He did his best to recall what he could of the night before. He remembered enough to understand what had happened even though he lacked the details. More important, however, was his recollection of the plan. His plan extended beyond some gaping holes in his short term memory, and he remembered it with perfect clarity.
With little else to do, he took stock on what he could gauge of his health. His forearms and hands were heavily bandaged, but there was no pain despite the bandaging, until he tried to clench his fists. He felt fine. Better than fine really, but over the years he’d learnt to not offer superlatives, good or bad. He resented that others could describe themselves as feeling ‘great’, or ‘really bad’ and it would be treated as just part of the ebb and flow of life, but anyone with bipolar disorder knew to keep these thoughts to themselves. Experience had taught him that any hint of honesty on his part would always come back to haunt him, and he’d regret it.
Wriggling in the bed, he was alerted to the presence of a catheter. He closed his eyes to remind himself that being bed-bound for longer than just overnight was just part of the plan. He called out to anyone within earshot, “I’m awake now!” There was little more to do but manage his concern and wait.
The door to his room opened before too long and a cute woman entered sporting a non-committal smile. “Morning, sweetheart. I’m Mary and I’ll be your nurse for a while.” She sat next to the bed after struggling to adjust the pillow under Malcolm’s immobile shoulder.
The opaque glass in the solitary window beside his bed hinted no more than the fact that it was daylight outside. “I’d say good-morning, Mary, but sadly I’m not sure if that would be accurate.”
“Well, it isn’t morning. I’m on the afternoon shift.” Mary was relaxed as she spoke, but seemed more fixated on the door than Malcolm. “You’ve got a visitor outside who wants to speak to you.”
“Police?” he asked, though in reality he expected this the moment that he woke and became aware of his surroundings.
Mary nodded. “Are you ready for visitors?”
“You tell me.”
“You have the right to keep them waiting …”
“That’s not what I meant,” said Malcolm. The nurse had obviously presumed guilt based on the presence of police at the door. That he was in trouble for something wasn’t an extraordinary leap of faith, considering. “What am I on?”
“You’re not on truth serum if that’s what you’re asking!” she said with a laboured laugh. Malcolm sensed the tone in the nurse’s voice as she looked to gauge whether he was being unduly and unreasonably paranoid. “You’ve been asleep for a few days. There was too much of everything else in your bloodstream for us to give you anything! So no meds.”
Not perfect, but acceptable, Malcolm thought. “So my thoughts are my own?”
“I’m not the doctor, but you’ve had nothing since your admission.”
Malcolm believed the nurse. No doctor would have prescribed anything for him once the results of his blood tests were available. He’d made sure that as many drugs as possible were represented in his cocktail, though it did require a little research to concoct something that wasn’t lethal.
“And your visitor?”
“Just tell me what you know about me first.”
“Alright,” she began; a little hesitant. “You were admitted after having been singled out for erratic, but not violent behaviour. You had no identification on you.”
“So you don’t know who I am?”
“No, which is possibly at least part of the reason why the police are here. Then there’s the matter of the blood on you when you were admitted. Quite a lot of blood really, and while you had suffered some injuries,” she said, pointing to his bandages, “not all of it was yours.”
“Anything else?”
“No. And you haven’t had any medication.”
Perfect. Malcolm wriggled in his bed to get comfortable. “Of course, now that I’m awake there’s no legal reason why I should be restrained, right?”
“Unless there’s concern that the patient poses a threat to themselves, staff or anyone else.”
“Well, I’m not harming you or others, and I want them off. And we can lose the tubes too.”
Mary shrugged cautiously and set about removing the Velcro straps that were securing Malcolm’s chest, shoulders and forearms. “This isn’t your first hospital visit, is it?”
“I don’t think that’s significant in my immediate care,” Malcolm replied arrogantly. He watched as each of his bindings was loosened and then removed. “And I want to see the doctor before I see them,” he said, pointing toward the door with his newly freed arm.
The nurse nodded. “I’ll be back for the catheter.” She left the room carrying the restraints. She locked the door as soon as she was outside and Malcolm pictured her briefing the police with what she had learnt since he’d woken.
So far, so good.
Chapter - 5.
Glen led Devlin past the kitchen heading for the only door leading off a short corridor. “Look up and smile,” Glen said, pointing to the series of video cameras along the length of the hall.
They stopped at the door and Glen entered a code into a keypad while he used his body to obscure what he was doing. Devlin stood, fixated on the heavily reinforced door frame; the polished steel standing out clearly adjacent to the painted walls of the corridor. The door opened and with it came a wall of loud music.
Glen invited Devlin to enter. “We call this room the ‘bunker’, for obvious reasons,” he said at a shout above the noise.
Devlin nodded a greeting to two men and a woman, standing around a long hardwood polished table covered with five laptops, while waiting to be introduced. He surveyed the room, bathed in bright artificial light, noting the single door at one end and another bank of televisions on the opposite wall. The door sealed home behind them with a low vibration.
One of the three responded to a gesture by Glen and silenced the music. He was tall, wearing just jeans and an old t-shirt and young; Devlin guessed about twenty or so years old.
