“Trauma Court Live! returns after the break,” the unseen announcer’s voice boomed through the Court. “Stay with us to find out what really happened on that fateful morning on SuperToll 4.”
Silver approached the Bench, negotiating his way through the small army of technicians and studio hands that had swarmed into Court, while carefully stepping between the many cables that snaked across the floor. Nash was rising to leave, but when he saw Silver, he sat down again, heaving a deep sigh.
“Yes, Mr. Silver? Can I help you?”
“You can help by telling me what’s going on, My Lord!” Silver said. "Nobody consulted me about changes to the program. Since when was it agreed that the tech team could start pasting the lawyer’s face onto the client’s body?”
Nash feigned surprise. “Isn’t technology wonderful, Doug? Amazing what they can do these days?”
“You knew?”
Nash shrugged. He motioned toward a waiting make-up girl, who promptly sat down beside him on the Court’s raised bench and began hastily touching up his studio makeup. It was at his own insistence that the judge still wore his wig and heavy robes – a long-outdated feature of court practice – but one that the show’s audience relished. Nevertheless, they caused Nash to perspire heavily under the hot lights.
“Of course it’s a lie, Doug,” Nash continued. “A minor, but in my view, entirely necessary one, to enhance the viewing pleasure of our many viewers whose concept of justice may not be as refined as our own.”
Silver shook his head in dismay.
“So the truth doesn’t count for anything at all?”
Nash scowled at him but said nothing. Silver knew the judge was easily riled. Holden joined Silver before the Bench. Silver thought he caught a quick exchange of nods passing between his opponent and the Judge.
“Ah, Mr. Holden, welcome to our little debate.”
Holden turned to Silver. “We both know that the one thing that Trauma Court Live! isn’t about is the truth, Doug, or even the law, come to that. If we’re unable to achieve decent ratings, you and I will soon be back at our desks, struggling to make a living doing fast track claims and no doubt dying of boredom in the process.”
“So, you were in on this, too?” Silver said, half-shaking his head in amazement. Holden looked to Nash, who was now waving away the makeup girl.
“Of course,” Nash said, “it does put the considerations of our viewers somewhat ahead of those of your respective clients. But I am confident that with my impeccable judicial impartiality, I can more than adequately compensate for that. A minor procedural change here, a technical tweak there. No real harm done, and all in the name of good television.” Nash offered an arch smile.
Holden nodded his agreement. Silver shot him a disdainful look, which he ignored.
“Everyone back in position!”
The Studio Director’s voice once more filled the Court. Members of the studio audience were returning to their seats, several of them still eating their Trauma Donuts. Overfilled with sweet, dark-red jam, which squirted out with each bite taken, the donuts were a top-selling line within all the big supermarket chains.
Silver and Holden returned to their designated positions. The technicians checked their headsets were properly calibrated and positioned for the resumption of the simulation.
“Please remember, gentlemen,” Nash said, his voice coming through loud and clear into Silver’s headset, “while you are both excellent lawyers, first and foremost, our purpose is to entertain.”
Silver had no time to respond, as the studio audience once more broke into energetic applause.
“Welcome back to Trauma Court Live!” the announcer’s voice boomed. “You rejoin us, as we return to the tragic events of a crisp February morning last year on SuperToll 4, when tragedy was only a split-second away. To steer you through, here is Mr. Justice Nash, Trauma Court Judge supreme!”
Staring grimly into the nearest camera, Nash intoned the words, “Gentleman, prepare for resumed simulation. Studio, please commence playback.”
Silver took a deep breath and closed his eyes, as the customary nausea briefly came and went.
When he opened them again, he felt the familiar disorientation that always reminded him of waking from a heavy dream, except that here, it was reality that was being left behind. He was back at the wheel of his client’s Mercedes, the world around him still a frozen tableau. Then he was jolted violently out of his seat, as the short acclimatisation delay ended and his car surged on toward the inevitable collision with the Toyota.
