Utopia: A Dark Thriller: Complete Edition

by Adam Steel

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Ellie said, shaking the paper hard.

  Bridget took hold of her arm firmly.

  ‘Look Ell. You’ve been under considerable stress, and the shock of seeing Irene and Aunty Audrey like that. Added to that, Jon Li tells me you have been on medication most of the time. The minds a funny thing you know. Shock, lack of sleep, drugs…sometimes it fills in gaps that aren’t really there. What, with everything, you simply must have remembered it all wrong. You’re confused. Understandably.’

  Ellie looked into Bridget’s face and saw that it was full of concern.

  She put the paper back on the stand.

  ‘I’m sorry Bridget. You might be right…but…I can’t remember everything…I don’t want to make you feel worse,’ she apologised.

  ‘That’s sorted then,’ Bridget said hopefully, and put her arm through Ellie’s.

  Ellie knew there was no point pushing the subject with Bridget any further. She would wait until she got back to Coney City to resolve her doubts.

  They walked off in the direction of another one of the domes. After a while they took a side turn and entered a small dome which was almost empty. Growing inside of the dome were rows and rows of tall vines bearing delicious looking fruits of all kinds. Ellie and Bridget wandered through the rows until they reached a bench where they sat down and admired the wonders of the dome. Ellie started up a conversation with some apprehension. She didn’t want to go back to a scene like the one at the news stand.

  ‘Bridge. The last time I saw Irene she was trying to find out what had happened to one of her clients. His name was Nicholas Oggwell. I wanted to look into it for her to take her mind off it, but I got so bogged down with work, that I didn’t really get around to it, and now I feel like I’m letting her down. I feel I owe it to her to find out what happened to him.’

  ‘If it makes you feel better. Can’t hurt,’ Bridget replied and shrugged.

  ‘Yes…I guess…Irene told me that he had been transferred to Blair Ridge for treatment and I wonder if you remember him coming in? It would have been very recently,’ Ellie said, and waited for a response.

  Bridget looked as though she was thinking hard about the question.

  ‘I was going to tell you, but with all this going on I didn’t think it was important. I don’t work in the admissions department any more. I was hardly there five minutes when the changes started. I’m glad too, because although the job was great, I hated that sleazy, Professor Victor Archer. You know, the one I told you about that day on the Plaza,’ Bridget made a screwed up face whilst thinking of Professor Victor Archer.

  ‘Oh Yes. The plague man,’ Ellie added.

  She was thinking about the cringing, Victor Archer, who had hidden like a coward when the incident at Genie had taken place.

  ‘Yes…That’s him. Anyway. As I was saying. I had only been there a little while when everything changed. A new management system came in and Professor Victor Archer was in charge of it. He and his team now take care of all of the new admissions for treatment. A lot of us got transferred to other departments. We all got this letter from Mason Batide.’

  ‘A letter. What was it about?’ Ellie quizzed.

  ‘The letter was about a salary increase. Everyone who got moved got a salary increase: a good one…and we got reassigned to other jobs. It was really a surprise: a nice one. But now – I don’t know who comes into that place and I don’t know anyone who does either. So this guy if he did come in recently, then it would be impossible to find out. That part of Blair Ridge has changed since the professor took over. He’s running it now,’ Bridget explained.

  ‘I see,’ Ellie replied.

  ‘I’m sorry I can’t help - but does it really matter now?’

  ‘It mattered to Irene, but I guess it’s all history now,’ Ellie said.

  Bridget looked puzzled.

  ‘That medication has really screwed up your thought processes Ell. Maybe you were right not to want to take any more.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Ellie said dismissively, and added, ‘Forget about it. Come on, let’s go and have a good look around Eden.’

  While they walked, Ellie was thinking to herself. A lot of things just don’t seem to add up. I know I’m not imagining things, but it’s useless to talk any further with Bridget. An idea gnawed at her brain. Eric might be onto something, he tried to warn me about them, and it’s got something to do with the man Irene had left with: something to do with dark glasses. What if he’s not mad. What if he’s right? She struggled to think about the last message that Irene had left. She had deleted it without thinking.