“This is Ikel,” Glen started the introductions. “Clearly, my staff have all heard the news. Though I would have thought that they were paid enough to not worry about such trivial matters?”
“I know, but it’s just so cool,” Ikel replied. “Actually, my name is Michael, but you might as well call me Ikel. I had a cold when Glen and I met, and he thought I said ‘Ikel’. I guess you had to be there, but the name stuck.”
Glen introduced the remaining pair. “And this is David and Lori.”
The woman smiled openly. She was probably average height, Devlin thought, with short cropped auburn hair, and wore torn, designer denim jeans and a t-shirt a size too small with ‘Get I.T. here!’ boldly written on the front. The t-shirt was marketing at its best as only on a second glance did Devlin even notice the corporate logo to the outside of each of her breasts. He tried his best not to stare, but the shirt was intended to be worn by women only and larger breasted women at that. “I’m Lori. It’s short for Loretta, which I hate, so I’d prefer ‘Lori’.”
David was the last to meet Devlin. “So you’re the fresh meat?” he mused. “I’m just kidding, it isn’t bad here,” he added, rubbing his eyes beneath his sun-glasses which made perfect sense in the glare of the room.
“You are on a plane that has just been taken over by terrorists,” Glen began after coaxing everyone to take a seat. “For arguments sake, these are decidedly nice terrorists who give all passengers a sheet of paper and a pencil. What do you write?”
Devlin resented being put on the spot. “I’m not the best person to ask. I guess others …”
“I’m not asking other people. I’m asking you,” Glen insisted.
“Do I know if the terrorists will deliver my message?”
“A great question, but you’re stalling. Assume ‘yes’, just answer.”
“OK,” Devlin conceded. “There’s nothing I’d want to say.”
Ikel spoke first. “Regrets.”
“Love notes and things left unsaid,” added Lori solemnly.
“Confessions. Pleas for absolution. Desperate attempts to make peace,” David contributed in turn.
Devlin wasn’t convinced. “OK. I’d still probably just enjoy the view from the plane,” he offered defiantly.
All eyes centred on Glen. “Lori, David, Ikel, I’d like you to meet Devlin Bennett. Facing death, he is possibly the only one in the world with nothing to say. He is also the same Devlin Bennett, recently released from remand, all but convicted of manslaughter, but acquitted, or really had the conviction effectively overturned on a technicality. All fairly remarkable notoriety of his own doing despite a famed family pedigree, but incarceration has, apparently, neither humbled nor hardened him.”
Devlin was still not used to being outed and feared the reaction of others, but the outing could have been worse. There were no gasps, sighs of recognition or looks of disapproval.
Glen took a deep but quiet breath. “Devlin, you’re welcome here and you are among people you can trust. Everyone has a past. Everyone here has a past. Lori was a prostitute, Ikel is a drug dealer and user, and David here used to be a Catholic priest. But that’s not why you’re each here.”
Glen settled himself. “It struck me once, some time ago as I sat late one night having a coffee on a warm summers’ night. Across the road, there was a woman having an argument with some man, presumably her boyfriend. As it grew heated, the woman became more and more scared. Eventually, he all but threw her into a taxi and off they went. Everyone returned to their mundane chatter and the night went on. She was later found, beaten to death.
“And this affects me, how?” Devlin asked.
“It doesn’t. My point is that I knew my life would have been a whole lot different had I spoken one timely word in that poor woman’s defence. I didn’t need to be a hero, and I didn’t need to make a difference to others. I only needed to make a difference for myself. I’m offering you the same opportunity.”
“I’m too cynical to want to make a difference,” said Devlin. “Sorry to disappoint.”
“Cynics and sceptics make better readers,” said Glen.
“What’s a reader?”
“It’s just a nickname for your role, the others here will explain.” Glen nodded to each of his charges and turned for the door. He left the room being sure to secure the door behind himself.
Chapter - 6.
As soon as Glen left the room, Ikel restored the stereo, but not to the same excessive volume as before. It was only then that Devlin became aware of the effect that Glen being in the room had on the others. “Do you always shrink into the background when Glen’s around and then burst to life when he’s gone?”
“He’s a good man,” Lori began. “I’ve been here for about six weeks, a little less than Ikel, and we’re still largely in awe. David’s been here for longer, but he’s only marginally more comfortable with him. Anyway, it’s time you got started.” She invited Devlin to sit beside her at one of the otherwise idle computers. “Formally, your role is ‘Media Analyst’, but we prefer the name reader. Glen’s a decidedly clever guy, and we figure he chose the title because it looks better on a résumé when we eventually move on.”
“Does it work? Has anyone who left actually kept in touch?” Devlin asked.
“Not to my knowledge,” replied Lori. “It’s a great job though and staff turnover is fairly low.”
“Turnover isn’t low, it’s just periodic. You just haven’t experienced anyone leaving yet,” David corrected, while remaining fixated on his computer screen. “People leave just as in any job, and no, I didn’t keep in touch with them.”
“So what do I do?” Devlin asked.
“Can you read?” David muttered.