The front of the Mercedes crumpled, as it ploughed into the hatchback. The dashboard was forced forward into Silver’s chest and stomach, inflicting massive internal injuries. The windscreen caved in and the force of the impact caused his seatbelt to shatter his collarbone. If asked, Silver would have been able to describe his client’s medical history in the minutest of detail, having exhaustively studied the claimant’s medical records.
The studio’s medical staff kept a close eye on the vital function monitors, logging the pain and suffering levels of both lawyers. Silver’s intensive trauma training ensured that, while he was experiencing the pain of each injury he sustained – as required by the rules – he must remain fully conscious and be able to think lucidly.
The two cars were now enmeshed as a single, crumpled mass of tangled metal, as they whirled out of control across the eight lanes of SuperToll 4. Other vehicles swerved to avoid them. Behind both cars, a huge, articulated supermarket lorry had braked too heavily, and was already jack-knifing across the SuperToll. The rear of the lorry’s container swung violently around and into both vehicles, catapulting them forward. The Toyota was sent spinning crazily out of control, glancing off several more vehicles, then smashing into the central reservation, which finally broke its progress, leaving it straddling two lanes. The Mercedes went spinning toward the embankment at the side of the SuperToll and up a grassy incline, where it finally lost momentum, only to roll back down sideways onto its roof, before righting itself again, and finally coming to rest on the hard shoulder.
As he was thrown about inside the car, Silver’s right arm sustained compound fractures in three places. By the time the car was at last stationary, he had also received another skull fracture and yet more internal injuries.
Now, as he hung suspended upside down by his seat belt, gritting his teeth against the pain and struggling to stay conscious, he waited for the program to end.
Amid the surrounding carnage, Silver began going over his confrontation with Nash, a welcome distraction amid the intense, all-pervading pain. He was beginning to wonder if perhaps it was time to move on from Trauma Court Live! Despite his intensive training, it was becoming an ever-increasing effort to deal with the unrelenting strain of experiencing crash after crash.
The accident sequence finally over, the pain feedback connections would shortly cut out, leaving him still physically able to make his closing submissions, after exiting the simulation. Nash would then invite the studio audience and viewers to offer their verdicts, before giving judgment himself.
Yet, for some reason, the terrible pain from his injuries refused to abate. Silver became aware of an overwhelming stench of petrol. He couldn’t remember seeing anything about a petrol spill in the accident scenario script. He briefly wondered whether it was yet another atmospheric embellishment approved by Nash.
Whupp!
Silver knew the sound of petrol igniting all too well.
In his rear-view mirror, he glimpsed flickering flames starting to rise from the rear of the car.
The Mercedes was not supposed to catch fire. That, too, was definitely not part of the program.
“Studio! What’s going on?” he shouted into his microphone.
He reached up with his good arm to try to release his seatbelt, fumbling with the catch, but it wouldn’t give.
He attempted to push against the driver’s door with his shattered arm, only to be met with a vicious burst of
pain. The door wouldn’t budge.
The petrol tank exploded and a cloak of fire engulfed the wrecked Mercedes, blowing out the back window and rocking the car with the force of the explosion.
Now, in addition to the pain from his crash injuries, Silver also had to contend with the intense heat of the flames.
He was trapped.
His thoughts were racing. Something bad had happened to the program, a malfunction, surely.
The technicians should have aborted the sequence by now, following the emergency protocol that they had rehearsed so many times before.
Thick, acrid black smoke was rapidly filling the overturned car.
“Studio! Get me out of here!”
There was no response.
Couldn’t they hear him?
He began choking on the thick smoke, as it poured into the car. His hair was beginning to singe.
“Immediate program override! NOW!” Silver shouted. Still, no response.
The inferno was almost upon him, flames licking the back of his seat. The heat was unbearable.
Finally, he heard Nash’s voice through his headset. Silver was instantly relieved, until he realised the Judge was addressing the show’s viewers, not him.
