Strangled Silence

by Oisin McGann

'Cool.'

  Chi followed Amina up the stairs and found Ivor McMorris waiting with his door open. There was a look of resolute bitterness on his face.

  Amina made the introductions as they were ushered inside.

  'We're sorry about your friend,' she said softly. 'Had he . . . had he been very unhappy?'

  Ivor said nothing for a moment, and then shook his head as if trying to clear the thoughts from his mind.

  'It wasn't suicide,' he said firmly.

  Ben Considine was dead. His body had been found on Beckford Strand the day before, at the mouth of the River Sliney. There was an old iron footbridge that crossed the river further upstream, at its narrowest point, where the currents were strongest. It was known as Suicide Bridge, and Beckford Strand – where the river's victims often washed up – as Suicide Beach. There were few places in the country more popular with those who had given up hope.

  Ben's death had warranted a small article in the Chronicle, but only because he had friends in the press. Ivor had asked Amina to come over as soon as he'd seen it; she thought it was as good a time as any for him to meet Chi.

  'Ben wasn't ready to kill himself,' Ivor insisted. 'It may have been on his mind – he was dealing with a lot of bad stuff – but I'm sure he had business to see to first.' He took a shuddering breath. 'I heard it in his voice, you know . . . I thought I'd get to talk to him . . .'

  His voice cracked and he fell silent, looking faintly embarrassed by this hint of grief. Amina put her hand on his, suppressing the urge to offer words of comfort. Sometimes it was better to just be there, without making your presence felt; to let a person find their own time to talk. Ivor savoured the contact, not wanting to move his hand away from hers. Was there something more than pity there? Again, he reminded himself: she was in it for the story. Don't let yourself think you have a chance here. It's just sympathy, nothing more.

  It was still a moment worth holding onto . . . But Chi had too much to say.

  'He's not the first,' he blurted out, much to Amina's annoyance. 'Your friend – he's just the latest in a string of suspicious deaths.'

  'Maybe we should give it a minute—' Amina started to say, but Ivor interrupted her:

  'No, it's OK. Let him talk. I'll just sit here brooding otherwise. I have too much time to think as it is.'

  Chi nodded and collected himself a bit, belatedly conscious of the solemn mood.

  'I've been tracking down Sinnostan veterans over the last two years,' he told them, opening his laptop case and booting up the computer. 'Particularly ones who've been vocal against the war, or who've been reported to be suffering posttraumatic stress.'

  'How would you find that out?' Ivor asked. 'We don't go round wearing labels.'

  'Eh . . . actually you do – in a manner of speaking.' Chi gave a hesitant chuckle. 'It's in your medical records.'

  'Jesus, you hack into our medical records?' Ivor exclaimed. 'That's as personal as it gets, man. How the hell do you—'

  'No, no.' Chi raised his hands in defence. 'I have some principles, you know. But there are friends of mine who don't. They hack into medical databases and we . . . well, we trade information. Ever since the government set up the National Database – combining our medical, tax, criminal records and all that – it's a piece of cake. You hack into a local council office and you've got access to information, like, anywhere in the country if you can pinch a few passwords. Plant a program on their system that records keystrokes and feeds them back to you and you're in. And given the monkeys they've got running tech support for these places, it's easy to . . .'

  He noticed that they were staring at him.

  'Right. Anyway. What I'm getting at is that your whole life is there for anybody who really wants to see it, and that includes your medical records. So I got the names of all the veterans who'd come out bitter, twisted and raising a racket and you know what I found?'

  Chi leaned in closer to them, but then stopped, his mouth still hanging open. To think he'd almost forgotten – he had taken no precautions. Standing up, he took his bugfinder from his pocket and started combing the room for signals. He wasn't happy with what he found. Hoping he hadn't already said too much, he motioned to the others and opened the front door, watching the readout on the bugfinder. He ushered them up two flights of stairs to the landing in the floor above and then gathered them close, speaking in a hushed voice:

  'Ivor, your place is crawling with surveillance. I counted, like, six devices at least. Chances are I didn't even find them all. You need to take measures, man. I'll come back with some gear tomorrow.'

