Mikey Jackson

SEGMENT ONE

Death and Kathleen Mackenzie weren’t exactly lovers. But even so, after all they’d been through together, here she was again, back for another date. This time, however, this very final time, it would be on her terms.

She peered at the busy car park below. The hospital stood several storeys high. Such a great height made her head spin. She scuttled back from the roof edge and sucked in a skyful of air to relieve the vertigo. Then, plucking a neatly folded tissue from her sleeve, she dabbed her tear-stained face and graced the cloudless morning sky with her attention, as if turning to God for answers.

The lone woman seemed somewhat out of place on the roof with nothing but air conditioning ducts, defunct analogue antennae and feral pigeons for company. She was no nurse or doctor. In fact, she had no connection whatever with the hospital in a vocational capacity. But what she did have was the absolute mother of all reasons to be there.

Kathleen...

Fifteen minutes earlier...

At the bedside of her critically injured twelve-year-old son...

Hooked up to a million beeping, hissing machines, the boy lay covered from head to foot in bandages. She yearned to hold his hand, for her own comfort as well as his, but knew this could not be. One hand was encased in rigid plaster. The sheer force of the bomb blast had blown the other hand clean off.

Kathleen had spent the day of the incident shopping in London’s West Zone with friends. Her son had phoned to let her know the school was releasing pupils early. Some old gumpf about a teachers’ strike and not enough pro-State non-union staff to cover. Not wishing to cut short her long overdue spell of retail therapy, she’d tempted the boy with the offer of the greasiest, unhealthiest fast food if he agreed to a rendezvous with the parent. Oh, why hadn’t she instead let him head to the house? He would have only been home alone for an hour, maybe two. It wouldn’t have mattered. The lad was old enough to look after himself without burning the entire street down. He was twelve years of age, for God’s sake. Another four short years and he could legally have sex. And six years from now would see him gracing the bars, casinos and brothels of the Leisure Zone with his newfound adulthood. Instead, she’d forced him to alter his usual route, a variation which included walking past Hotel Centra in the city’s Central Zone.

Just as the car bomb went off.

Boom!!!

The death toll of the terrorist attack had now risen to fifteen. A great many bystanders had been seriously injured by the blast, Kathleen’s son no exception. The shockwaves of the explosion had sent the schoolboy flying through the plate glass window of a department store. As anticipated, many of those wounded during the bombing were now falling victim to their injuries. Permanently.

Since the boy’s hospital admission, Kathleen had overheard the medics utter a million, trillion times that it was a miracle he’d not been killed instantly. This marvel alone gave her the will, the strength, the stubborn determination to keep praying. However, hope was fading fast. She knew this all too well. Whether she’d let herself admit it was a different matter altogether.

‘Mrs Mackenzie, your son sustained a great many injuries in the bomb attack,’ announced a poker-faced doctor. ‘I’m afraid it’s only life support keeping him alive.’

Kathleen’s eyes began to leak tears. She knew exactly where this was leading. ‘You want my permission to turn the machines off.’ A pained grimace contorted her pallid face. ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’

‘His condition will not improve.’

Kathleen could hold back no longer, a loud bark of emotion, followed by frenzied, stammering sobs. She palmed her mouth tight in an attempt to fight back further yelps. It didn’t work. The woman’s anguish sliced the surrounding air.

Denial then struck. ‘No way, this can’t be happening,’ she whimpered. ‘You’ve made a mistake. My son will be fine. Really, he will. He’s sleeping. Yes, that’s what he’s doing. He’ll open his eyes in a minute. Just you wait and see.’

The doctor did as he’d been trained, appearing to share her grief. ‘I am so sorry.’

Upon entering the hospital this morning, she’d been advised to expect the worst. However, prior knowledge of an inevitable outcome didn’t make her decision any easier. Kathleen was his mother. She was supposed to protect him, care for him, nurture him, comfort him, not pull the bloody plug on him. She would forever hate herself for this terrible sin. Terminating life support meant terminating her only son, her pride and joy, her own flesh and blood. How could the doctor ask this of her? Did he have children of his own? Would he do the same if he was in her position? Well?

Reality began to sink in. Yes. Of course he would.

It took all her inner strength to emit two little words. ‘Do it.’

