by David Wake
Jasmine circled her wine glass with her finger and the waitress nodded. Oliver didn’t pick up any thought.
He glanced across the table: Have you decided?
“Yes, the pasta.”
Oliver checked the choices, and glanced up at the specials board, but all it had was the restaurant’s hashtag. He noodled their site and remembered the day’s specials. He picked the spaghetti bolognese.
“I ordered nibbles for starters,” Jasmine said.
Great.
The list was down to 112 and beginning to reduce as A&E staff thought about recent deaths, car accidents, heart attacks and so on. Perhaps… but Oliver’s drink arrived along with a large white wine for Jasmine.
Cheers.
“Bottoms up.”
He drank, a good gulp feeling he ought to be catching up. The fizz went down, slightly gassy and, along with the half of lager in the afternoon, the alcohol leached into his blood supply. A spreading prickling sensation, entirely psychosomatic he knew, told him that his inebriation safety had cut in.
“So,” he said aloud, “how was your day?”
“Ah, you know,” said Jasmine, casually.
He did know, of course, although he’d missed a lot of her thoughts because of the riot.
“Well?” she asked.
“Er…”
The waitress arrived, and they ordered.
Oliver remembered that the search list was now 85.
“Can you not think about work?”
“I’m not thinking,” Oliver replied.
Jasmine was angry: she didn’t push her long black hair back behind her ear and instead let it gather like a storm cloud around her face. Even without a thought to underline it, it was a clear sign.
“I’ve every right to be,” Jasmine said.
Oliver was thrown as he clearly hadn’t thought that explicitly. Perhaps she’d read his body language, or something involved female intuition.
“Sorry,” Oliver said. He waved his drink in front of her. “I can’t switch it off.”
It was now 80.
“You have my full attention,” said Oliver.
78.
“I’m not cross,” Jasmine said, leaning forward, her long fingers pushing her hair back.
The pathologist was getting ready to do the autopsy and Oliver knew because he was following the case hashtag.
“What is it?” Oliver asked.
“I changed my status.”
“Right, of course.”
Oliver noodled her status changes and, perhaps because he was befuddled, he remembered all of them, but the pathologist’s thoughts intruded: …female, mid–thirties, extreme trauma to the face and head, signs of decomposition.
Why was he doing the autopsy now? Ghoulish at this time of night. Ignore him, concentrate… and Oliver got a hint of a migraine shadow as his thoughts backed up due to the inebriation safety.
Jasmine flicked her finger back and forth between them: “We’re in a relationship.”
“Yes.”
“I changed my status!”
“Oh, right.”
The list was 37… 36.
Making the first incision, thought Doctor Ridge, to examine the guts now.
Oliver’s spaghetti bolognese arrived, its strands curling in a rich red meaty sauce.
I’m not really that hungry, Oliver tried thinking, but his brow didn’t respond.
He twirled his fork in the tomato covered intertwined strands.
“Oliver!”
He noodled her current status again and remembered that she was in a relationship with ‘Oliver Braddon’.
Examining the heart now, Doctor Ridge thought.
Oliver felt lost, he always did when he was drinking. It wasn’t the alcohol itself, he’d barely had any: it was because he wasn’t able to trace the steps of his own thoughts and so make the next one. Perhaps he should write them down – oh, what a ridiculous idea. That did give him a migraine shadow.
“That’s nice,” he said, aloud.
Moving to the head, Doctor Ridge thought.
Jasmine glared, full on, but no thought came through.
Doctor Ridge’s next thought was a removed expletive.
“Ollie,” Jasmine insisted. “I changed my status!”
“Yes.”
“And you haven’t.”
“Oh, well, I’ve been busy.”
As if on cue, he remembered that the list was now 23.
“Too busy for us,” she leaned forward and hissed, “My friends all know.”
“I don’t follow all your friends.”
“If you did, you know how people feel about someone who doesn’t update his relationship after his supposed girlfriend has updated hers.”
