Halfhead

3

The bluebottles have flown away, looking for something dead to feast upon, letting the buzzing in her head settle down to a dull ache. Everything hurts: the colours, the sounds, the smells. Sharp and sparking. Like electricity dragged across her brain…

She does not think about that. She shuts it out and keeps on walking.

Sparks, and the smell of burning meat.

SHE DOES NOT THINK ABOUT IT.

She stops, one hand resting against a wall of hot brick, the surface rough beneath her fingers. Warmed by the sun and the beat of the darkened heart.

This is what happens when she does not take her medication. Things…break.

A bird lies in the gutter, on its back, a ragged hole in its side, wings crawling with mites. Beak open. Praying to the beating sun in the voice of dead things.

It’s a lovely sound.

She wants to sing. Like the dead bird. But she can’t, because of the sparks and the burning meat.

Because of Him.

She struggles on the operating table, fighting against the restraining straps. It won’t make the slightest bit of difference, but this is no place for rational thought. She’s authorized enough halfheadings to know that. These sharp, broken, terrified thoughts will be the last ones she’ll ever have.

The surgeon tries to say something, but she screams him down. Her mouth is operating on automatic: hurling abuse, obscenities, threats. Then the pleading starts: wild bargains and promises to change. The small part of her that is still lucid watches all this with detached interest: a professional behaviourist, categorizing the mental stages of the condemned mind. She wets herself.

An orderly presses a hypo against her shoulder and pulls the trigger-pins and needles swim through her body as the sedative rides her bloodstream.

She opens her mouth for one last scream, but nothing works anymore. All broken. Her body sags against the chilly metal.

The man is talking again, describing the procedure to the viewing gallery. She closes her eyes and does something she’s not done since she was a little child. She prays. She doesn’t pray for salvation, or forgiveness, or world peace, she prays that the surgeon will fuck this up and kill her on the operating table. That she won’t have to spend the rest of her life like the other lobotomized slaves. That she won’t…

And then the sound starts.

The surgeon pulls the ultrasonic blade from its holster. The sound jumps to a screech as he runs it across the test block-just a few practice incisions-getting a feel for the wand’s hair-trigger with his long, thin fingers.

‘We begin,’ he says, ‘by splitting the lower jaw.’

Gloved hands pull at her lower lip and the wand screeches. Ionized blood and bone fills her mouth. It’s the last thing she’ll ever taste. She tries to tear her head away, but the only things she can move are her eyes, sweeping the operating theatre, the viewing gallery, looking for something, anything to stop this from happening. This is not how it’s supposed to end. She was careful. She was so very careful.

There is a cracking noise. Her whole head shifts, as the surgeon works one half of her jaw free of its socket.

Then her eyes find Him.

He’s sitting in the front row, His face close to the glass, Network-issue, dark-blue suit almost invisible in the dim light of the viewing gallery. Here to watch her suffer. The ragged scar she gave Him is just a faint purple line now, snaking its way down His face like a tear of drying blood. Soon there will be no trace of it left, scrubbed away through the miracle of modern medicine. But the scar she’s given His soul will be there forever.

Will stood underneath the cooling unit, enjoying the breeze on the back of his neck. Outside, the sun was at its zenith, broiling the air until it shimmered. But in here it was nice and cold.

It was always cold in the mortuary.

‘Any luck yet, George?’

The man in the green plastic overalls looked up and shook his head. A human jigsaw was spread out on the slab before him and, as Will watched, the pathologist dropped something unsettling onto a tray then smeared his hands down the front of his chest.

George waddled over to a little sink and rinsed his gloves off. ‘How was Worrall’s funeral?’

‘Hour and a half late. The family weren’t particularly impressed.’

‘No pleasing some people…’ George sniffed, pulled out a handkerchief, and made horrible sticky snorting noises into it. ‘Machine’s still trolling through the database, but while we wait for an ID, want to see what I pulled out of your dead friend here?’

‘Not really, no.’

