Part 3 Readers - The Killing

This is the third of a science fiction series ( to read the first two click on hyperlinks below)
Reader part 1
Reader part 2

Four days later Sherry was dead. He received a call from her line manager. Keats was informed that she had stepped out in front of an express train at Central Station. The driver had seen nothing and the impact had been minor. It had been railway tech workmen who picked up the tiny shudder at the hub station. They recognized the tiny tremor peak that they had grown accustomed to in suicides on train lines. Their electronic sensors had flagged up an incident and Cherry had been identified quickly by DNA analysis. The line manager broke the news with great sensitivity but the blow felt beyond enduring. On the phone Keats had been unable to speak, to reply. Even, when asked, “are you alright do you need assistance?” He just put his forehead on the phone intercom and closed his eyes. Because of his lack of a coherent reply a response team had been dispatched. They arrived 15 minutes later, over-rode the front door lock and raced in, medical kits at hand. Kind hands lowered him onto his bed while a sleeping patch was applied on his inner wrist. He fell into blissful oblivion and remained so for four hours. 

When he woke he was still in his own bed a bereavement medical worker by his side. He asked the uniformed woman who she was. She was in her 40s with dark straight hair, around a pleasant calm face. Not pretty but plain and pleasant with brown sympathetic eyes. She replied,

“My name is Dora, I'm your bereavement medical worker. Here is my ID, you've had a shock. Do you remember anything?”

While she asked, experienced fingers took his pulses all five recorded on the tablet quickly and efficiently.  Keats shuttered his response, disbelief in every word. 

“My wife and she's dead I think.”

Dora nodded,

“Yes that's right.”

She paused and waited. Keats felt huge sobs coming as if from his feet. Big shaking waves that shook his body, Dora held his hand stroked his shoulder, murmuring “I'm here, I'm here.” Gradually, his sobs stopped and he turned to Dora, and asked, “What happened?”
Dora looked at him clear eyed and measured.
“Cherry is dead but do you need to understand I am responsible to both of you.
Keats was confused,
“What?”
Dora explained,
“When a death like this happens, a bereavement medical worker (a BMW) is assigned to both the deceased and the next of kin. I have prepared Cherry, accompanied her to forensics and made sure her wishes are respected to the letter. I am duty-bound to you both, but my priority is of course Cherry, as she is no longer able to speak for herself.” 
Keats struggled to grasp what Dora was saying,

“I don't understand.”

Dora calmly replied,
“Just because a person is dead, it doesn't mean one rides roughshod over their rights. Cherry had left clear instructions and I have carried them out to the letter.”

“What instructions?” Keats almost howled his despair. Dora elaborated,

“She wanted instant cremation after a full forensics. She had prepared well, there is her will and a letter.”

“But why did she do it?”

Dora frowned.

“Out of respect for Cherry, I am duty-bound to point out forensics indicate she did not jump in front of the train. Bruising showed she was pushed and CCTV footage on the train clearly indicates this. In no way was she intentionally ending her life.”

Keats felt bile rise in his throat.
“But the call they mentioned suicide, her line manager said...”

Dora stroked his shoulder gently.
“He had no right to call you like that. No one should hear that sort of news over a monitor. Any fool knows that. But, I'm afraid nowadays communication outstrips wisdom. They certainly shouldn't make a judgment call without full forensics. For exactly the reasons that are evident here.
Keats said nothing, so Dora continued.

“I had to respect Cherry’s wishes, she was my key subject, so you were given a sleeping patch until such times as I had carried out her wishes.”

“What wishes?” Keats questioned.

Dora gave him a small sip of ice-cold water and it soothed his dry throat. He coughed and spoke louder,
“What wishes?”

Dora took out an envelope and explained. "When someone anyone dies or is dying, A BMW is assigned. Their key subject is the patient or client and they make sure their needs are met. In terms of pain control, final wishes, personal care plan. In the case of a diseased patient we are escort them to forensics or to the funeral home and ensure respect is shown to the body. We take notes and in the case of Sherry arrange cremation.”

“But I needed to see her, I wanted to...” Keats could not continue.