The doctor tipped a grave nod and flicked the switches one by one. The breathing apparatus was the first to fall idle, one final laboured hiss and then nothing. However, the rhythmic beep-beep of the heart monitor continued for the longest time. Glowing hope returned to the woman. Maybe her son was fighting it. Maybe he would survive after all. Maybe he –

The piercing, continuous whine of the flat-line tore through her soul with the ease of a freshly sharpened blade. The flick of a secondary switch eradicated the noise, but the haunting, ice-cold scream continued to resonate deep inside her brain. The mother knew all too well that she would never free this nightmare from her torn, tattered mind. Her child’s final moment would stay with her forever.

Rivers of tears spewed out, zig-zagging in chaotic tumbles down the contours of her wavering face. A sharp pain shot through her abdomen, as if she’d been delivered the knock-out punch of a heavyweight boxer. She felt numb. Empty. Deadened. Killing her son had essentially killed her too.

There was nobody left to share such a gut-wrenching burden. The woman was barely into her thirties, yet she’d already lost both parents to that bastard Death, one to cancer, the other a few months down the line to a broken heart which failed to mend. And her husband? Hah! He was long gone. The two-timing bastard had caught the early train with a “walking pair of tits” work colleague to Godknowswhere eleven months, two weeks and three days ago. Yes, she kept note of the exact time since the sleazy rat’s middle-fingered departure with obsessive accuracy.

Kathleen now found herself alone in the world. Nobody to love or be loved by. It was all so pathetic when she thought about it. In a way, almost laughable. Only, there was nothing to laugh about. And here she stood on a breezy hospital roof, clutching nothing more than a well-used plastic carrier bag for comfort. Funny how things turned out.

She watched as a black chauffeur-driven limousine boasting flags of stars and stripes pulled into the car park below. Kathleen’s cold and resolute eyes clearly indicated her role as a woman on a mission. The driver stepped out and opened the rear door. General Stratton emerged with concrete discipline from the vehicle, dressed as always in full US Army attire. He was never seen without a uniform. It was widely anticipated that the man even slept in it.

As he proceeded to head for the main building, a storm of reporters appeared from nowhere, wielding microphones and cameras like tribal weapons. Stratton offered a resigned sigh. He would have preferred to park directly outside the front entrance to avoid such unwarranted attention, but the area was strictly reserved for ambulances only. Even a man of his notable influence couldn’t relax a regulation so set in stone. England had changed beyond recognition, yet anal jobsworths were still going strong.

Like hungry birds to breadcrumbs, the journalists all jabbered at once, an urgent mish-mash of squawking and chirping, eager for fresh snippets of information about the recent bombing. However, they were wasting their time. Such an unsolicited bombardment fell upon deaf ears. Stratton failed to respond to their barrage of questions, face rigid, mouth shut, eyes fixed forward, not once giving them the time of day. He was booked to open a new hospital ward, not front an impromptu Q&A session.

Kathleen had expected Stratton’s arrival. The new ward, a special emergency care unit for injured US soldiers, had been talked about on the early morning news. It was essential for Mrs Mackenzie to be here at this precise moment. This female had something important to get off her chest, and so thus needed an audience with credentials. TV crews from almost every network were in attendance. Good. Her greatest moment would be fully documented.

The woman produced a white linen bedding sheet from the plastic bag and hastily unfurled it. It sported the bold red lettering she’d painted onto the fabric a couple of hours earlier. Four loose bricks were used to aid the anchoring of the material. She then hung the makeshift banner over the roof edge for the world to see.

It was a passing member of the public who first spotted Kathleen’s handiwork. He pointed upwards, egging on bystanders to take a peek. General Stratton and the reporters followed his point. They stared in open-mouthed bewilderment as they read the text on the banner.

“GO HOME. YOU CAUSED THIS.”

This had been her original plan. Create the banner, get the message on TV and hope the US Army would realise that its occupation of England had ultimately led to the hospitalisation of her darling boy, her only born, a young and innocent child. However, things had now changed. Her son was dead. Mere text on fabric was nowhere near enough. The event would soon be forgotten. This time tomorrow, it would be yesterday’s news. The memory of her boy was worth far more than simply one day of coverage. No, no, no, something else was required. Something big. Something memorable. Something extreme. An act which would beat a simple slogan hands down.