George smiled, stretching his podgy face as far as it would go. ‘Thought you weren’t squeamish.’

‘I’m off for lunch in twenty minutes. Cafeteria do a good enough job of putting people off their food, they don’t need any help from you.’

‘Ah, funny you should mention lunch…’ He grabbed a clear plastic bag from the bench behind him. ‘Tada! Stomach contents!’

‘Wonderful.’ Will took one look at what was sloshing around in the pouch and changed his mind about having the ratatouille.

‘Knew you’d like it.’ George gave a huge, gurgly sniff. ‘Want to know what’s in it?’

‘Surprise me.’

‘Oh, I can do that all right: human flesh.’

Will’s face froze. The drumming started again; the long dark corridors sticky with blood; the mutilated faces…’Please tell me it was his own.’

The pathologist shook his head. ‘Nope. It’s someone else’s. Consumed at least eight hours before he popped his clogs.’ George grinned, obviously happy to have ruined someone’s day. Rotten little gnome that he was. ‘Now you go off and enjoy your lunch. I’ll give you a shout if the machine comes up with anything.’

Will’s new office was a lot larger than the last one, but there was the same lack of personal detail. No paintings, no knickknacks, no holos, not even a framed plaque. If it weren’t for the words ‘ASSISTANT SECTION DIRECTOR WILLIAM HUNTER’ on the door, there would be no sign that anyone worked here at all.

He reached out for the mug, sitting on a bland grey coaster, and took a mouthful. Gagged. Then spat it back into the cup. It used to be tea; now it was a cold, beige, watery liquid with a film of artificial milk scumming the surface.

He carried the offending beverage out into the corridor and poured it into the nearest pot plant.

‘Mr Hunter?’

Will froze. Oh…bugger.

He turned to see the woman voted ‘most likely to inspire murder’ at last year’s Christmas party. In her stocking feet she would have been an unremarkable five foot four, in her power heels she was an unpleasant five foot seven. Her hair hung round her head in a no-nonsense pageboy cut, framing features that could be generously referred to as ‘lumpy’.

‘Ah, Director Smith-Hamilton. How nice to see you.’

His boss beetled her neatly trimmed eyebrows. ‘What exactly are you doing, Mr Hunter?’

‘I…The…plants were looking a little dry. Probably the weather. Thought I’d give them a drink?’

‘Ah: that’s what I like to see! People thinking of their working environment as more than just a series of walls and windows. Very good.’ She placed a hand on his arm. ‘Studies have shown that plants have a positive effect on morale. And anything that improves morale, improves productivity.’ Director Smith-Hamilton gave his arm a squeeze. ‘But then, I don’t have to tell you that!’

‘Yes, well, if you’ll excuse me, I have to-’

‘Anyway, that’s not why I came to see you, William.’ She leaned in close, eyes sweeping up and down the corridor, voice dropping to a loud whisper. ‘I had a meeting with the Justice and Defence Ministry: they’re cutting the Bluecoat budget again. How those poor souls are supposed to maintain law and order with what they’ve got left is beyond me. So as part of a damage limitation exercise I have decided to launch an initiative!’ She beamed at him.

Oh God, not another initiative-they still hadn’t finished clearing up after the last one.

‘Really?’ He did his best to sound positive.

‘The last thing we need is the rank and file resenting the Network because we get more funding than they do. We need their cooperation when we’re out in the field. Especially as we’re all going to have to work a lot more closely now. So my initiative,’ she said, ‘will be to get the Bluecoats onboard. Bring in a couple of the middle ranks to liaise and work cases with us. That way they stay in the picture, we make them feel valued, and they’ll be more inclined to cooperate.’

Will was surprised: he tended to think of Smith-Hamilton as an unnecessary evil, but every now and again she proved that you didn’t get to be a Network Director by being a total mincehead. It really was a good idea, and he said so.