“We do mainly read,” said Lori. “But there is a little more. Technically, no reading or manual intervention is really necessary because it’s all automated, but there’s a need for some degree of quality control.”
“You proof read people’s letters?”
“No, we don’t proof read, and legally we couldn’t make changes anyway. Especially since September 11, Glen was keen that LastGasp’ didn’t become the last bastion of fanatics and martyrs.”
“That’s very noble of him. Was this for Western sensibilities or to protect his brand?” Devlin offered, immediately appreciating that his comment was not well received.
“You haven’t known Glen for very long but I’m more than confident that you’ll come to like and admire him as we do.” David spoke maturely, drawing approving smiles from Lori and Ikel. “Until then, keep your bullshit thoughts on him to yourself.”
“Sorry to offend,” Devlin said unconvincingly.
Lori picked up from where she’d left off. “Anyway. Readers read the messages. We just read them. If something isn’t right we flag it and the system handles it. Nothing to it really.”
“So what stops us changing them?”
“There’s no means for us to edit them. The entire system really dances on a legal tightrope. If we could edit messages then we could conceivably be exposed to scrutiny about who actually composed the messages. Do you know anything about ‘libel’?” Lori asked, not waiting for an answer. “The messages can’t be sent until the user is confirmed to be dead, otherwise imagine what would happen with a message revealing a sordid past or some other secret that was too juicy to live with, but too good to die with. That’s why controls are in place to ensure they aren’t sent prematurely. Glen’s a genius really, in more ways than one.”
“So readers read every message?” Devlin asked. He struggled a little mental arithmetic before adding, “Just how many messages are there?”
“We can read all of them, but we generally don’t. The system automatically flags the ones which need a little human filtering and then a percentage for quality control. God only knows how many there are, but logically we only need to read them when they are added or changed. So volume varies; sometimes we’re pretty busy and sometimes substantially less so. We all read a lot more than we need to. Glen reads too.”
“I still think that Glen reads every message,” Ikel commented.
Lori smiled and explained. “Ikel has a theory that Glen reads every single message. We know he reads a lot, but we don’t think he’d do 100%.”
“He knows about every single one I’ve flagged and he doesn’t sleep so that would have to free up some time,” Ikel continued his case.
“So all you do is read?” Devlin asked, not interested in the distraction of Ikel’s theory.
“Yes, and no,” said Lori. “Yes, we mainly read messages and related research, unless there’s an issue making contact.”
“Make contact? Why?”
“Remember what LastGasp’ is all about. People write messages to be sent, typically as email, after they die, but sometimes it’s up to us to hand-deliver them. The purist might argue that there’s no point in going to that much effort, to send a message which is only effectively obligated to be sent by a, now, dead person. But Glen is a big believer in his obligations. Anyway, here’s how it all works.”
Devlin positioned himself so he could see Lori’s screen as she clicked and typed. It looked simple enough; select something, read it, then attribute it with a big green ‘tick’ icon, or any or many of a series of red ‘flags’. Clearly Lori held Glen in high regard and as far as she was concerned, Glen had thought of everything. She digressed into lengthy technical explanations until she saw his eyes glaze over and this forced her to reign in her language.
“The system isn’t airtight,” Lori pointed out. “To be airtight, you’d have to lock everyone out, but the reality is that anyone who wants to get in will get in if they are determined enough. Meanwhile, any and all access is
logged. What you read, how long it took you to read it, what you rubber-stamp or vet, and you absolutely can’t change anything.”
“Maybe I’m missing something, but I don’t get why this bunker is really necessary.”
“The security is just something that we all accept. It isn’t something to be challenged. On top of that, the most brilliant thing is that all users are basically anonymous, even to us readers, right up until we need to hand deliver a message, if hand delivery is absolutely necessary.”
“Why the big deal in anonymity?” Devlin insisted.
“How’s he coming along, Lori?” Glen enquired as he re-entered the room.
“I think he’s just keen to get into it. He’s critical enough.”
“I’m not critical, just naïvely sceptical,” Devlin sniped defensively. “And frankly I still don’t really know what goes on here.”
Glen smiled. “Perfect. Thanks guys, I’ll take it from here.”
Chapter - 7.
Malcolm understood that to even appear to be in a hurry to be released from hospital would not be in his best interests. Such behaviour would only be interpreted as guilt. Even outside of his current environs, it would not take a large stretch to deduce that someone covered in blood was guilty of something.
He knew he couldn’t present himself as angry, confused, aggressive, moody, depressed, elated or any one of the myriad of other emotional adjectives that would potentially be interpreted as markers of mental health issues. The system was nothing if it wasn’t predictable and this was, after all, in his favour. Provided he didn’t pose an immediate threat, there would be no reason for him to remain at the hospital long. All he had to do was wait, behave reasonably and he’d be able to return to his projects.
The nurse returned to the room, this time accompanying a recently post pubescent male with the obligatory stethoscope draped around his neck. Malcolm figured that the guy had to be a doctor, and it took all of his control to resist a quip with references to ‘Doogie Howser, M.D.’. The nurse handed the doctor the patient file, and he read with a concentration that defied his adolescent appearance.
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