by Mark Tufo
To accommodate Kurt's escalating anxiety attacks, Shelley had begun to sleep on the floor in his room. She made up a new bedtime story for him each night, talking until he fell asleep so that he knew, despite the dark, that she was still in there with him. George remembered listening in on Shelley's tale for the night, caught up just as deeply as Kurt was in her attention to detail and flair with words.
He had abandoned the tumbler after several servings, opting to drink directly from the bottle instead. He had been drunk before, so he knew what hell might find him when morning came, but for the moment he reveled in the numb bliss each swallow promised to bring closer.
Still listening to Shelley's story, George moved to his bedroom. He took another swig from the bottle before setting it down on the nightstand. He moved to Virginia's pillow and brought it up to his face. He breathed deeply, searching for any remains of the scent that had once been there. He breathed deeper, but still he couldn't find any trace of it. She was gone.
George's throat knotted as he contemplated the emptiness slowly consuming him. He choked and coughed as he forced down another huge swig of tequila. Then, all of a sudden, he began to have difficulty sitting upright. He was only able to get to the side of the bed before he began to vomit.
He remembered staggering to the bathroom, leaning against the wall to keep from falling over. He rinsed his face and drank some water, lowering to the floor as he felt the onset of more nausea. He closed his eyes and the darkness immediately seized him.
The next thing he knew, he was coming to in a holding cell.
He squinted, the overhead light stinging his eyes. He looked back and forth between the two police associates, both large men with unforgiving faces. He rubbed his tired eyes, trying to conceal the fact that they were beginning to well up. "Listen. My wife died. I got drunk and blacked out. I don't know what else to tell you."
"You don't remember anything else?" the associate on George's left asked.
George searched the deepest regions of his mind, but last night continued to come back as a blank, black slate. He shook his head. "I have no idea. Will you just tell me what I'm in here for? And where are my kids?"
"They're fine. They're being held downstairs in the Safe House. Cooperate with us, and we'll get you to them as soon as possible."
The second associate pulled a digital camera from his bag and plugged it into a console at his side. A hologram popped up from the center of the table, displaying a three-dimensional image of a living room in disarray. George did not recognize it.
"This is a picture taken from your neighbor's apartment across the hall. You know William and Judith Rockwell, don't you?" the associate asked.
"I know them," George said, unsure what to make of the picture.
"You don't remember pounding on their door at three a.m., and then forcing your way in when Mr. Rockwell answered?" the associate continued.
George shook his head just as a flash of recollection hit him. In his drunken stupor, he had decided he needed a shoulder to cry on. When William had turned him away and Judith threatened to call Police-Corp when he refused to back out of the doorway, he had become enraged with his neighbors' seeming apathy.
George looked up at the associate with a surprised face. "I picked a fight with William. Oh, God . . . is he okay?"
"He's fine, but there was substantial damage sustained throughout his apartment. Housing is charging you eight thousand dollars for all of the wall and furnishing repairs, and we're still waiting to see if anyone is going to press additional charges," the associate on the right said as he went through his notes.
"Substantial damage?" George asked.
The associate on the left pushed a button on his camera and the hologram shifted to a close up of some of the damage. A broken chair sat over a shattered mirror, and there were several holes in the walls.
George stared at the picture in disbelief. "I did that?"
The associate unplugged the camera, and the holographic image instantly disappeared. "As it stands, you're being charged with disorderly conduct outside your home, damage to corporate property, and resisting arrest. Would you like a defense associate from Law-Corp to defend your case?"
"No," George said. With his luck, William would be the one who ended up the case's supervising manager. He looked down, breathing heavily. "I plead guilty to the charge."
The two police associates looked at one another, and then the one on the right stood. "Sit tight. I'll be back in a few minutes." The associate slipped out, leaving his partner alone with George.
George looked up, and he and the remaining associate stared one another down for a moment. George couldn't fight the impulse to look away, and he pretended to study the computer console on the side of the desk. He glanced back over at the associate, finding the man still staring at him, and he quickly looked down. To avoid looking back up, he traced the faux wood grain lines on the desk with his eyes.
"I don't know what I'd do if my wife died," the police associate said, his voice low and sympathetic.
George looked up, surprised. "She was a good woman. She didn't deserve what happened."
The associate nodded, his face remaining hard and cold. "My condolences to you."
George gave an abrupt, grateful nod.
Both men turned as the other associate entered with a small handheld computer. The top screen contained George's confession in twelve-point Courier. Below the smaller bottom screen, a plastic stylus sat in a fitted groove, and the associate plucked it out and handed to George.
George read the statement to ensure it was correct, and then signed his name in the bottom screen. A pixilated version of his signature came up on the screen as he signed. He looked it over one last time, and then snapped the stylus back into its receptacle and returned it to the associate.