“Sorry, of course, I’ll–”
“It’s been six hours!”
“Yes.”
“My friends will think I’m some sort of slapper.”
This is a bombshell, Doctor Ridge thought, a right mess – a definite Red Indian.
What’s a Red Indian? These Doctors and their jargon.
Never you mind what a Red Indian is, Doctor Ridge thought.
Oliver hadn’t thought anything, so clearly others were following the autopsy. These Doctors must be specifically trained at medical school to substitute gibberish for medical jargon.
“You’ve still not done it!”
“Done what?”
It was something about her friends and he tried to remember: the list was 11.
Detective Constable Oliver Braddon – at Ollie, Doctor Ridge thought, you’d better get down here.
In person!? Migraine shadow. Bloody drink, he finished his drink and put the glass down.
Jasmine slapped him, hard across the face.
The restaurant’s audible hubbub of conversation stopped abruptly.
Oliver felt his face burning, he could almost feel everyone’s attention turning to him, passing on the recognition to those further away and the riffling down of his, and Jasmine’s, thoughts.
Now Ollie, Doctor Ridge insisted.
“I have to go,” Oliver said, woodenly.
He stood up and without another word walked to the doorway. Irritatingly there were a few customers arriving, so he had to wait. As they came in, their eyes widened as they recognised him and then the salacious smile appeared as they realised this was the man who’d been slapped. A few stray thoughts flickered onto his stream as they swept in and out of recognition range.
She changed her status, he didn’t.
Bastard.
Policeman.
Six hours and he did nothing.
Stupid Tepee.
Is she ugly?
Where is she?
The waiter caught him and showed him the Palatine Restaurant’s teller machine. He waited for the buzz and opened a reckoning with his bank.
“Ollie! Don’t walk away from me when I’m talking!”
It was cold outside, sharp on his slapped cheek, and he made his way down the road threading through the throng.
He thought about a cab, an error which affected his head.
It was a long walk back to the station. As he reached Old Tollgate, someone thought he was a wanker.
At Ollie, what did you say to Jasmine?
Men are such bastards.
Jasmine has talked to one of us and she’s crying.
I hope you’re happy Ollie, upsetting poor Jasmine like that.
No–one liked it.
“Shut up, shut up!” he said aloud.
Passers–by glanced at him and moved aside.
Oliver put his hand to his forehead, his fingers touching the skin a centimetre away from his iBrow. He let it wash over him, there was after all no choice.
You should apologise to Jasmine right away.
Sober up and think good thoughts.
The list dropped to zero – no missing people matched the description. That was impossible, so how much had he had to drink?
At Ollie, where are you? Now means now.
There was no way he could go in now.
Do you realise how upset she is, wanker?
Two–for–one on drinks with your next visit to the Palatine.
As soon as the coffee takes effect, Jasmine’s going to make you history.
Hasqueth Finest is the best – it tastes so good.
Jellicoe insists you get over to the pathologist in person.
Special thoughts, just a reckon away.
At Ollie, you are a wanker.
Hi, I’m Mithering: did you find a body in a car park?
MONDAY
Oliver dreamt of wandering around lost in an underground concrete maze. He found a body trapped in a car, and then another in a fridge and a third in a locker, before his alarm thought intruded. He woke bewildered, unable to open his eyes, and his mouth tasted disgusting. He wanted desperately to brush his teeth, but instead he pulled off his head band charger, rolled over and tried to ignore the appointment with Doctor Ridge, but it continuously popped to the top of his thoughts. He wasn’t going to get any peace, so he thought about the lights.
“Ah!”
Dazzled, he thought about darkness and stumbled from his bed to the bathroom, which was preferable to being dazzled. Once he’d splashed water on his face and brushed his teeth, he allowed himself to skim along all the thoughts he’d picked up during the night. There weren’t too many, so he must be up early. He noodled: God, six o’clock, he thought. Few of those he followed were up yet, so it only took ten minutes to process everything, and by that time the kettle had boiled.