“Yes, ladies and gentlemen, this is quite unusual. Our technicians are working as I speak, on what appears to be a software error.”
“For the love of God, Judge, shut this thing down!” Silver screamed with one final effort.
“I can also assure all our viewers that the Trauma Medical Team is doing all it can to keep Mr. Silver from harm’s way,” the judge continued.
Silver felt the last of his strength ebbing away.
This was it. The End. Death by way of runaway computer simulation, on prime-time television.
His eyes started to close.
A final consoling thought struck him, that the last moments of his life would be downloaded and replayed for years to come by fans of the show, and probably millions of others.
A sudden movement jolted him back to semi consciousness. With a loud rasp of metal, the driver’s door gave way. As the door fell open, a draft of fresh, life-giving air rushed in. A moment later, someone grabbed hold of him, released the seat belt, and was dragging him clear of the burning car. Then, he was being slung over someone’s broad shoulders and carried over to the embankment, where he was gently deposited onto the soft, cool grass.
Silver looked up and saw Holden’s face.
Despite the pain, a disturbing realisation had begun to set in. In his mind’s eye, Silver could see the tableau of him lying on the grass, apparently gravely injured, while the younger man who had rescued him knelt beside him, the epitome of professional concern.
It was perfect television. Too perfect.
“You planned this!” Silver managed to groan through his gritted teeth. The pain was beyond limits. “You and Nash.”
Holden’s only response was to grin even wider than he had earlier.
At that moment, the Mercedes exploded in a massive ball of flame, showering molten fragments everywhere.
Silver gave in to the pain and finally allowed himself to pass out.
***
“Clear!”
Silver’s eyes flashed open, as liquid lightning shot through his body. There was dazzling brightness, almost forcing Silver to close his eyes again. He felt as if he was floating upward. Was he dead? Or was this just another stunt, some bizarre, studio-manufactured heaven?
As his eyes adjusted, Silver saw the white outfits of the studio medics. He was lying down, staring up at the banks of studio lights mounted on the Court’s wood-panelled ceiling.
Turning his head the other way side, he saw the paddles being replaced on the defibrillator that had been used to shock his heart back into its normal rhythm.
Holden’s face came into view again, close to his own face. Too close. That grin again. Except this was reality.
“Great performance, Doug,” he whispered. “Nash was right. Having you almost burn up like that in the car, with me coming to your rescue, was truly inspired! Wouldn’t you agree?”
Silver tried to speak, but his mouth would not work. Instead, spittle drooled out onto the stretcher.
Holden leaned over and wiped Silver’s mouth with his white silk handkerchief. Silver was sure that all this too was being transmitted – minus audio, of course – but there was nothing he could do about it.
“Bastard!” With every effort, he managed to get the single word out, although he doubted that anyone but Holden had heard him.
“Only thing is,” Holden continued, unfazed by the insult, “for some reason, the pain overrides didn’t kick in quite as they were supposed to. So you see, your nervous system went into overload and your ageing heart just couldn’t take it. And guess what? Now, your brain keeps telling the rest of your body that it’s all fired up.”
As the medics lifted his stretcher and began to wheel it out of the Court, Silver heard Nash’s voice. “And so, after the dramatic turn of events in tonight’s show, we all bid a fond farewell to Trauma Court’s very own Pain Man, Mr. Doug Silver, and welcome in his place, as our new resident Trauma Defence Counsel, the ever-popular Peter Holden!”
“That’s right, Holden said,” seeing Silver’s eyes grow wide with surprise. “Say goodbye to the celebrity life, Doug.”
Then Holden was gone. Despite his pain, Silver knew that the young lawyer was basking in every moment of his triumphant, networked glory.