"It shouldn't be too long until we know whether or not we can release you," the associate said as he saved George's signature into a database and turned off the computer. "You're going to have to return to the holding cell in the meantime."
The other associate stood as his partner handcuffed George, and the three moved together back toward the holding cells. The long hallway was obscenely bright, bringing George's headache to a new level of pain. He leaned over and began to heave.
The police associates dragged him on, unfazed. They entered an electronically secure corridor that contained five large holding cells. The associates put George back into the drunk tank, the only cell not crowded with deviants and violent criminals.
The room had three gray walls, with a row of bars along the front in place of the fourth, and despite the circulation between it and the corridor, it reeked of vomit and urine. One other middle-aged man was in there, lying on his side, half-awake. He wore a Furniture-Mart associate polo shirt and khaki pants. He had thrown up on himself while passed out, but he was not yet awake enough to acknowledge the smelly mess that lingered on his face and in his hair.
George sat down as the police associates locked the door and walked off. He heard one of the associates call out a number, but he yawned as the man spoke and he didn't hear it. His number had already been called, his ticket taken; there was no need to pay attention now. He heard a door down the corridor open and then slam back shut as the associates escorted another prisoner into the interrogation room.
The other man in George's cell slowly came to, wiping the crusty hair from his face. He sat up, realizing he was not alone, and he gave George a hard scowl.
George turned away from the man. He was in no mood for another altercation. His head still pounded, but at least the nausea had subsided. He slouched back in his chair and closed his eyes, hoping he might sleep through his remaining hours of confinement. George knew Law-Corp, and when it all came down to it, humans were rarely incarcerated anymore. Deviants filled the majority of the prisons, amongst the occasional human murderer or rapist. It would take no more than a couple more hours for management to process his paperwork, and then he and the kids woul
d be free to return home. He wasn't sure how he was going to pay Housing for the damage he'd done to the Rockwells' living room, but he would worry about it after he ensured that what remained of his family was safe at home.
He had no idea how to track the hours, as the cell had no windows, there were no visible clocks, and the associates had taken his watch. He dozed for a short time, waking to find the other man trying to remove his shoes. He kicked the man away, securing his shoes with the retying of both laces, keeping one eye on the man to make sure he didn't come tearing back in some crazed, hung-over rage. He looked up as the man decided to return to his cot, a mix of anger and guilt complicating his face.
George decided that the man was no real threat, but he stared him down for a moment just to establish that he was not to be assaulted again.
The other man looked down, ashamed to have been caught in the act. "I'm sorry, sir," he said going by work status rather than age to determine their hierarchy, knowing by George's nice shoes that he was a member of the Corp Segregate.
"Just stay on your side of the cell," George said in his most authoritative voice.
"I just thought that . . . I've been arrested for getting drunk a few times now, I thought they might go easy on me if I was wearing nicer shoes. What was your number, by the way?" He pulled a ticket from his pocket, making sure it was still there. On the ticket was a series of numbers, followed by the number sixty-three in bold lettering.
George shrugged. "I don't remember. Sorry."
The man looked up, and then a glimmer of recognition lit up his face. "George?"
George studied the man's face, unable to place it. "I'm sorry . . . do I know you?"
The man stood. "Edgar Lowe, from District 89147."
George sat up at the edge of his seat, his face suddenly bringing to mind images of a dark haired little boy. "Edgar?" He and Edgar had been good friends in grade school, before George's family had moved underground and the segregates had become fully defined. The boys had used to play by the creek, catching frogs and various flying bugs. The heavy rains eventually flooded over the river and turned the area into a disease-infested marshland. "Go figure," George said, breathing a nostalgic sigh.
Back when George and Edgar were friends, adults were still allowed to drive fuel-efficient cars, public schools all taught the same curriculum, and deviants still had equal rights. People were more relaxed, and the world seemed to have just a little more color to it. The weather could still be forecasted, even if it was already changing all over the globe.
George gave Edgar a weak smile. "How have you been?"
Edgar shrugged. "I think Police-Corp owns about half of my assets, and I'm about to be charged with a third offense, but other than that, life has been good and boring."
George nodded, not wanting to know any further details. He felt bad, but Edgar just didn't belong to his social group. Mart employees worked where they did because of their intelligence level and social standing. Like deviants, many of them didn't go to church or even pay their tithing. They wore their clothes several times before washing them, and most couldn't afford to clean their water recyclers more than once or twice a year. As a result, they often smelled less than desirable. George wondered if he was in any danger of catching some type of louse.
"I work for Law-Corp," George said, hoping Edgar might get the hint.
"You and your wife should come over for dinner sometime," Edgar said with a smile, misconstruing George's message to be nothing more than a pretentious boast. "My wife makes the most amazing no-cook faux apple pie."
George looked down. "My wife just died."