‘Knew you’d be onboard!’ She punched his shoulder again. ‘I’ve asked control to assign each of them an office on the premises: you know, share with an experienced Special Agent, get to know the ropes, that sort of thing.’ She stole a glance at the glowing numerals set into the skin of her wrist and tutted.

‘Oops, must dash. Got the First Minister waiting, and you know what a prima donna he is…’ She favoured Will with one last smile before marching off down the corridor.

He shook the last drips of cold tea from his mug. Well, that could have gone a lot worse. It wasn’t as if-

‘Oh, Will.’ Director Smith-Hamilton popped her head back round the corner. ‘Before I forget: I’ve moved the ASD meeting up to three instead of four, scheduled you in for a case evaluation at two thirty and I believe the first of our Bluecoat liaison officers is already here: bright young woman, definitely going places. So if you could just nip down and sling her through induction that’d be super.’

And then she was gone.

He took it all back-she was a total mincehead after all.

Will stomped back into his office, keying his throat-mike. ‘Control: the Director’s new Bluecoat liaison officer, where have you put her?’ The sooner he got the induction out of the way, the sooner he could get some real work done.

There was a pause, then, ‘In with Special Agent Alexander, sir. Do you want me to put you through?’

‘No, thanks anyway.’ He killed the link and rode the lift down to the fourth floor.

Agent Alexander’s tiny office had two grey desks shoehorned in, facing opposite walls. One was a mess of battered dataclips, the trays overflowing with unfinished files and open cases. Old-fashioned, two-dimensional photographs covered the wall above the desk; a lot of them pictures of Will and the office’s owner. Restaurants, birthday parties, pubs, standing about like stuffed penguins and grinning like idiots at some ceremony or other. Back when they both had a lot more hair.

An explosion of foul language pulled Will’s eyes towards a pair of lurid green trousers sticking out from under the other desk, and as he watched, the desktop terminal hummed into life, beeped twice and then flickered off again. This time the frustrated cursing bore all the hallmarks of impending violence and Will was almost afraid to ask,

‘Anything I can do to help?’

Ms Green Suit, the Bluecoat from the Sherman House toilets, stuck her head out and pointed at a pile of cabling. ‘Pass us over the red one…No, not that one: the one with the big square bit on the end.’

She flashed him a smile, but it turned into a scowl when she saw the space the red thing was supposed to fit through.

Will kept his mouth shut as she did her best to shove the ‘big square bit’ through a small round hole in the plasticboard. There was a thump. Then: ‘Fucking cock-monkeys!’ She crawled out from under the desk, sucking a set of raw knuckles.

‘You want some ice to put on that?’

‘Only if it’s keeping half a pint of gin company.’ She sat back on the office floor and scowled at the tiny drops of blood beginning to form.

Will dropped into a crouch and peered under the desk at the offending ‘big square bit’. The hole it was supposed to go through was less than half its size. ‘What’s on the other side of the wall?’

‘No idea. You want me to go look?’

He nodded and she marched out of the door and into the other room.

‘See anything?’

Her voice echoed down the corridor, ‘Just a manky pot plant. Junction box is further down.’

‘Good. Move the plant.’ Brian always kept a spare Palm Thrummer in his desk. Will spent a whole fifteen seconds bypassing the securilock, then went rummaging through the junk-filled drawers. Brian was a good enough Agent, but he had a nasty habit of turning every place he worked into a pigsty.

Will found the Thrummer-looking like a stainless steel vibrator-beneath a pile of discarded plastic things and dragged it out into the open. If he was lucky it would still have some charge left. He twisted the two halves of the cylindrical casing till something went ‘click’ and the tines slid out.

‘Stand back from the wall.’ He pointed the weapon at the offending small, round hole and thumbed the trigger. The Palm Thrummer growled and a fist-sized section of wall disappeared in a cloud of dust. There was a shriek from the other room.

A stunned face gawked at him through the hole. ‘Do you not think that was a bit over the top?’

‘Call it lateral thinking.’ He grabbed the ‘big square thing’ and tossed it through.

