‘What are you messing around for?’ demanded the sprout. Tom noticed, for the first time, that in his lapel he wore a small bronzecoloured metal badge. The sprouts received these when they had sent 10 suspects to Africa. Send 20 and you were awarded a silver badge. Those who sent 50 wore a gold badge. The more ruthless sprouts sent everyone for whom they could complete a GB746. ‘Get to the phone. Call an ambulance. And don’t forget to tell them it’s for an inspector or I’ll make sure they shoot you twice.’ He looked at Tom and laughed. ‘If I tell the police you pushed him, his dependants, if he’s got any, will receive double compensation and an enhanced pension.’
Tom stood still for a moment then moved past the standing sprout and headed for the kitchen.
‘Now, where the hell are you going?’
‘It’s quicker this way. I can cut through the back.’
The sprout considered this for a moment and then nodded. In the kitchen Tom’s aunt was sitting at the table staring into space. She did this quite a lot, sometimes sitting quite still for hours at a time. At other times she didn’t seem able to stop moving. It was impossible to know how she was going to be on any particular day. She turned as her nephew entered the room.
‘Hello!’ whispered Tom.
‘Hello,’ his aunt whispered back. She smiled at him. She was sitting in a front seat from a BMW which had been placed beside the stove in the kitchen. She had her cat, Tabatha, on her lap. The cat, nearly 20-years-old, was the centre of her universe. For a moment it looked as though she might have recognised Tom but then she began to look puzzled. ‘Have you seen my nephew?’ she asked. Again, she whispered because he had done.
‘He’s around,’ Tom said softly. He no longer tried to correct her, or reason with her too much. She quickly became upset if she realised that she was getting things wrong.
‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ she asked.
‘I’ll make one,’ he said. ‘In a minute. I’ve got something else to do first.’
Chapter 11
Afterwards, Tom examined the frying pan. There was no sign that it had been used for anything other than frying eggs. He put it in the sink. He thought it needed a wash. He then filled a small kettle with water and placed it on a hook over their small kitchen fire.
‘Would you like a biscuit with your tea?’ asked his aunt. This was, he knew, her gentle way of saying that she would.
He opened a cupboard and took out a packet of ginger biscuits. They were soft and well past their best-before date but they still looked and almost tasted like biscuits. He took two biscuits out of the packet, put them on a cracked saucer and put them in front of his aunt. She smiled, said thank you, picked one up and started to nibble at it. She nibbled like a bird. Like everyone else she ate slowly to get the most out of the experience. She could make a single biscuit last a quarter of an hour.
‘We can’t have bodies at the bottom of the stairs,’ complained his aunt, between nibbles. ‘We will have to move them. We can’t be clambering over bodies every time we want to go somewhere. Someone might trip up.’
Tom sat down opposite his aunt. He felt very, very tired. He realised suddenly that while the advantage of being older is that people don’t expect you do unexpected things (like hitting them on the head with frying pans) the disadvantage is that you get tired after doing those things.
‘Aren’t you having a biscuit?’ his aunt asked.
‘Not just now, thanks,’ Tom replied. ‘I’m not hungry at the moment.’ When he told her that he wasn’t hungry it wasn’t usually true. This time it was true. He didn’t have the energy to eat.
He looked at his aunt and realised that she was seemingly unconcerned by her efforts. And she was twenty years older than him. That made him feel even older.
Chapter 12
Half an hour later, when his wife came home, Tom still hadn’t moved. He was sitting at the kitchen table, with his hands cupped around a now cold cup of tea. His aunt had nearly finished her second biscuit. He heard Dorothy’s key in the front door, and then heard her gasp with shock or surprise as she walked down the hallway.