"Oh . . . I'm sorry."
George didn't respond. He moved to the bars as two officers appeared from the far end of the corridor. "Number sixty-three," one of them called.
Edgar perked up as if he had just won a raffle. "Right here!"
The officers unlocked the cell and escorted him away.
"Excuse me!" George called after them. "Is there any way anyone could check up on my case? George Irwin? I should have been processed by now, I think, and—"
"We'll look into it," one of the officers yelled back right before they disappeared into the brightly lit hall.
George began to pace, feeling impatient. He was glad to have the entire cell to himself, although Edgar's absence did nothing for the nauseating smell of the place. After only a few minutes, George returned to the bars and looked as far as he could down the corridor. "Hello?" he called.
"What the hell are you trying to do?" hissed a young deviant in the cell across the way. "If you agitate them, they'll only keep you here longer!"
"And you know this from personal experience?" George asked.
The deviant shrugged. "Whatever, man. Scream like an idiot and see where it gets you. We all could use the entertainment."
A few others snickered as George retreated to the back of the cell, face flushed, and he returned to his seat without another word. He knew there was a process that every case had to go through, and paperwork could only be pushed so fast through the many desks it had to clear. He wondered what his file looked like. There were likely statements from both William and Judith, as well as from any of the neighbors who might possibly have seen or heard something worth mentioning. There would be a printout of the pictures he was shown as well as his signed confession. He wondered what his computer questionnaire would look like, and he pictured it in his mind's eye:
* * *
Did the Defendant confess to his/her crime(s)?
(Research associate #02007-841 said "Yes.")
Click HERE to agree.
Click HERE to disagree.
* * *
Does the paperwork indicate that the Defendant showed remorse for said crime(s)?
(Research associate #02007-841 said "Yes.")
Click HERE to agree.
Click HERE to disagree.
* * *
Does the paperwork indicate that the Defendant could have made a profit by committing said crime(s)?
(Research associate #00453-584 said "No.")
Click HERE to agree.
Click HERE to disagree.
* * *
Has the Defendant ever been convicted of any previous crimes?
(Research associate #01002-388 said "No.")
Click HERE to agree.
Click HERE to disagree.
* * *
Does the Defendant have anything to say in his/her defense, for having committed said crime(s)?
(Research associate #02007-841 said "No.")
Click HERE to agree.
Click HERE to disagree.
* * *
George knew his confession would ensure a guilty verdict, but also that his cooperation with the police associates would help to make it more likely that his fine didn't eat up too much of his monthly income. The fact that his wife had just died, and that all of his actions occurred during a blackout, would be included in his report. Hopefully, no one with the means and desire to destroy George would end up with it moving across his desk.
He stood as a police manager stopped at George's cell.
"George Irwin?" the manager asked.
"That's me."
The manager's eyes shifted uncomfortably, and he cleared his throat before he spoke: "I'm sorry, but it seems your file has been misplaced, and we can't release you until it turns up. If the managers at Law-Corp can't process it by dusk, you're going to have to stay the night."
"What?" George felt as if a hot blast of wind were forcing him back, and he found the nearest seat. "Please tell me you're joking." He began to sweat, and he wiped his face with his shirtsleeve.
"I'm afraid I'm not," the manager said. "If you'd like to speak to my supervisor about it, I'm sure I can find him."
"What about my kids?" George asked, closing his eyes, his body feeling hot and fluid.
"Well, unless you have a relative in the district we can release them to, they'll just have to stay the night at the Safe Hous
e."
George strained to glance back over at the police manager. He shook his head then looked down. "I'm a manager for Law-Corp. How come I've never heard of anything like this happening before?"
The police manager shrugged. "I'll be sure to ask my supervisor when I see him." He walked off, ignoring George's pleas to return.
Chapter 96
VIRGINIA RINSED her hair one last time, hoping the timer on the water recycler would not go off before she could get all of the soap out. She grabbed her towel and made way for another woman who stood, naked and shaking, waiting for her turn. There was a clean pair of hospital pajamas waiting for her on her bed, and she quickly got dressed with her body turned away from the rest of the room. The weekly ordeal they made of bathing the group was humiliating.
Virginia wrapped her hair in her towel, glad at least to have had a shower. The nozzles only worked when the medical associates turned them on, and the once a week that they did turn them on was just not often enough. By then, not one person was without a hefty odor and slick, oily hair. Virginia splashed herself off using the sink water when she got the chance, but cold water and powdered hand soap did little to keep the filth at bay. It was mortifying to be herded into the bathroom by the medical associates in such a way, but it was over with for now and at least for the moment she was clean.
Emily took her time walking over to Virginia, shaking the towel over her wet hair and adjusting the fit of her pajamas. Both of them turned around and faced the far wall as the associates instructed the men to remove their clothes and line up for their shower.