  Amina maintained a sceptical expression, but Ivor looked neither surprised nor frightened.

  'Look, get on with it,' Amina urged Chi impatiently. 'Tell him about the soldiers.'

  'Yeah, well I started seeing some interesting patterns,' Chi said, still whispering. 'As in, scarycoincidence type stuff. Guys would come home from Sinnostan with PTS symptoms and start mouthing off, demanding investigations into what had happened to them . . . and then they'd stop. Like, really clam up. One minute they're, like, fanatical rebels, the next there's not a peep out of them. Others . . . well, others just plain died. Nothing overly suspicious: a house fire here, a road traffic accident there, men having heart attacks despite being in peak physical fitness, a few drug overdoses.

  'And at least four of them,' he continued, watching Ivor's face, 'ended up on Suicide Beach.'

  He paused for effect, letting this dramatic information sink in.

  'OK,' Ivor said cautiously. 'But this could be nothing. This is how conspiracies get started: you pull out random bits of information, dump the ordinary, obvious explanations and start making connections that aren't there. How do you know these weren't all just normal deaths?'

  Amina drew a breath to say something but didn't get it out in time.

  'UFOs,' Chi replied grimly. 'A large proportion of these men reported seeing a UFO not long before their deaths.'

  'Riiiight.' Ivor leaned back, glancing at Amina.

  'OK, OK.' Chi held his hands up again. 'Let's overlook my geeky obsession with the paranormal for the moment, all right? You reckon something's been done to you, but you don't know what. I'm telling you there's others out there suffering from the same symptoms. You want to know more, yeah? Well so do I.'

  Ivor regarded him for a minute, a guarded expression on his face. Then he relaxed and nodded. Chi gave them both a brief smile, but he could feel his heart pounding in his chest. Finally, he had some allies who didn't fall into the typical abduction-nut category. He couldn't tell them everything yet – not until he had their trust and he was sure they were committed. His hands were in his pockets. The fingers of his right hand fidgeted, playing with a metal disc about five centimetres across. He itched to show it to them, desperate to test it on Ivor, but it was too soon. There would be time yet.

  'I still don't understand what it's all for,'Amina said softly. 'If half of what we're talking about is true, there's a massive cover-up going on. But what are they covering up?'

  'I have some theories,' Chi said. 'I think these false memories are part of a programming process. Whoever's doing this has to make these soldiers disappear for three or four days. But what's the point of making them disappear? I think it's so they can be programmed as sleeper agents – y'know? Like in The Manchurian Candidate?' He looked furtively at Ivor. 'Each one is being given a task and they'll be activated by a phone call or something like that. The false memories account for that missing time.'

  'That still sounds far-fetched to me,' Amina said, shaking her head. 'I mean, what are these guys being programmed to do? Are they spies or . . . or assassins or what? And if so, why not just pay professionals to do the job instead of trying to rely on some dodgy mind-control process? How could the brainwashers be sure these pawns of theirs would do what they're supposed to do? And besides, I just can't see the military allowing hundreds of their soldiers to be treated like this. I know you think everyone in the establishment is a col
dhearted manipulator, Chi, but it's just not like that. Most senior officers are decent, honourable men.'

  Watching the incredulous expression cross her pretty features, Chi was relieved he had not further expounded his theory on experimentation by alien abductors. Now that he had her respect, he was keen not to lose it. He had already spent too much time in the company of pale-skinned nerds raging about shadowy government agencies responsible for everything from the Martin Luther King assassination to the Bermuda Triangle. But even so, he was concerned that the fact that her father was an officer in the military gave her an unbalanced view of their activities.

  'I think it's got to be something more mundane,' she went on. 'Have you noticed how the news reports on the war are always going on about how few innocent civilians are being killed? There are plenty of people who say the figures aren't accurate, but nobody can get in there to do a proper survey, 'cos it's too dangerous.

  'Every war has its atrocities, but there hasn't been any really big story about Western troops committing something that could be considered a war crime. There haven't been any photos of torture or . . . or leaked memos on human rights violations or any of that. I think these guys are having their memories erased because they're witnesses . . . or even the perpetrators – no offence, Ivor.'

