Reviver: A Novel

by Seth Patrick

  He finished securing the connector to the camera, took a careful step back from it and looked again at the subject. Nikki Wood’s body lay against the front edge of a light beige sofa. She lay as the paramedics had left her: on her back, her arms limp at her sides, her pyjama top pulled open. Her eyes were closed. The side of her head on the pale carpet lay in a small patch of dark blood.

  She had been dead for seven hours now. Rigor mortis would be creeping in already, but revival was not always affected by early rigor; the forces involved were strong enough to stretch the muscle fibres that rigor had contracted, while leaving the muscle structure intact. Once rigor was too far advanced, this pulling would cause damage to the tissues severe enough to risk the continuation of vocal revivals, damage that would complicate the pathologist’s job even more than normal. The choice was either to wait until it began to subside, possibly another twelve hours or more, or use a series of enzyme injections aimed at freeing up the muscle.

  Neither option was ideal. A long delay would reduce revival chances and required the corpse to be kept cool to minimize degradation, either with use of an onsite cooling system, or relocation of the body – which again made revival harder. The enzyme alternative was a pathologist’s worst-case scenario. Jonah’s kit contained the enzymes, and he could overrule pathology concerns – making the ultimate decision to use it his – but it always led to friction with the pathology liaison. The liaison on this case was Sally Griggs from the North East office; as no issues had arisen yet, she was handling it by phone, but Never could imagine the dialogue that would result if Jonah had to call her to clear enzyme use. It wouldn’t be pretty.

  Movement to Never’s side, and a subtle cough, snapped him from his thoughts. Time was pressing.

  ‘I’ll see if that’s sorted it,’ Never said, walking to the living room door. ‘Then I’ll run the final checks.’

  ‘How long?’ asked Johnson.

  ‘Not long. Better go and get Jonah and your boss.’ As he spoke, a crime scene officer walked past the doorway, and Never glared at his back. ‘Aren’t they supposed to be out of here? We don’t want intrusions.’

  Johnson nodded. ‘I’ll get the house cleared of everyone except those attending.’

  ‘So who else’ll be here?’

  Johnson smiled ruefully. ‘That’s up to Bob. Pretty much everyone wants to observe. I think we could sell tickets for this one.’

  Johnson left, and Never returned to the other room to see if the signal problem had been resolved. As he looked at the image of Nikki Wood’s corpse, he thought of Jonah and found himself growing anxious for his friend. He knew the questioning would not be easy. But at least the initial revival should, he thought, be a simple one.

  But how could it be? How could it ever be simple to bring back a child?

  * * *

  Barely two minutes had passed when Nala George returned to the tent. Jonah felt his meds settle, the dizziness short-lived this time, and mild.

  Wordless, he looked the question at her, and she nodded: the parents had agreed. He stood and followed her out.

  He squinted coming out of the shade. The sun seemed relentless, the skin on his face tender and sensitive to the harsh light, another BPV side effect. The heat was immediate, and for a moment he wished he’d done the same as Bob Crenner and taken his shirt off under the suit. But he rejected the idea at once – he felt exposed enough as it was during a revival.

  They reached the tape marking the inner limit of the exclusion area. The onlookers were thinner on this side, the side on which the cul-de-sac lay; most of the gawkers on the other side presumably came from nearby streets. They ducked under the tape, and a uniformed cop moved one of the metal barriers, letting them pass.

  Nala spoke, her voice low, ‘Julie and Graham,’ she said. ‘They’re staying with their friend Dawn Hannick. Number 30. Just ahead.’

  Five doors down from the Woods’ home, a lone female cop stood at the garden gate. She and Nala nodded at each other as they passed.

  Nala knocked at the front door, and it opened to a woman who looked exhausted.

  ‘Dawn,’ said Nala. Dawn Hannick said nothing, merely turned and walked inside. Nala and Jonah followed, Jonah closing the door behind him.

