, insane flashes of sexual desire as she neared citizenship age but that it was logical to assume that these flashes were designed by the body for preliminary use only—what Mayor Dickie called “priming the pump”—and were not logical opportunities meant to be acted upon.