  'None taken.'

  He was sitting there, gazing at her. She stared back pointedly and he looked away. Did he just blush? With his complexion, it was hard to tell.

  'I don't think the military would use their troops like guinea pigs for some kind of dangerous experiment,' she added. 'But I wouldn't put it past them to try and cover up war crimes. They've done it enough times before and they're getting better at it. There are always a few bad seeds that get out of control and do something really shocking. I think this mindwipe thing is just a really sophisticated form of damage control.'

  'All right,' Chi said grudgingly, looking over at Ivor. 'So from your point of view, there are two questions we need to be asking: What might you have seen or done to make them mess with your memory? Or: What might you be programmed to do and when are you supposed to do it?'

  They both waited for Ivor's opinion. He said nothing, staring down the stairs as if lost in thought.

  'I don't know about any of that,' he said at last. 'I can't deal with all this . . . this . . .' He waved his hands around in a frustrated manner. 'All this about war and conspiracies and all that. It's too big, too distant to get my head around. I just want to know what they did to me and why. And I want to find out who killed Ben. That's it.'

  He told them about how he had waited for Ben at the café, and about the threat written in chalk on the pavement behind his chair. Amina went pale, but Chi's breath quickened; he started pacing back and forth.

  'This is proof,' he said excitedly, his voice louder but still trying to sound quiet. 'They've slipped up. If they're worried enough to be making threats, you must have rattled them. This is great!'

  'I'm glad you think so,' Ivor said drily. 'Personally, I want to keep the one eye I have left. I'd like to see how excited you'd be if you found out an assassin was sitting behind you at lunch.'

  Chi was loath to admit he found this prospect genuinely thrilling. In his line of work, death threats were considered the highest accolade; an acknowledgement from your enemy that you were too close for their comfort. He knew only two other people first-hand who had received bona fide death threats, and they were at the top of their game. People in this category were proud to wear the label 'Targeted'.

  'Still, you've got to admit, it's encouraging,' Chi said, shrugging. 'They wouldn't be threatening you if you were just a delusional lunatic.'

  'Unless the writing was a hallucination,' Amina put in.

  'Thanks for that vote of confidence,' Ivor sniffed. 'OK, so what do we do next?'

  'We concentrate on your story,' Amina told him. 'We dig up as much information as possible and see if there's anything about the bombing that doesn't make sense. So far, all the reports I've found have sounded too alike – almost as if they're all getting their information from the same source.'

  'I have a friend who could hack God's database,' Chi added. 'I'll see what he can come up with.'

  'Oh, good,' Ivor said as they headed back towards the stairs. 'I'm sure God will know what's going on. Hey . . . Chi Sandwith. I suppose you must get a lot of jokes about cheese sandwi—'

  'No. Never. You're the first person to ever say that – really.'

  19

  Amina stared up at the three monkeys sitting on their plastic plinth on the shelf above Goldbloom's desk. The ornament was a cheap tacky souvenir; the type you'd pick up in a tourist area while you were buying your key ring, fridge magnet and novelty T-shirt. If it was British, it would have a Union Jack stuck on it somewhere, but this one was Japanese. She wondered if this piece of kitsch was actually made in Japan – as so many British souvenirs once were. More likely Vietnam or somewhere like that. The monkeys on the plinth had names: Mizaru covered his eyes, Kikazaru covered his ears and Iwazaru covered his mouth. See no evil, hear no evil and speak no evil.

  Her mother had a framed picture of the three monkeys on the wall of her study. She said it was a reminder. They were supposed to symbolize the idea that if you refused to acknowledge evil, then you would not commit any. In journalism, her mother said, it kind of worked the other way.

  'No, we can't publish details from medical records,' Goldbloom said, waking her from her reverie. 'As well you should know. I don't think any veteran would thank you for making his haemorrhoids, halitosis and STDs public. And people are particularly sensitive about mentalhealth problems. You know you can be sued for far more money if you sully someone's reputation than if you cut their arm off ? Go figure. Anyway, where do you think you're going to get these files from?'

  'I know someone who knows someone,' Amina informed him.

  He smirked at her.

