accent. That’s great, the way you can travel again now. It must be tough, living over there in all that civil unrest.’
‘England’s not too bad,’ said Ax, mildly. ‘Compared to some places.’
They reached the perimeter. The towers of downtown stood in the distance, like a spaceport in the haze; like a toy. The crowd surged, a single animal, towards this new event. Agent Phillips lifted a loop of tape from one of the plastic supports, and stood aside to let them through. ‘It’s the tape that attracts them,’ she remarked. ‘Do you get that in England? Shootings, murder, rape, no one sees a thing. The tape appears and the assholes gather.’
‘Yes,’ said Fiorinda. ‘We get that too.’
She could already smell the blood. Been here, done this, oh yes. What made me think it would stop? She was going to look guilty, because she was NOT going to be able to look surprised. A fat man in a Redsox teeshirt stared avidly. If you have no reason to be here, she thought, then get the fuck away. Or may something happen to teach you a lesson , shit for brains…
She had blessed, but never cursed anyone before. It felt surprisingly good.
Beside the long vans a broadly built, bearded black man was waiting. ‘I’m honoured to meet you,’ he said, ‘Mr Preston, Mr Pender, Ms Slater… Harry, thanks for your promptness. Philemon Roche.’
He showed his badge, and surveyed the three with gravitas slightly tempered by the satisfaction of someone meeting celebrities. He had a marked Jamaican accent, which put them off balance.
Ax nodded, dismissing the badge. ‘Are you going to tell us why we’re here?’
‘I don’t know what Harry told you-’
‘I haven’t told them anything,’ snapped Harry. ‘But I want to say, for the record, I don’t like the way this was done, I think this is insupportable.’
‘Good, that’s good.’ said Roche. ‘Something happened here last night,’ he said to the English experts, ‘that you may be able to help us with. The police have taken a break. Your visit is off the record, I assure you there will be no publicity.’ He addressed Fiorinda. ‘Ms Slater, we’re about to view human remains. They died violently. I’d like to leave my partner here, to keep a h’eye on those idle citizens, but would you prefer to have a woman with you?’
‘I’ll be all right.’
‘Very well, please follow me. Keep to the tracking. I know you’ve had experience, I’m sure I don’t have to remind you: touch nothing.’
They followed Roche, Harry trailing behind like a sullen teenager, along a quaking plastic walkway and into a hollow in the wasteland; into the butcher’s shop smell. ‘There’s a regl’r population,’ remarked Agent Roche, the familiar cadence of his speech weirdly at odds with his manner, and with this alien place. ‘Winos, junkies, crazies, long term homeless. Ferals. One of the ladies from the Daycare Centre at the street was doing a soup run yesterday. She says she walked right past this dell around six pm and saw no’t’in. The bodies were reported by an anonymous call just about dawn this morning, and I was alerted at once. Be careful of this last section, h’it’s unsteady. In here.’
They passed between tall white screens. On a slab of waste concrete two bodies, male and female, had been hung from a frame of metal rods, the woman by her wrists, the man by his heels. Their injuries were extreme. They had been young, and brightly dressed, from the tatters of clothing that remained. Body jewellry still glinted: earrings, a nose stud. A flag of blonde hair, a close cropped head dyed cobalt blue. Blood had pooled under them: still viscous, looking like melted chocolate ice cream. The rods were copper plumbing pipes. A sheet of canvas had been stretched behind the corpses: there were English words scrawled on it. Flies buzzed, on the bodies and the blood.
‘Well-?’
Agent Roche looked at them expectantly. The woman’s face and torso had been flayed,
‘England’s not too bad,’ said Ax, mildly. ‘Compared to some places.’
They reached the perimeter. The towers of downtown stood in the distance, like a spaceport in the haze; like a toy. The crowd surged, a single animal, towards this new event. Agent Phillips lifted a loop of tape from one of the plastic supports, and stood aside to let them through. ‘It’s the tape that attracts them,’ she remarked. ‘Do you get that in England? Shootings, murder, rape, no one sees a thing. The tape appears and the assholes gather.’
‘Yes,’ said Fiorinda. ‘We get that too.’
She could already smell the blood. Been here, done this, oh yes. What made me think it would stop? She was going to look guilty, because she was NOT going to be able to look surprised. A fat man in a Redsox teeshirt stared avidly. If you have no reason to be here, she thought, then get the fuck away. Or may something happen to teach you a lesson , shit for brains…
She had blessed, but never cursed anyone before. It felt surprisingly good.
Beside the long vans a broadly built, bearded black man was waiting. ‘I’m honoured to meet you,’ he said, ‘Mr Preston, Mr Pender, Ms Slater… Harry, thanks for your promptness. Philemon Roche.’
He showed his badge, and surveyed the three with gravitas slightly tempered by the satisfaction of someone meeting celebrities. He had a marked Jamaican accent, which put them off balance.
Ax nodded, dismissing the badge. ‘Are you going to tell us why we’re here?’
‘I don’t know what Harry told you-’
‘I haven’t told them anything,’ snapped Harry. ‘But I want to say, for the record, I don’t like the way this was done, I think this is insupportable.’
‘Good, that’s good.’ said Roche. ‘Something happened here last night,’ he said to the English experts, ‘that you may be able to help us with. The police have taken a break. Your visit is off the record, I assure you there will be no publicity.’ He addressed Fiorinda. ‘Ms Slater, we’re about to view human remains. They died violently. I’d like to leave my partner here, to keep a h’eye on those idle citizens, but would you prefer to have a woman with you?’
‘I’ll be all right.’
‘Very well, please follow me. Keep to the tracking. I know you’ve had experience, I’m sure I don’t have to remind you: touch nothing.’
They followed Roche, Harry trailing behind like a sullen teenager, along a quaking plastic walkway and into a hollow in the wasteland; into the butcher’s shop smell. ‘There’s a regl’r population,’ remarked Agent Roche, the familiar cadence of his speech weirdly at odds with his manner, and with this alien place. ‘Winos, junkies, crazies, long term homeless. Ferals. One of the ladies from the Daycare Centre at the street was doing a soup run yesterday. She says she walked right past this dell around six pm and saw no’t’in. The bodies were reported by an anonymous call just about dawn this morning, and I was alerted at once. Be careful of this last section, h’it’s unsteady. In here.’
They passed between tall white screens. On a slab of waste concrete two bodies, male and female, had been hung from a frame of metal rods, the woman by her wrists, the man by his heels. Their injuries were extreme. They had been young, and brightly dressed, from the tatters of clothing that remained. Body jewellry still glinted: earrings, a nose stud. A flag of blonde hair, a close cropped head dyed cobalt blue. Blood had pooled under them: still viscous, looking like melted chocolate ice cream. The rods were copper plumbing pipes. A sheet of canvas had been stretched behind the corpses: there were English words scrawled on it. Flies buzzed, on the bodies and the blood.
‘Well-?’
Agent Roche looked at them expectantly. The woman’s face and torso had been flayed,
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