Silver was aware of the wheels of the stretcher squeaking loudly, as they were pushed over the uneven polished floors of the Court’s labyrinthine corridors. The medics carried his stretcher down the steps into the vast, vaulted entrance hall of the Courts. Small groups of court-users had gathered before each of the several large plasma screens, which had been spaced at regular intervals along the length of the huge hall. Silver heard Nash’s voice reverberating through the cavernous hall, as he was wheeled past each screen.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I confirm we’ll keep you updated as to Doug Silver’s condition, as soon as we have more information. I can tell you now that he was a fine lawyer, one of the best, and we shall all miss him.”
Silver’s stretcher was carried through the heavy wooden entrance doors and out into the chill autumn night air. As he was lifted down the last few steps and on toward the waiting ambulance, he winced, as dozens of invisible burning needles seemed suddenly to pierce his face as they fell down from the sky. He almost cried out, but realised that the source of the pain was nothing more than fine, icy rain making contact with his over-sensitised body. He tried to laugh, but instead, only a short, piercing scream emerged from his lips.
His brain may have been well and truly scrambled by the program, but it was only temporary and would pass. At least that’s what he kept telling himself. A blitz of camera flashes went off, as journalists and onlookers closed in on the stretcher, the medics battling to push their way through.
Despite the pain it caused, Silver welcomed the rain. At least, he thought, it was definitely the real thing.
As the stretcher was lifted into the ambulance and its doors were closed behind him, Silver smiled and surrendered to unconsciousness once more.
Keeping Your Head Up
by Sean Jeffery
This hurts more than anything I've ever known. I think I've swallowed my tongue. A coppery taste. Vague shapes around me, voices far off in the distance.
Playing football at my age is a bad idea, I suppose. Sitting at a desk all week and then running around like I'm still a teenager for one hour on the weekend.
The shapes are fading...
There's a point of light far off in the distance. Getting bigger, closer. Now, I can see somebody standing there. The pain is drifting away from me. Don't know if I'm breathing.
The figure is a hazy green.
“It isn't time yet.”
The voice stirs a distant memory.
Then, I black out and come to in the past.
<
br /> “Come on! Stop prating around!”
I ignored my brother and carried on, juggling the ball for a few more minutes. Head to right knee, right knee to left foot, flick the ball backward, and hit it with the full force of my right foot.
“You didn't have to hit it that hard, you idiot.” David glared at me and sauntered off behind the goal for the ball. He puffed and panted back, and walked over to me, punching me in the shoulder. “You’re in now, squirt – that's five.”
I made my way over as slowly as possible. If only my friends were any good at football.
I was still turning round, when the ball whistled past my ear. “Hey! That’s not fair!”
“Tough. That'll teach you for being so good, you little Kevin Keegan!”
I smirked at his half-hearted compliment, as I ran for the ball before it reached the road. Just as I got to it, I heard a voice.
“He's right, you know.”
I looked up to see a gangly teenager in a tattered, green, goalkeeper’s shirt.
“W-what?”
“You’re a good striker.” Was that the threat of violence or humour in his deepset eyes?
I stepped back, my breath caught in my throat.
“Probably as good as Keegan, at your age.” He was wearing a huge pair of shorts and football boots that had seen better days. His dinner-plate hands were definitely a goalie’s. “Let's see what you’ve got, eh?” He picked up the ball with one hand and walked over to our goal, bouncing it as if preparing for a massive Pat Jennings’ clearance.
“Who the hell’re you?” David said.
“My name's Bob. Mind if I join in?”
David shrugged, but he eyed Bob suspiciously.
The keeper tossed the ball in the air and kicked it. Actually, the word “kick” doesn't do it justice. He hit it with the force of Darth Vader’s light sabre, cutting through Obi-Wan Kanobi. “I could do with the practice.”
Eyes wide open in disbelief, as the ball soared back down to his feet, David murmured, Cool,” and passed to me.
Despite my best efforts, if we'd have been playing “five and in,” Bob would have stayed “in” permanently.
Spinetinglers Anthology 2008 Page 19