  Julie and Graham Wood were in the kitchen, sitting at a small table in one corner. They looked up – distraught, utterly adrift. Jonah had his doubts about their ability to understand what it was they were asking to do. He would have to rely on the victim liaison’s judgment, and keep a close eye on the parents during the revival if it proved possible to bring them in.

  Dawn Hannick walked over to the sink, busying herself. Wary and haggard, she seemed older than her friends, perhaps mid-sixties to their late forties, but at times like this age crept up on people.

  Attendance cases were often difficult, but also worthwhile – illustrating how it was not just money that drew revivers into the private revival industry. Helping bring justice to bear gave Jonah a feeling of usefulness and a deep satisfaction in his ability; it was common for forensic revivers to dismiss the work of private operators as less important. The reality was that there were far more deaths than those Jonah and his colleagues dealt with each year. The majority were unexpected. Most were devastating.

  Private revivals helped people deal with the aftermath. Yet standard private revival insurance could guarantee nothing, paying only for a chance of success. It was a simple problem of numbers; how many revivers there were, at what levels of ability, against how many deaths. Inevitably the best of the best were reserved for the rich. The cheapest insurance bought you revivers with success rates of 10 per cent for uncomplicated cases. In contrast, even the worst forensic revivers had to be D3 rated, with 85 per cent success for the same case category.

  There was certainly a steady trickle of defectors from forensic to private; for those revivers who had suffered all they could of vicious deaths, the appeal was obvious. Private revival work was easier in so many ways. Jonah didn’t share the disdain for it that many of his colleagues did, and could easily understand how people might be tempted by the better pay and working conditions of private revival, but he also understood that it wasn’t only the money, or the reduction in stress.

  More than once, he had considered swapping the satisfaction of justice for the satisfaction of helping the bereaved – what Eleanor Preston had regarded as her calling. Sometimes, though, he could do both.

  Nala walked over to the Woods and sat at the table. The couple were red-eyed and horribly gaunt, as though the trauma of their daughter’s death had physically eaten away at them. Julie Wood was wearing a dressing gown over a nightshirt, sandals on her feet; Graham an old tee shirt, jogging pants, trainers.

  Jonah remained standing, knowing he had to avoid contaminating his protective clothing. He stood beside Nala, feeling awkward.

  ‘This is the reviver. His name’s Jonah.’ Nala’s voice was gentle and supportive. Julie Wood replied first, addressing her response directly to Jonah.

  ‘Thank you. For letting us speak with our daughter. We just want to say good-bye.’ Her voice was flat, defeated. Graham Wood nodded silently, blank and lost.

  Jonah crouched down to make them feel more at ease. ‘I’ll question Nikki first. You’ll be outside for that. The duration of a revival is difficult to know, but if we complete questioning and I think Nikki can cope with it, I’ll send for you. Be quick, but be careful. Mind your step. I’ll be passing on what you want to ask – Nikki won’t be able to hear you directly. You can either watch from the room next door or be in the living room with Nikki. Do you know which you’d rather do?’

  The couple shared a look and nodded to each other.

  ‘With her, please,’ said Julie Graham. She raised a tissue to her face and dried her eyes.

  ‘OK. We’ll suit you up, like me. Touch nothing, be careful of the equipment. Think about what you want to say. Keep it short and simple. When you’re done, tell her good night. They prefer good night to g
ood-bye. Leave when I tell you. Do you understand?’ They nodded. ‘I can’t emphasize enough, this will be difficult. If you feel you can’t do it, tell Nala at once, and don’t be ashamed to say it. Understand that there’s a significant chance we’ll not complete questioning before the revival ends. If I think that’s happening, I’ll give her a message from you, so think about what you—’

  Julie Wood interrupted, fresh tears flowing. ‘Tell her we love her.’

  Jonah nodded. It was always that. In the end, what else was there?

  6

  In one corner of the dining room, Never had set up his monitoring console. A laptop PC controlled everything; a second laptop beside it was there as a backup, and control could be switched to it instantly if necessary. Both machines showed the same display: a row of windows with the feed from each camera. In the central image, Nikki Wood’s face stared out at him, silent for now.