This coffee doesn’t taste so good, he thought. He remembered that others of his friends drank Hasqueth Finest, and a delivery was just a thought away. Others who ordered it liked Milton Luxury Biscuits.
I must be tired, he thought, if the spam’s gaining my attention.
Energy drinks came in several isotonic flavours and–
Oliver shook head, downed his coffee and went back to the bedroom to find some clothes.
At the door, he noodled for his checklist and then made sure he had his keys and warrant card.
It was bracing outside: Noodle put it at 11 degrees, but it felt colder. For Oliver, it was like stepping into the Arctic. He should have had some breakfast, so he noodled the available options and thought about pastries. They were ready on the counter when he reached the bakery by the train station. At the buzz, he reckoned with his bank and then thought his thanks to the shop assistant, who must have been in the back baking fresh produce.
He ate on the station platform, shaking the crumbs off his fingers as the commuter train pulled in. The sunlight flickered off the windows causing him to squint and the flash of recognition for every passenger as they zipped past was disconcerting. He thought at the door and remembered the start of his journey along with the various options of return, on–going and so forth. He was registered, so whatever the day’s travel turned out to be, his bank would pay for the cheapest deal.
As the train pulled into the terminus, he noodled the time and then thought he’d be with Doctor Ridge in about ten minutes. He remembered some taxi offers, because he must have leaked about leaving the train station, but he ignored them and walked instead. It wasn’t far, and he needed to clear his head.
At Ollie, did you know that people think that someone was killed in the riot and that the police are covering it up?
It’s Mithering, Oliver thought. Why couldn’t people use their own names?
Privacy, Mithering thought.
Do you have something to hide?
No – do you?
No.
Sure?
Yes, Oliver insisted.
So did the police kill that woman during the riot?
No, Oliver thought back, we didn’t. I was there.
You’re a policeman, perhaps you’re in on it.
You can noodle my thoughts.
I have, perhaps you’re a patsy too.
Oliver arrived at the police station, thought his way in and nodded to the Desk Sergeant, recognising Draith, who he already knew. The man was drinking a mug of Hasqueth Finest, which was so good. Oliver could see the coffee machine behind him and the distinctive packaging.
At Ollie, Doctor Ridge wants to see you, Sergeant Draith thought, without looking up, when he recognised Oliver.
On my way, Oliver thought back, and then he rethought it to Doctor Ridge.
Chen was in the office, twitching as he played a cerebral, and oblivious to everything.
Oliver checked his locker, but he had nothing to put in or get out.
At Ollie, autopsy report for Hash 83,648,819 ready, Doctor Ridge thought.
OK.
I can give it to you now.
OK.
Best if you come down here.
In person!?
There was no follow up from Doctor Ridge. Nothing, which was strange, because following him ought to have given him some idle thought. People tended to think every six seconds, so it was strange for someone to go blank.
“Oh god,” he mumbled under his breath, another pissed dinosaur.
It was a long way down into the basement and then another long walk along a white tiled corridor. It didn’t help his mood. He disliked underground places.
Cheer up, Mithering thought.
Oliver had never been to the morgue before: it hadn’t been part of the tour when he’d been transferred. But why should it? There was no need. Once the pathologist, Doctor Ridge or Doctor Hassan, thought they were finished, everyone just noodled the summary. Oliver couldn’t actually remember having to check a path lab report in detail, except for the carbon monoxide case last year. Carbon monoxide makes thinking sluggish, so the victims hadn’t thought they were in any trouble until it had been too late. The landlord was up for negligence, and they’d worked out the man’s slang and could prove that he’d been aware of the issue. He went down for manslaughter, five years.
As the hospital smell hit him, Oliver felt a growing sense of foreboding as if his soul was leaching away from him. He felt small, infantile, like a schoolboy sent to the headmaster’s study in some tbook.
Morgues are dreadful places, he thought, really awful.