  “I’ve found something out about the case of Nicholas Oggwell. I need your help. Meet me at the glasshouse at 9. It's important!” Irene had said.

  Irene’s voice had sounded stressed, but Ellie had not really thought much of it at the time.

  Now she did.

  Chapter 21: All that Glitters is not Gold

  Jon Li’s Penthouse: Sector 1

  Monday 23rd July

  By the time Monday morning came around, Ellie had decided what she was going to do. Her feelings of anger had overtaken her grief and some of the fear that niggled constantly in the back of her mind. The trip to Eden City had only served to fuel her suspicions further and she felt that there was no one that she could confide in, not even Jon Li.

  Jon Li had said that it would do her good to go back to work. Take her mind off things. She had agreed with him, as she got ready to leave for work that day, but she was thinking that nothing would take her mind off what had happened to Irene. He seemed relieved that she was going back to work. She let him believe the illusion that she was feeling ‘better’.

  He had been dropping hints about going to a conference in Eden City later that week for a board meeting. He seemed reluctant to leave her alone. She encouraged him to go. She needed to think, and he was a distraction. She was determined to find out for herself the truth about Irene’s murder. The story in the Daily Utopic about the Slash-Knife-Killer simply did not make any sense. She had argued with him over conspiring with Bridget to keep the story in the newspaper from her, but she found it hard to be angry with him, when she knew he was only trying to protect her from the awful details of the story. She had a creeping suspicion that the anomalies of Nicholas Oggwell’s case and Irene’s murder, were somehow connected. Everything seemed so incredulous and confused and she thought that perhaps Bridget was right, when she had said:

  “It was all those pills making you confused. You must be imagining things.”

  Her mind was a vortex of disconnected pieces of information, to the point where she doubted her own memories to be true.

  Ellie left the penthouse and made her way down to the lobby. Mr Baginski was reading a copy of the Daily Utopic behind his desk in the lobby of their apartment block. His radio was playing an ancient song. The lyrics were saying something about enjoying life before it was too late.

  Mr Baginski peered over the top of his paper.

  The headlines of the paper screamed out at her:

  THE SLASHER STRIKES AGAIN

  ARTIST STABBED TO DEATH

  IN SECTOR ONE

  Ellie gasped. Here. Right here in Sector One. Underneath the gory headlines was a picture of a very pretty young woman. Her pale blue eyes looked innocently out from the paper. She was smiling. Ellie almost turned to go back to the pent house when Mr Baginski slapped the paper down on his desk and jabbing at the headlines with a grubby finger he said firmly.

  ‘All this crap here about this Knife-Slasher serial killer stuff. It’s bad for business. People will leave the city and bugger off up to Eden. It’ll be like a bloody exodus. At this rate Coney will be empty and where will that leave me? Jobless,’ he moaned.

  Ellie looked at him in disbelief. He was only concerned about his job. Not the poor victim (who days earlier) had been enjoying her life as an Artist.

  Mr Baginski caught her disapproving look.

  ‘Sorry Doc. Forgot it wa
s one of your co-workers that bought it by this maniac,’ he said in a falsely apologetic manner.

  ‘Irene. Her name was Irene Sharpe,’ Ellie retorted sharply. And she wasn’t stabbed to death, she thought defiantly.

  He looked down at the paper to avoid her harsh stare, and mumbled something unintelligible.

  Arsehole reformer, Ellie thought.

  The sun had been streaming through the glass doors of the lobby and the hall-way was hot. Mr Baginski was sweating profusely and soggy patches of sweat stained his shirt under each armpit. His face was shiny with grease. Ellie was thinking about just how much she disliked him as she turned to go out of the doors when Mr Jenkins almost knocked her over in the lobby in his haste to get inside. Mr Jenkins lived in the apartment below Jon Li’s penthouse. Ellie had spoken to him several times on her way out to work. He had had the dubious pleasure of meeting her best friend Irene.

  Ellie remembered it well.