Dora spoke,
“In this case her instructions outweigh your wishes. But she did wish you would be given this on her death.” 
Dora handed over the white envelope.
“Just know this, she did not take her own life. This was not her choice. Someone took her from you. You need to know this. I'll leave you to read the note in private, if you need me I'll be outside the glass doors, just signal and I'll come.”
He clumsily pulled the envelope open, tearing it. His fingers felt like spagetti. His brain was in shut down. He tried to focus. The handwriting was hers and when he read Dear Keats, he cried out and put his hand over his mouth. Dora behind the glass doors stirred but he held up his hand to stop her. He read on,

‘I'm dead I don't know how it happened after all, I'm younger than you. But there you go, life is unexpected. You must be devastated, unless you killed me, in which case, perhaps relieved. Only joking, being a reader married to a non-reader is tricky but being a non- reader married to a reader is an act of daily trust. You more than met all my life's expectations. You're a good man and it has been a privilege to share these years. Your love has given me incredible happiness. Being cremated is not what you would've wanted for me. I appreciate goodbyes are important to you. But some studies have shown readers die differently. The part of the brain that processes readings in others is the last stop to stop functioning. It's requires so little blood flow there is speculation that it may continue functioning for sometime after the body is dead. I have to confess that thought freaked me out so much, a speedy cremation seemed a safer bet. I didn't want my last reading playing like a record in my head. I know it will all be all over, the fact that you are reading this means my wishes have been respected. I can ask for no more. Would have loved more time with you but you have given me more than I ever expected. Your goodness a daily lesson in how to be a better human. Thanks for that too!
much love Cherry."

He held the letter to his cheek and tried to breathe in her scent from the paper. His heart felt like it would explode. The pain in the centre of his chest pulsed and his ears began ringing. He rubbed his chest with his knuckles and the pain seemed to flow along his arms. Dora was beside him in an instant and placed the patch on his wrist. He tried to stop her, but she pushed his hand away and spoke gently.

“You need to trust me now. This is best. I'm here, I'm here.”

Blissful nothingness hugged him into a deep sleep. Doris sat beside him in the darkened room. He would sleep for an hour. These patches had to be used with restraint. Patients could quickly grow addicted to the swift release from painful reality. It was her job to begin weaning him. She never gave more than three patches and really felt EBW’s who did were shortchanging their clients. The sooner patients came to terms with what had happened the better. Delaying that, often suited inexperienced EBW’s who needed time to think what was best to do next. Putting a client into a long sleep allowed them to consult others and plan ahead and cover their own backs. Dora knew recovery in patients who slept through the first two days was twice as slow as those who didn't. Not on my watch, she thought settling down to her knitting, keeping a watchful eye on his vitals. She'd only been knitting for 20 minutes when someone knocked on the glass door. Dora approached the door slowly. His eyes were green flecked with gold and he signalled to her to open the door. Dora picked up the intercom and pointed to the receiver on the outside. Dickens spoke in a rush,

“He's a good friend, can I come in? He's had an awful loss, he needs me!

Dora answered,
“No, he needs me at present. I will not authorise any visitors until he is stabilised.” 

Her brown eyes were cold and clear. Dickens held up his hand, pleadingly.

“Look its not fair, if he was your friend you'd want to be there for him.”

Dora pressed a button low down on her medical jacket, and then spoke
“Who are you, exactly?”

He answered eagerly, “Dickens, we go back half a century. Come on have a heart.” He smiled winningly through the glass door.
Dora nodded slowly and held up her hand in acquiescence.

“This space has been disinfected, please wash your hands and use a cleanser spray and before entering.”

Dickens quickly did as she instructed, washing his hands with mocking exaggerated care and using the wall disfectant spray on both sides of each hand. He slipped the scalpel up his sleeve, one more kill and he was in the clear. Just one more death and freedom in this brand-new world beckoned. He could feel his hands trembling with the thrill of the kill. He would have to take out the plump woman too, but suddenly, having got rid of Cherry so easily, he felt anything was possible. Dora waved him towards the glass door and stood a little to one side making room for him to pass when the doors would open. 

Dickens smiled encouragingly at the plain face, so close to his own. Suddenly, the doors to the lift behind him opened and four security guards grabbed him. Efficiently they cable cuffed his arms and searched him. They found the scalpel within seconds. Dora opened the glass doors and stepped out allowing them to close behind her. She approached Dickens and told the guards,

“I pressed the alert, he has just killed and was about to kill again.”

The guards immediately placed red stick highlighter across Dickens’ forehead. It was fluorescent and would identify him as a murderer to everyone when he was in transit. There had been an initial outcry when such permanent indicators were used. Prisoners were horrified to find the mark indelible. Sociological studies found the mark more of a punishment than many of the other prison regimes. Not even facial tattoos removed the fluorescent red. Removing a deep layer of skin or branding did, but were so drastic most people could guess what had been removed and this defeated the intent. This colour branding had been started 30 years ago and it had been so successful the measure had become standard. As they hauled Dickens to the lift, he shouted at Dora, in recognition, 

“You’re a reader, she's a reader!”

He continued to shout as they bundled him out. Dora opened the glass door and returned to her chair. Checking vitals and fussing with his sheet she felt his pulse and then settled. Frontline EDW were not all readers but in a diversity drive at the same time as the second maxim announcement had meant 50% of them where.