He felt a presence, someone breathing down his neck, but when he jerked his head around there was no–one there. Someone had been there, and now they were gone.
“You coming?”
Doctor Ridge was standing holding one of the double doors open. He smiled; not pleasantly, but as if he knew something. Oliver still felt strange as if he had been left alone somewhere, lost as a child when he was young. His impulse was to run to catch up, but he walked as normal.
The morgue was a big room, cold and grim, with large black and white squares on the floor. One wall was devoted to column after column of oversized filing cabinets. Oliver realised that these were the drawers they kept the bodies in. Each was numbered.
Doctor Ridge was tall, cold and grim too, his eyes sunk back into his sockets. Oliver stepped closer until he recognised him.
“Oliver Braddon.” It was a statement.
“Ollie.”
“You’re here for Unknown 271.”
Oliver noodled: Who is Unknown 271?
Nothing, except a headache.
“Don’t think, talk aloud?”
“Er… why?”
“You’ll see, humour me.”
“OK,” said Oliver. Another speaker, he thought, and his head ached again in response.
Doctor Ridge went over to the fourth section along and picked the bottom drawer.
“Number thirteen,” the man said, aloud. “If there’s family, we don’t use it in case. Superstition. You understand?”
Oliver didn’t: Of course.
Ridge grimaced.
“Of course,” Oliver repeated.
Ridge grasped the handle and pulled, it boomed like a large kettle drum. There was a shape in heavy black plastic.
“You want?”
“I’m fine.”
“
You need to see,” Ridge said; I’ll give him a shock.
Oliver realised that the man had thought brow–to–brow only.
The Pathologist fiddled at one corner and then unzipped the body bag, and then he flipped the corner away to reveal–
“Jesus!”
Ridge reached for a bucket, but it was too far away. Oliver missed it, and instead vomited what looked like pulped spaghetti bolognese onto the polished concrete.
“Shit – ah – sorry.”
“No worries.” Pathetic, where do they find these boys.
“I’ll–”
“Don’t worry, sit there. It’s not just the body, it’s a communications black spot here.”
Oliver was shocked: That’s illegal!
In a police station?
But it’s against the Communications Act.
Report it then.
I can’t, Oliver thought as he’d switched modes properly. “How come I’ve your thoughts?”
Please save me from babes and innocents, Ridge thought, but aloud he said, “We’re close enough for recognition, it’s brow–to–brow.”
“Oh… of course.”
“Just sit down.”
Oliver did as he was told, scraping the plastic chair away from the wall to avoid the fire extinguisher.
He sat, feeling guilty about throwing up, particularly when the eminent Doctor fetched a bucket and mop.
“Sorry,” Oliver said.
Ridge shrugged: “Happens all the time.”
Oliver closed his eyes.
It was cold and quiet, creepily so, as somehow Ridge’s splash–squidge accentuated the silence in between. The man’s thoughts were clear: What’s he been eating? However, it was the lack of clamour in Oliver’s brain that disturbed him. It was frightening, like staring over a high parapet into nothingness.
Test, he thought. “Ow!”
“No thinking via the network,” said Ridge. They never listen.
So, the man had been right, this was a communications black spot. Rare: you heard of them in the Sahara, Antarctica, down a mine or… well, did you? How many places were officially communications black spots, he thought. They were illegal, once they were found, they were filled in with a thought repeater.
The dull feeling, not exactly a pain as such, came back to him.
“It’s an error message,” said Ridge, who went back to his cleaning.
Oliver was very conscious of his breathing, deeper than usual, and he tried slowing it down, but his heart started to race. With his hand to his head he realised that he hadn’t felt this vacuous since he was eleven and he’d gone, nervously holding his Mother’s hand, to hospital to have his iBrow installed. Now he was a big boy. Every good boy deserves chocolate. They used general anaesthetic and, as he’d counted backwards and gone under, the surgical team had loomed over him in masks. He’d been frightened: the stuff of nightmares, and that had been his last non–augmented memory.