Dorothy, Tom’s wife, was 54. She had been a successful sculptor whose work had been bought by many discerning collectors. She was tall, just four inches shorter than Tom, and looked ten years younger than she was. Her eyes were deep brown and her skin still china white. The whiteness of her skin embarrassed her a little because she thought it drew attention to the greyness of her pitted teeth. Because of this she rarely showed her teeth when she smiled and people who didn’t know her thought of her as being rather aloof. She sometimes envied those who wore false teeth. Dentures weren’t affected by the fluoride in the drinking water.
Most female suspects dressed like car mechanics or plasterers and, as a result, looked just about as attractive. Dorothy, however, still made an effort. She did this not for Tom, who would have loved her in baggy hessian trousers and a canvas poncho, but for herself ‘If I dress like everyone else,’ she said once, ‘I might well forget who I am. Worse, I might think like everyone else too.’
The demand for works of art had more or less disappeared under the authority of a fascist bureaucracy which regarded a blue flag studded with gold stars as the height of artistic perfection and so Dorothy worked unofficially and illegally as a private messenger, carrying letters and packets around the area. The Post Office had been replaced by a EUDCE approved mail distributor based in Turin. (Deliveries had been cut to once a week on the grounds that more frequent deliveries were both unnecessary and a danger to the environment). There was, therefore, a great demand for her services.
‘I suppose you already know this,’ said Dorothy, walking into the kitchen. ‘But I had to step over two people lying down in the halfway. They seem to be asleep.’ She was, he knew, calmer than he would have been if their roles had been reversed. ‘Or, possibly, dead.’
‘Sprouts,’ said Tom. He reached out and took her hands. They loved each other very much, and had done so for a long time. ‘Both of them. They came to inspect our labels.’
‘Are they dead?’
Tom nodded.
‘What happened?’
‘One fell down the stairs. The other one I hit on the head with a frying pan.’ Tom thought about it for a moment. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I think my aunt did most of the damage.’
‘With the frying pan?’
‘Yes.’
‘And they’re both dead.’
‘They seem pretty dead to me. I wouldn’t sell them life insurance.’
‘That’s all right then,’ said Dorothy.
‘One fell down the stairs. I killed the other one, the second one, because he was going to claim that I killed the first one. Do you want some tea?’
‘But you didn’t kill the first one?
‘No, no. Well, a bit. Sort of. The small fat one just tripped and fell. But they’d have believed the other one rather than me. So I had to kill the second one. And then finish off the first one.’
‘Of course they would,’ agreed Dorothy, nodding.
‘He was threatening to have us all arrested, charged, imprisoned and all the rest of it.’
Dorothy shivered. ‘Two down and a lot left to go.’
Tom looked at her.
‘There are a lot of sprouts in EUDCE, aren’t there?’
Tom nodded.
‘So it’s two down and a lot to go.’
‘You don’t mind?’
‘About you killing sprouts?’
‘Yes.’
‘No, why should I mind. I don’t mind at all. I expect they had it coming. Incidentally, one of them has what looks like one of my bras poking out of his jacket pocket. I recognise it because it’s faded pink and has a mended strap.’
‘They both do.’
‘Do what?’
‘Have one of your bras in their jacket pockets.’
‘Oh.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘Right. I won’t ask. You’ve clearly had a busy afternoon.’
‘The bra
s both had imperial measurements on the labels. But you can have the bras back now that they’re dead.’
‘Oh good. That’s a relief Have you any idea how difficult it is to find underwear these days? Even if I had money to spend on bras I don’t know where I’d find any for sale. I’m glad we’ll get those back. My breasts will be pleased.’ She looked down at her chest, as though expecting some sign of delight.
‘The strange thing is that I don’t feel in the slightest bit bad about it,’ said Tom. He paused and thought for a moment. ‘An hour or two ago if you’d asked me if I could kill someone I would have laughed at you and said ‘No! Never. Not under any circumstances.’ But now that I’ve done it I don’t feel bad about it at all.’ He bit his lip and thought for a moment or two. ‘Perhaps because I just didn’t think of them as people.’ He paused again. ‘If I ran over a dog or a cat by accident I’d feel really bad about it. But I don’t feel bad about those two in the hall.’