  'Well, well. Aren't we connected? I'd be careful, love. There's no harm in knowing people who are willing to bend the rules on your behalf, but you've got to be careful about where it can land you. If you break any laws, this paper will not back you up, y'understand? Don't go doing anything stupid – and I say that in the full knowledge that youth is all about doing stupid things you'll tell stories about in your old age, but I'm serious. Don't screw around with this.

  'If somebody volunteers their own medical files, that's fine, but it's illegal to obtain them any other way. If you're going to succeed in making a credible mental-health story out of this, you need interviews from the "victims" and some expert testimony. See if you can get a shrink to give you some quotes on post-traumatic stress – all the better if he's done work for the military.'

  'OK, Joel. Thanks.' She turned to leave.

  'Amina?'

  'Yes?' She turned back.

  'This could potentially be a real story,' he said, eyeing her as he tapped the desk with his pen. 'Tread lightly, love, all right? Don't go stepping on any toes and don't do anything to make me regret letting you take this on.'

  'I'll be on my best behaviour,' she said, giving him a reassuring smile.

  'And don't think you can melt me with any of your mother's smiles; I've seen 'em all and she does 'em better. Now leave me be.'

  Amina scooted out of the office in her exaggerated impression of a lowly office temp. She hadn't told Goldbloom anything about Chi, or their theories about mind-control experiments on abducted soldiers. As long as he thought she was only working on a mental-health story, he might leave her to get on with it. If he suspected it was more serious, he would probably pull it off her and give it to an experienced journalist. She was determined that that would not happen.

  It hadn't escaped her notice that he was giving her a lot of attention. The managing editor did not normally waste time dealing with office temps; there were enough junior editors to do that. Amina had heard plenty of stories about him from her mother and suspected that he had been in love with her years ago. It would be understa
ndable if he felt a bit paternal about her daughter. And Amina was happy to accept any help he could give her.

  She was passing his secretary's desk when she heard Cathy give a startled gasp. Amina turned back and saw the middle-aged woman staring in shock at an open envelope. Her hands were shaking. It took another moment for Amina to notice the small pile of coarse brown granules sitting on the pine-coloured plastic desktop. Cathy lifted her head, confused fear in her eyes.

  'I just opened the letter,' she said.

  Amina stared for a second and then pulled Cathy from her chair. The woman wrenched her back and grabbed her handbag. Amina pulled at her again in frustration. They had to get out of there . . . fast.

  'Hold your breath!' she cried, and then to the people in the press room, 'Somebody call the police! There's a letter here with brown powder in it! Call the police!'

  At first, everybody's reaction was to crowd in and see what all the fuss was about. But then someone said the word 'anthrax' and everything changed. Within seconds, the fire alarm was ringing and people were running for the stairs and elevators. Amina held Cathy's hand as they hurried down the stairs. Cathy was crying, her breaths coming in short gasps.

  'I'm sure it's just a scare, Cathy!' Amina said to her as they turned to take the next flight down, both of them stumbling in their high heels. 'It'll be fine. It's just someone looking for headlines.'

  Cathy was wheezing badly now. The alarm bells created a sense of barely controlled panic in the scuttling evacuees. Amina and Cathy reached the ground floor and joined the crowd making for the door. Cathy could barely breathe. Amina looked at her in alarm. Could anthrax work that fast? Maybe that weaponized stuff that armies developed in secret fits of madness. Was this for real? Suddenly, Amina wanted to be away from this woman and her tortured breathing. She wanted to be out of this building now. NOW! She felt a tickle in her throat and coughed. For the first time in years, she raised her eyes and uttered an urgent prayer to Allah.

  They burst from the building into lashing rain that soaked them in seconds. Amina's thin blue shirt was heavily peppered with dark drops as she looked around for a sheltered place to stand. Cathy was hauling in strained breaths. Amina sat her down on the edge of concrete plant pot in the relative shelter of an abstract rusted iron sculpture in the shape of a ship's bow. Cathy was struggling to open her bag, but then she found the zip, tore it open and dug an inhaler out of one of the pockets. She sucked in a couple of blasts and her breathing started to return to normal.