  She and Irene, were out together having lunch in Diamond Square when Mr Jenkins happened to walk past. Irene had hijacked him and practically forced him to join them for a drink. Afterwards, she had questioned Ellie about how rich Mr Jenkins was before deciding that he was too old for her. Mr Jenkins still talked of the meeting, even to that day. Irene had obviously left an impression on him. Ellie was not sure what kind of impression, but she had tried to play it down.

  Mr Jenkins had his hat pulled down over his face. He was wearing sunglasses that didn’t adjust to the changing brightness in time for him to avoid colliding with her. The pile of papers he was carrying catapulted out of his arms and slid across the tiled floor. Ellie spun round and knocked her shoulder against the lobby wall. Her bag was knocked to the floor.

  ‘Oh…I’m so sorry my dear,’ he said, steadying her arm.

  She must have looked like a startled bird, because he was apologising profusely. He removed his hat and glasses and wiped his brow.

  ‘The sun…It was so bright…so hot this morning. I didn’t see you,’ he said.

  ‘We’re having a bit of a heat wave this summer,’ he added.

  Mr Baginski was watching them as they crouched to the floor to gather up the newspapers and she found herself apologising as well.

  ‘It’s okay Mr Jenkins. I wasn’t looking where I was going either. I’m fine really!’ which of course, was not true at all, but he looked so sincere she felt the need to be kind.

  She kicked herself mentally for using the ‘fine’ word again. For a very brief moment they were at eye level on the floor. She looked at him, and he looked right back into her eyes. She had the fleeting idea that he knew what she was thinking about. The chorus line of song that was playing on Mr Baginski’s radio bleated out lyrics about it being later than you think.

  Ellie picked up one of the newspapers. The latest victim of the Slash-Knife Killer – Cherry Hammond, smiled back at her.

  Mr Jenkins took the paper out of her hand and said, ‘I was so sorry to hear about your friend. I read about her in the Daily Utopic. Dreadful business…this serial killer. Terrible thing to happen here, and to such a lovely person.’

  He looked very embarrassed.

  Ellie nodded her head. To speak would have meant that she would have given away her true feelings. Irene. Her dearest friend: her confidant: her understanding work colleague. Gone. Dead. Murdered. The pain of her death was tearing at her heart. She wanted to be the little girl who sat in her dad’s shed, eating sandwiches, and he would tell her that everything going to be okay my little missy. But, she thought it wasn’t okay and it would never be okay again.

  Mr Jenkins looked at the expression on her face and took her silent nod as one of sadness at the loss of her friend and the horror of the story in the newspapers, but nothing more than that. He seemed embarrassed for bringing the subject up, but she understood that he was merely trying to be polite. They got up from the floor having gathered up all of his papers.

  Mr Baginski piped up again in his Polish accent.

  ‘I was only saying about the paper. I don’t write the news you know. It’s not my fault.’

  Mr Jenkins sent him a glancing stare and Ellie could sense the argument that was about to develop between them. Mr Jenkins disliked Baginski. He had told her in confidence once that he believed that Baginski was still up to his old tricks, reformer or not. She hadn’t asked what he meant by ‘old tricks’. She didn’t really want to know the facts.

  ‘Mind your language Baginski. Can’t you see you’re upsetting Dr Rutherford?’ Mr Jenkins said defensively.

  ‘Sorrrree,’ Baginski muttered rudely.

  He stuck his head back in his paper and started munching his way through a packet of stale crisps and Ellie could have sworn that she heard Mr Baginski whisper, “go get fucked.”

  It was exactly the kind of situation Ellie tried to avoid.

  ‘I’m sorry Mr Jenkins, but I have to get to work. I’m going to be late if I don’t get going,’ she said.

  ‘Of course, my dear. You take care now…do you hear?’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, dusting off her bag.

  Mr Jenkins hurried past Mr Baginski nodding his head in a disapproving manner and muttering something to himself and Ellie left through the double-doors. She stepped out into the brilliant morning sunshine and it was so bright that it dazzled her. It seemed to her that the centre of Utopia was made of glass, like one huge glitter ball: a glittering city of gold, silver and glass.