  The laptops were on a small portable table, while Never sat on a camping stool, one he’d found to be more comfortable than any chair he’d used over the years.

  ‘I like your seat,’ said Bob Crenner as he came in.

  Smiling, Never indicated one of the equipment bags he and Johnson had brought from the car. ‘There’s a spare if you want it.’

  ‘I’ll stand.’

  ‘Suit yourself. Detective Johnson suggested we’d have a crowd,’ Never said, looking around the conspicuously empty room.

  ‘What people want and what people get are two different things. We’re bare bones on this. Senior officer, revival co-ordination officer. Nobody else.’ That meant just Crenner and Johnson. ‘Unless Jonah gives the word for attendance. Have you heard?’

  He nodded. Jonah had put his head around the door briefly to let him know, and Never had been somewhat put out by the added complication. Still, he had no intention of letting Bob Crenner see that. ‘Yeah, shouldn’t be a problem.’ Usually it wasn’t, although Never always found himself tensing when relatives entered the scene. Particularly as they stepped over his cabling. Nobody had ever tripped, nobody had ever knocked over a camera, but he still fretted.

  After telling him about the parents’ attendance request, Jonah had left to psych himself up for the revival, and Never knew the routine. Jonah tended to get panicky about now, sometimes to the point of throwing up, even with his medication. A lot like stage fright, Never thought, and he supposed it served a purpose – emptying the stomach in advance, when it wouldn’t really matter.

  Detective Johnson entered a moment later. Jonah followed, pale and anxious.

  ‘How’re you doing?’ called Never.

  ‘Ready to go,’ Jonah said. ‘The parents are waiting with Nala George in the forensic tent outside.’

  Johnson was holding a radio in his hand. He waved it. ‘I’ll let her know if Jonah gives the go ahead.’

  ‘OK,’ said Crenner, then he turned to Jonah. ‘When you bring her back, we get her statement first. Standard stuff, then we’ll play it by ear. But there’s a complication…’

  Jonah nodded. ‘The abuse allegation? Ray mentioned it. He also said you don’t think there’s anything in it.’

  ‘No, but the question’s been raised and there’s enough to warrant taking it seriously. We’ll have to deal with it. Tread carefully.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Good luck, Jonah. You ready, Never?’

  ‘Few more seconds.’

  Jonah, Crenner and Johnson fell into silence, finding themselves looking at the screens on Never’s table, the face of the dead child looking back. The only sound was from Never’s fingers on his laptop keyboard, finishing his preparations. At last the sound stopped.

  ‘I’m all set,’ Never said.

  Jonah’s earpiece sat on Never’s table. Wordlessly, Jonah picked it up and left the room, closing the door behind him. A moment later, he was visible on the wide-angle shot of the living room as he entered. He closed that door too, stepped carefully to Nikki Wood’s body, and knelt.

  Thinking of her parents, he pulled the sides of her pyjama top together. Some of the buttons had been torn free when the paramedics had opened it, but there were enough left to hold it in place.

  His practised hands ran over her throat, palpating the flesh to determine the extent of rigor. It was present, but not yet a problem. He removed the glove from his right hand and put the earpiece in place, then looked at the camera ahead of him. The flow of adrenaline was stirring up nausea and panic. He took some long, steadying breaths until he had settled again.

  ‘Ready,’ he said. The red light on the camera went green. ‘Revival of subject Nikki Wood. J. P. Miller, duty reviver.’

  * * *

  Jonah shifted his weight. His left knee, on the carpet, had started to ache a little. He decided to change position. The right knee stayed where it was, the left leg came up onto the foot. It felt better; better able to respond.

  Better able to run.

  The realization triggered a sour smile. This was his first revival since Alice Decker. Perhaps it was natural.