Kathleen stood upright. With the faultless poise of an Olympic gymnast, she raised both arms high above her head. The woman offered her attention to the sky. A lone white cloud appeared overhead. She posted a warm smile, believing it to be her son looking down on her with double thumbs of approval.

She closed her eyes. Took a deep breath.

And jumped.

Stunned onlookers gawped in horror as the woman plummeted groundwards and landed with a deafening slam upon the roof of a newly arrived ambulance. There followed a cold, deathly silence. Nobody moved. Not a soul uttered a word. What could they possibly do or say?

Kathleen lay broken and lifeless, both arms thrown open and wide, as if about to offer her son the biggest hug ever recorded. Her glassy, unmoving eyes gazed eternally at the heavens above. One corner of her mouth found itself curled upwards. It could easily be mistaken for a satisfied smile.

Her point had been made. Her work here was done.

**********************************************

SEGMENT TWO

PREVIOUSLY: THE DAY OF THE BOMBING...

‘You look like shit.’

The remark threw Jonas Cain, seeing as the usually meek and restrained Matthew Samms had delivered it. But yes. The man was right. He did look like shit. Shit dragged through a hedge backwards. Shit dropped from a great height onto concrete. Shit long since abandoned by its resident flies. He really needed to do something about it. After all, Samms was not the only client of late who had complained about his vagabond appearance.

Client. Heh, the term still amused him, even after all this time. Paying customers were no longer referred to as fares or punters. Not since all taxis had become State-owned. Pretty much everything was these days. Hardly anybody owned anything anymore. It was a sign of the times.

After first brushing the faux leather surface of the back seat free of potential debris with four, five, fuck knows how many flicks of his hand, Samms entered the vehicle. Another eye-opener for Cain. This was certainly not like him. It was customary for the man to plonk himself down without checking. Many a liberally chewed knob of gum had found itself adhered to his unsuspecting back side.

Hmm, curious, without a doubt, today’s stringent pre-sit check had something to do with his unprecedented classy attire.

‘New suit?’ Cain enquired.

‘Just drive,’ Samms snapped, clearly not in the mood for idle chitchat.

Cain sighed. It was all set to be one of those days. He threw the taxi into gear and the wheels were rolling. ‘Where to? The office?’

Samms indicated to his fancy threads. ‘In this get-up?’

Cain was tired already of his client’s unwarranted rudeness. Who did he think he was? Scrawny little idiot, bigging it up like some kind of managerial top-nob. Samms was nothing special. An insignificant office gopher. That’s all he had amounted to in twenty years of working for the same company. Sure, Cain could understand the man’s frustration, but did he really need to take it out on the driver? It was unnecessary. Totally uncalled for. He was tempted to make the twat get out and walk, but forty per cent of all takings – the State got the rest – was instantly credited to his thumb implant... which was in desperate need of a top-up. Could he afford to be so choosy? No way.

If he couldn’t thumb, he didn’t eat, simple as that. In fact, citizens couldn’t do anything these days without thumbing. The tiny implant, set into the right-hand thumb’s fleshy tip, had revolutionised everybody’s way of life, replacing money altogether as the only accepted method of payment. Cold, hard cash was no longer legal tender. People were paid electronically with a top-up of credit. This was then spent, placing said thumb upon the square pad of a payment console, on whatever tickled their proverbial fancy.

Cain braked at a junction. He waited for his opportunity, then joined the steady flow of traffic on the main stretch. He still didn’t have a clue where he was supposed to be heading. What was this, a guessing game? The tosser in the back was certainly trying his patience. If not the office, then where? The man never went anywhere else. Samms was Mr Routine. You could set clocks by him.

Cain inspected his client via the rear-view mirror. It was obvious. Something was up with the guy. The man had been acting odd for the past fortnight or so, but today was the worst he’d ever seen him. He was jumpy, tetchy, perspiring way too much, with eyes flitting in all directions like a pair of bees on coke. He didn’t look too good at all. And to think he’d had the gall to accuse him of looking like shit. The words pot, kettle and black sprang to mind.

‘Samms, how about telling me where you want dropping off?’

‘Hotel Centra. And don’t spare the horses.’