Dorothy reached out and touched Tom’s hand.
He put his other hand on top of her hand. For a moment they just sat and looked each other. ‘I know we’ll have to do something with them, but can I get you some tea now?’
‘I’d love some.’ She smiled. ‘You really are very English, you know.’
‘Am I?’
‘There are two bodies in the hall and you’re making a cup of tea.’
‘You said you’d like a cup.’
She shrugged. ‘So, I’m very English too.’
‘Maybe a cup of tea will help us decide what to do?’
‘Let’s hope so. Incidentally, what did you say you used to kill the one that you killed?’
‘A frying pan.’
‘Ah. Surprising choice. But doubtless effective.’
‘The whole thing sort of happened,’ he explained. Tom turned to his aunt who was still sitting at the kitchen table. ‘Would you like another cup of tea?’
Tom’s aunt looked up.
‘Another cup of tea?’ Tom held up his cup.
She smiled and nodded. ‘And a biscuit?’
Suddenly, the Telescreen burst into life as a breeze started to turn the community windmill. A plump, middle-aged woman was sitting on a large red chair answering questions from a small man with a neat moustache and a wig. The moustache looked as if it might well have been false too. The woman had blue lips and was wheezing. She didn’t look well.
‘What’s this?’ asked Tom.
‘It’s a new programme,’ explained Dorothy. ‘Contestants answer questions and if they do well they can win an operation. The operation is then done live on the Telescreen the following day. And the gloriously happy patients get to spend up to a week recovering in a sprout hospital afterwards.’
‘A week? They get to spend a week in the hospital?’ This was unheard of. EUDCE’s Care in the Community scheme had been expanded to include hospital patients, who, if they were lucky enough to have an operation, were invariably sent home to be cared for by their families and friends within hours of leaving the operating theatre. To the embarrassment of some senior clinicians evidence showed that patients who were cared for at home were less likely to die than patients who were cared for in hospital. There was far less risk of contracting a deadly infection at home. And fewer recovering patients died of starvation. Hospital infections had become endemic and at least half of all hospital patients died from them.
‘Is it compulsory? The hospital stay?’
‘No, no, I don’t think so. I think it’s rather regarded as a perk. Something that no one in their right mind would even contemplate turning down.’
‘And contestants can win big operations?’
‘Oh yes. Heart surgery, brain surgery, bowel resections, breast enlargement, hip replacements – all sorts of stuff.’ This was quite a prize. Operations of any size were not usually available to suspects, although it was possible for suspects to win some surgical operations and medical treatments if they bought a winning ticket for the European Lottery.
‘Do the winners get to choose what operation they have done?’
Dorothy shook her head and smiled. ‘Oh, no. They get what they win. A woman last week won a penis enlargement operation. She was hoping for an operation to remove a lump in her lung. She burst into tears when they told her what she’d won. She was dying of cancer. It was very sad. She’s in the lead to win a trolley full of groceries for crying louder and longer than anyone else on the Telescreen this month.’
‘Your final question,’ said the small quizmaster, a man called Milksop, who had initially won fame and popularity among EUDCE bureaucrats for his skill in asking apparently caustic, tough questions which, in reality, allowed his interviewees to wriggle off the hook without anyone noticing, and who was now capitalising on his two dimensional fame by hosting a series of bland quiz programmes. He wore a purple satin suit and a blond wig with pink highlights. ‘Answer this one correctly and you will win today’s surprise operation.’ He paused, as quizmasters always do, in order to build up the drama and to enable the studio director to catch a shot of the contestant’s face as the agony tension built up.
‘Does the woman who won the trolley full of stuff get to choose her own groceries?’ asked Tom, quietly, during the pause.