  He had wondered aloud to the FRS counsellor how he would handle his next case, whether he would feel the same terror emerge in a difficult moment and disgrace himself by fleeing. Now, holding this dead girl’s hand, the time had come to find out. Part of him was trying to believe in the hallucinatory nature of the entity that had spoken to him through Alice Decker’s corpse; the rest of him was content with the thought that if it returned, Never would witness it. Scant comfort, maybe, but it seemed to be enough to let him get on with it.

  He relaxed, shifted his weight again.

  He began by watching the body, studying the face. There was so little injury visible, only the stain on the carpet under her head marking the damage. Her eyes were open, her expression blank. He looked at her hair, dark brown and cropped short.

  Hanging in the room were several family portraits. One was of the two parents together; another was of them with Nikki, their only child. And one was of Nikki, on her own in a school uniform, hair longer, broad smile and eyes full of life. He turned back to the dead eyes beside him. He had to find that life, wherever it was.

  He slowed his breathing and closed his eyes. The ambient noise from the room faded, as his awareness focused.

  What he did next felt simple enough, natural enough; but to talk of reaching for the dead in the air around you – or in some vast space beyond – begged questions of the nature of that space, the nature of that reach, and those questions had no answers. Ultimately there was only reaching, and bringing back.

  He sensed her. He braced, and felt himself shoot forward, pulled by the grasp that held him. He was within the corpse now, sensing every part of it; aware of the earliest signs of decay that had crept in since death, and of the tiny clotted lump in her brain that had eventually killed her. This was the first stage of any revival: the reversal. Feeling what damage was done that had led to their death; feeling the degradation that had followed. Getting close to them, a part of them, death surrounding him. And to get anywhere, he had to embrace it. He had to let it fill him, engulf him. And as they came back, in his mind the death and injury left them. The harder the case – the more damage, the more decay – the longer it would last, and the more severe it would be.

  In the darkness he stretched, somehow; turned over until he felt more at ease. He sensed the corpse as his own body now; as if he were dead, lying in its place on the carpet. The odour of death was slight, and it dissipated as the decay slowly reversed, the initial processes of degradation – the beginnings of rot – turning back, the muscles becoming fresh. He felt the clot disperse, tissues reconnecting. He felt the skin sealing around the wound.

  It had taken less than ten minutes, and the reversal was complete. He waited for the second stage to come: the surge.

  The surge was the moment before they came back to him – a flood of image, sound and emotion. It was as if they screamed their life at him. Out of his hands; all he could do was endure it, however extreme it became, kn
owing that if he threw up or pulled out, he might have to start the revival all over again.

  After one attempt at revival, time was critical. The reviver who’d made the attempt would be weakened and have less chance of success than before. A second attempt would have to be made within two hours, ideally with a different reviver. Any later, and it was as impossible as bringing someone back twice.

  Jonah was always scared of the surge, unsure what to expect. A reviver couldn’t know in advance how difficult it would be. So much depended on the subjects. They could show indignation. Surprise. Anger. Fear. The emotions around their death could magnify the surge in unpredictable ways. Something that he expected to be simple could overwhelm him, too much too fast, a gut-wrenching feeling of a ride he couldn’t afford to get off. And all the while, having to be ready to talk to the subject the instant it stopped.

  An image flashed: a bright sky from a summer long before. He tensed, waiting to see how the surge would go. Another image sparked, long grass in sand, a strong smell of the sea.

  And then it came in full and swamped him: pain, at first; anger there, but outweighed by the sorrow. Confusion, too. The surge grew, pictures and sounds and feelings, compressed and hurled at him. He felt his stomach lurch at the sense of speed, plunging down through the child’s mind. Not so bad, he thought and hoped, not so bad this time, and he held on as it peaked and fell away.

  His realized he’d been holding his breath. He let it go, and breathed deeply.

  He opened his eyes to find himself kneeling over the unchanged corpse of Nikki Wood. It was done.

  ‘She’s here,’ he said to a camera. Nikki’s corpse inhaled quietly – none of the dramatics of Alice Decker’s revival, just a trace of mucosal sounds. Jonah sensed nothing else with her – no other presence. He grimaced and put the thought from his head. His work could proceed.