Cain frowned. Hotel Centra was the type of establishment where a guest needed to take out a second mortgage just to be able to tip the bellboy. ‘Don’t you think that’s a little out of your price range?’

‘Who are you, my financial advisor?’ Samms fished his trouser pocket for a tissue with which he mopped his sweaty brow. ‘Life’s a piece of shit, Cain,’ he began to drone in pure soapbox mode. ‘I’d like to see a return to the old days myself. Things were much better back then. Never going to happen though, is it? Look what they’ve done to this country. Almost everything bloody State-owned. What’s that all about? They’ve got the banks, the shops, God knows what else. All paid for with taxpayer’s money. Supposed to belong to us, the people. Doesn’t though, does it? Money-grabbing bastards.’

Cain took note of approaching military traffic in his rear-view mirror and slowed to a halt at the side of the road. He knew the drill. Pull over, let them pass, get on with the day. The foreboding convoy of US Army vehicles then trundled past.

Samms sneered at the sight with a hefty slice of abhorrence. ‘And they can piss off back to their own country. What the bloody hell are they doing over here anyway? They occupy our country, thinking it’s all right to take control.’

Samms extended the stiffest of middle fingers way close to the window. Cain was thankful the gesture went unnoticed.

‘We can sort out our own trouble, thanks,’ snarled the suited man.

Throwing the car back into motion, Cain felt relieved by a full set of closed windows. It was preferred that Samms’ derogatory comments travelled no further than the car interior. The last headache he wanted was trouble. It was best avoided. He only had one game plan these days. Make sure the day is as eventless as possible, earn his credit, then while away the evening in a back-street bar in the Leisure Zone. Not a particularly remarkable way of life, but to him it was perfectly adequate.

The adult leisure industry was a massive earner for the State. Leisure Zones were huge self-contained complexes, one per town or city, consisting of bars, clubs, brothels, casinos and strip joints where clients could drink, gamble and get laid in whichever order they pleased.

Meanwhile, outside of Cain’s musings, there was no stopping Samms. ‘They say they’re only here to keep the peace. Hah! They’re not doing a very good job, are they? We’ve seen far more attacks since they arrived. Mostly against them. Don’t they understand? Nobody wants them here. All they’re doing is creating more trouble.’

‘Samms. Our government fell. Somebody needs to be in charge.’ Cain had no idea why he’d delivered such a defeatist line. He disliked the American occupation as much as his client. Maybe a quiet life was easier.

Samms continued regardless. ‘Our leaders were brought down because of the way they pissed on their people.’ Then, an afterthought. ‘Hey, how come you’re on their side? What’s happened to you, Cain? A little bird tells me you used to be a major player for the Cause.’

Uh-oh. Cain didn’t like being put on the spot. Where had Samms tasted such a juicy morsel of information? He didn’t want loose lips sinking his current ship. He’d grown accustomed to a subdued existence. Save for the annoyance of the occasional bombing in the area, he was finally enjoying some peace and quiet.

‘That was a long time ago.’

Samms scoffed. ‘You’re going soft in your old age.’

Old age? Cain was only in his thirties. ‘Just keeping my head down.’

‘Yeah? What’s that likely to achieve?’

A raised eyebrow from Cain. What the hell was Samms on today? What’s that likely to achieve? Hah, says the man who had quietly accepted his role as office dogsbody for the last two decades without so much as a whimper of disapproval. Hmm, Cain was unsure if he liked the assertive and self-important Samms version 2.0. The jury was still out on that one, and would be for some time. He was so glad Hotel Centra was now a mere stone’s throw away.

‘Evil flourishes where good men do nothing,’ continued Samms.

Cain groaned. Here we go. Already, his passenger had reached the quotes stage.

‘You need to make a stand, Cain. I will today. I’m determined to be remembered. I even got myself a new suit for the occasion.’

Cain shook an incredulous head – what the fuck was this guy banging on about? – as he pulled up and parked outside the main entrance of the hotel. It was crystal clear. Samms must have snorted a line or two before stepping into the taxi. The man’s mind was evidently mashed.

The client in question leaned forward and pressed his thumb against the vehicle’s transaction console.

‘Payment successful,’ chirped the console’s friendly female electronic voice.

‘Oh, just one more thing.’ Samms pressed the cold steel of a hand gun against Cain’s head.