  Ellie walked quickly to the station where she boarded the monorail on the usual route to Plastic Paradise. Within a short time she found herself outside of the hospital in a surreal state of mind. It was as though someone else had boarded the train in her shoes and that she was acting out a scene in a play rather than being fully conscious in her own body. She tried to rationalise that it must have been partly due to the effects of a week’s worth of medication.

  She made her way quickly up to her floor. The reception area was quiet. On the way past the tropical fish tank, she noticed one large, lonely, angel fish staring out on the world with evil eyes. Edie, the receptionist was telling her that she would not be needed in theatre for some weeks and no new clients had been booked – to give her time to adjust. Ellie was not listening.

  She managed a weak smile and a polite but insincere “thank you,” then collected the files from the in tray, and went straight to her private consulting room.

  Ellie sat down in her office. She felt deflated and lost. She didn’t have a clue where to start to find the answers. Everything was spinning around in her head. It seemed to her like some giant jigsaw puzzle that needed assembling to get the whole picture.

  There was a stack of files piled high on her desk which had been left for her attention. She picked the whole lot up, opened the empty bottom drawer of her desk, and dropped the whole lot in, slamming it shut. It felt so insignificant now compared to her new task: to get to the bottom of Irene’s death.

  Ellie hurried out past the reception and into the lift. The doors opened again on the ground floor where the mortuary was housed. Within minutes, she could smell the same familiar stench that she had experienced only a short time ago (when she had been looking at the body of Mrs Drake).

  The Mortuary was empty. All of the trolleys were also empty. Not a green sheet in sight. Mr Mackenzie was inside the inner mortuary attending to F.R.E.D. She could hear him talking to himself and clattering around with the equipment. The warning light above the doors that indicated whether it was safe to enter the inner mortuary were showing blue:

  SAFE TO ENTER

  She took a deep breath in and straightened up confidently. Inside she was in shreds.

  Mr Mackenzie had his back to her when she opened the swing doors and gently stepped into the room. They closed without alerting him to her presence.

  The floor hummed very softly like a purring cat.

  He was lovingly cleaning one of the robotic arms which were attached to the top of F.R.E.D. The mechanical arm was bending over as thoug
h being groomed for pleasure. It looked like a giant praying mantis made entirely from silver metal. The mandibles had been replaced by piercing pincers of steel. It’s huge round eyes by red lights that winked and blinked, as Mr McKenzie polished them. He moved it around silently adjusting its position and its bright red eyes followed her around the room. Ellie thought that it resembled a grotesque, mechanical insect, sitting on top of F.R.E.D: one that prayed on the leftovers of F.R.E.D for its pleasure. She shivered at the idea of her closest friend being the victim of a machine like F.R.E.D.

  ‘Uh hum…’ Ellie coughed.

  Mr Mackenzie turned around abruptly. He looked startled.

  ‘What are you doing down here, Doctor? It’s by appointment only you know. I can’t have anyone just walking in and out when they feel like it. It’s not protocol,’ he said harshly.

  ‘I’m sorry to interrupt you but there is some important information that I need to add to my files,’ Ellie lied, badly.

  He was standing next to F.R.E.D, and he looked angry. The door of the capsule was open and Ellie could see inside of the machine. Mr Mackenzie put a hand on F.R.E.D, as though to protect it from her inquiring eyes.

  ‘Well. What is it? You can see I’m busy, I’ve had a lot to do you know. Calibrations and such like,’ he snapped.

  ‘So I gather. I require the autopsy report on Irene Sharpe,’ Ellie said, and although the words came out of her mouth, it sounded like someone else was asking the question.

  Mr Mackenzie started huffing and puffing like he always did when he was rushed.

  ‘You must be the twentieth person to want to see that report. I’m just glad it wasn’t me that did it. TALOS took that one over, because of the nature of the death. All I get is the backlash of having to provide a reporting service for people like you,’ he said, as he tapped away on the keypad embedded on the side of F.R.E.D.

  ‘Damned reporters wanting stories on that Slash-Knife fiasco has interrupted the smooth running of the system. I hate it when things don’t run smoothly,’ he barked.