Dorothy shook her head. ‘She just gets what they give her. It’s usually bulky stuff that doesn’t cost too much. They put a few fancy things on the top, packets of biscuits, toothpaste and so on, but underneath it’s mainly toilet rolls and cat litter, that sort of stuff.’
‘What if you don’t have a cat?’
Dorothy looked at him.
The quizmaster studied the card he was holding. ‘At the end of this week’s Global G3 meeting in Miami, held to end world poverty and hunger, the delegates from the United States of Europe, China and the United States of America enjoyed a formal dinner together. How many courses were there?’
The contestant closed her eyes as she thought about the answer.
‘Fourteen?’ she suggested, rather fearfully, after a few moments.
Again, the host made her wait. The camera zoomed in on the contestant’s face which was now as grey as her teeth. She seemed terrified, like an animal caught in a car’s headlights.
‘Why do they do this?’ asked Tom. ‘Make people wait so long to know if they’ve won.’
‘To build up the tension, I suppose,’ said Dorothy.
‘If they build up much more tension she is definitely going to die,’ said Tom firmly.
‘Correeeeeeeeeect!’ cried Milksop eventually, throwing his arms in the air and feigning excitement but somehow doing so without much conviction or success. He was not a good actor. He beamed at the contestant who really did look quite ill. Even the knowledge that she had won didn’t seem to improve her appearance.
‘If they don’t hurry this up she’s going to die in the studio,’ said Tom.
‘And now let’s find out what you’ve won...,’ The host took a small envelope from his inside jacket pocket and once again the woman had to wait. Milksop opened the envelope, which was not sealed, and took from it a small slip of paper, folded once.
‘I bet they reuse that envelope time and time again,’ said Tom.
Dorothy laughed.
‘You’re going to love this!’ cried the host, having read what was on the paper. He turned to the woman and put an arm around her.
‘You’ve won...’
He waited.
She tried to look at the paper to see what was written there but he held it away from her.
‘You’ve won breast enlargement surgery!’ he cried at last. ‘Both breasts!’ he added, as though contestants were sometimes offered one-sided enhancement surgery.
The woman, who already had vast breasts and who would, if anything, have probably preferred a breast reduction operation, looked terribly disappointed.
‘Poor thing,’ said Dorothy. ‘She must be a 44F already. It’s probably the last thing she wants.’
‘How the hell is the surg
eon going to make them bigger?’ asked Tom, not unreasonably.
‘Are you excited?’ asked Milksop.
The woman was trying hard to look brave.
‘Oh, yes,’ she lied without any conviction.
‘Just what you’ve always wanted?’
The woman nodded. A first tear trickled down her left cheek. ‘Well, I was really hoping for a heart operation,’ she admitted, wheezily. ‘But you have to take what you can get don’t you?’
‘Another brave and lucky winner here on Win Your Dream Operation!’ cried the host. ‘Tune in tomorrow at the same time to see our next contestant. And don’t forget to tune in at ten to see today’s lucky winner having her operation – live on your BBC!’
The screen changed to a shot of an audience clapping wildly. The programme wasn’t really filmed in front of an audience. The programme makers just used standard film of an enthusiastic audience clapping and cheering. The audience members, all suspects, had been given a loaf of bread each to cheer and shout excitedly for an hour.
‘What’s on now?’ asked Tom.
Dorothy pressed a button on the screen so that they could access the programme selection.
‘You can choose between Cannibal Island and Thongs of Praise,’ said Dorothy.
‘I’m no wiser.’
‘Cannibal Island is billed as the ultimate reality programme. A dozen suspects are marooned on an island with nothing to eat. The winner is the person who’s left at the end of twelve weeks.’
Tom shuddered. ‘And Thongs of Praise?’
‘It’s promoted as ‘a religious programme with a difference’. The congregation all wear skimpy panties.’
‘Maybe we can just sit and watch the fire,’ suggested Tom. ‘While we decide what to do with the bodies in the hall.’
‘Sounds good to me,’ agreed Dorothy.
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