It had seemed as if one life had been saved by her quick reading of Dickens but further

research on the case indicated that he had killed dozens of people. The Dickens case as it became known became as instrumental as the Linenbury case in changing attitudes.

A new maxim came into being, “Unity in Diversity, makes us stronger and safer”. 


(to be continued)

Withering Argument Wins Day

When we had three children under ten years old my husband and I moved to a Greek island.  Their ages were 4, 8 and 10.  To survive we took whatever jobs, that were available.  It often entailed both of us being out at work at the same time.  Being new to the island I found it hard to trust my children to a complete stranger.  Mostly, we could cover the childcare between us but for the times that both of us were committed I felt that actually the only person I could really trust on the island was my eldest son.  He was intelligent and articulate.  Very much in charge of himself and much older than his years.

In some ways, he had already hit adolescence and entered the stormy waters of rebellion.  He hated being on the island and was vociferous in complaining of the injustice of it all.  My other sons suffered probably more but did so in steadfast enduring silence.  My eldest son was furious with our decision to drag him out of his UK school across Europe to an island school where pupils and teachers spoke only Greek.  In typical fashion he combined withering argument with practical intent.  While blaming us for this miserable choice he immediately set himself the task of learning Greek.  Obviously, his campaign of a speedy UK return might not succeed so he was concerned his back up plan would be up and running.  Unknown to us, he was making friends and learning the new language fast.  School helped and a good mind when combined with a competitive edge brought him quick success.  Within months he became the family translator.  Some of the dialects he found hard to follow but even then he preserved.  After all, many of the island Greeks themselves struggled with the peculiar village accents.    So when it came to leaving my children I decided there could be no safer hands than this obstreperous elder son.  When leaving, I would announce to his siblings, “Obey your brother as you would me!”  After all, leaving a ten year old in charge was dangerous enough, without authority it would be impossible.  He turned out to be fair and firm.  Much more even tempered than myself.  I once returned to find the four year old banished to his bedroom and ran to find a sobbing child howling pathetically.  However, when I questioned him as to the fairness of his punishment, the four year old reassured me by announcing that he’d been a very bad boy indeed and deserved his punishment.

This ten year old’s zero tolerance of bad behaviour was combined with a level-headed approach.  No huge swings in emotion like his mother.  He was a pragmatic child-minder.  Marshalling his considerable skills to this task just as he had to the Greek language barrier and with equal success.  He did not believe in corporal punishment or verbal abuse. H seemed to have twigged at a young age that when you have a modicum of control over yourself, control of others becomes easier.  What pleased me was the good humour he brought to the task.  He may have hated being on this island and furious with his parents for transplanting him but he did not vent his fury on his younger siblings.  A sense of justice was a reassuring quality to find in this rebellious youngster.  His capacity as a major caregiver meant over the years he felt empowered to point out my inadequacies as a mother.  These, I had to take on the chin.  If someone has filled your shoes with skill and good humour they are entitled to point out your failings.  It has long been apparent to me that my mother, of the generation above, and my son, the generation below were infinitely better at this is parenting business than me.  I brought a lot of love to the task but very little practical ability.  My sons have proved themselves long suffering and remarkably loving in response.  They are much nicer human beings than I, thanks goodness!  As a parent, I look on in amazement that I was given the privilege of having such lovely characters in my life.  It has been epic to share life’s journey with them.  Never, in all the years of working in UK and Europe did I ever experience the quality of these three very different individuals. I suspect all mothers feel the same, but I feel duty-bound to be thankful for the gift they have been. 

To my eldest son thanks for being that odd mixture of intelligence and lightness of spirit.  To my middle son for the loving creative intuition he brings to all encounters.  For my youngest I can only celebrate his fearless passion and honesty.

But, I know with a deep certainty that we were not left alone on that island.  A marvellous array of wonderful people flooded into our lives.  From all walks of life they surged around our home.  Jimmy and Eleni, Tzampika an George, Ursula, Harold and Arline, Lyndsay. Maria, Dimetrious, Una, Karen, Zeni, Themis, Eleni, Vasilis, Leive, Mary and Nizam the list goes on and on.  My sons were surrounded by gems in the community. I can only bow my head in appreciation for all those who stepped in and stayed in our life, filling it with love and laughter.

Trust

It is the foundation of everything
On this all is built
No virtue, no quality, no saving grace
Can stand without its base
Look in vain at honesty, courage and even kindness
If there is not trustworthiness all will be as nothing

Look deep to the core of people
Sense whether that trust is there, if not flee
Do not let beauty, speech or any gift of man or God
Distract you

This is the acid test
It is the spoon upon which the others are measured
If it be missing then all is lost
Poured out upon the dust they will soon be effaced
Find within the root of trust for without this
there is no fruit only the fire of loss.