She grabbed the connector before it hit the carpet and laughed. ‘You’re not right in the head, you know that?’

‘Look, we got off on the wrong foot this morning, how about we start again?’ He stuck his hand through the hole for shaking. ‘William Hunter.’

‘Detective Sergeant Jo Cameron.’ Her handshake was firm, but warm. Made a nice change to find a professional female who didn’t feel she had to prove something by crushing all the bones in his hand. ‘You going to be my new room-mate then?’

‘Not really, no.’ He stood, waiting for her to come back round to the cramped office.

‘Ah…I get it.’ She pointed at the nameplate on the door ‘SPECIAL AGENT BRIAN ALEXANDER’. ‘This isn’t your office, but your picture’s all over the wall. What are you two, lovers or something?’

‘No, I’m his boss. Assistant Section Director.’

‘Ah…’ She raised an eyebrow.

‘Brian and I came up through the ranks together.’ That wasn’t strictly true, he’d come up through the ranks, Brian’s career had stalled at Special Agent.

‘You two aren’t an item?’

‘Don’t think Brian’s husband would approve.’ Will settled back against the cluttered desk. ‘So, how come you got lumbered with the liaison job?’

‘They stuck the posters up a fortnight ago, thought it sounded like a good idea. Put my name down.’

‘You’ve known about this for two weeks?’

‘Yeah. Why?’

Will closed his eyes and had a swift mental fantasy involving Director Smith-Hamilton, a seven-foot skewer, an open fire, and some barbecue sauce.

‘No reason.’ He forced a smile. ‘So, shall we start your induction DS Cameron?’

‘Sir, if you’re the ASD you have to call me Jo.’

‘Sir?’ Not what he’d been expecting after this morning’s run in.

‘Just because I’m a Bluecoat, doesn’t mean I can’t follow the chain of command. And anyway,’ she shrugged, ‘I might want to join the big N some day.’

They went through the building from the top down: toured the rooftop landing zones, walked the corridors of power on the seventh floor; pointed at the other Assistant Section Directors on the sixth; glided past the Special Agents on five, four and three; poked their noses in on the juniors and trainees on two and one; stuck their heads round the control room door on the ground floor; did more pointing at the famous paintings in the public areas; sauntered through the legal department, briefing rooms and operation zones on the first sub level; ignored the canteen and VR reconstruction suites; and ended up deep in the building’s bowels. Outside the mortuary.

Will didn’t take long to warm to his task as tour guide. DS Cameron was likeable, bright, and she’d joined in when he’d poked fun at the tourists gawping their way around the ground floor.

‘Quite some place,’ she said. ‘Beats the crap out of the clapped-out Victorian pile I work in.’

‘City Central?’

‘Yeah, for my sins. Than and the occasional jaunt out to Monstrosity Square: keeping an eye on the termites.’

‘Termites?’ He stopped with one hand on the mortuary door. ‘They’re not insects, they’re people.’

Her chin came up. ‘You’ve never been in a fire-fight down there, OK? So don’t tell me-’

‘Virtual Riots. Sherman House. We were three days out of the Academy.’

‘Oh…’ She blushed.

‘Dehumanizing them doesn’t help, Jo. Trust me.’ He pushed through the tinted double glass doors into the mortuary’s reception area. A pretty blond in tight-fitting patent leatherette looked up from a datapad and smiled as they stepped onto the immaculate marbled floor.

‘Assistant Director Hunter!’ The receptionist bustled out from behind his desk, arms out as if he was expecting a hug. ‘How nice to see you again.’

‘Afternoon, Duncan.’ Will turned to introduce DS Cameron and stopped when he saw the expression on her face: cheeks twitching, eyes all sparkly. Making little snorting noises. ‘Is George in?’

The shiny young man nodded. ‘Popped out earlier, but he’s back now. If you like I can give him a shout? Ask him to come out and meet you?’

‘It’s OK, we can manage.’ There was no way Will was going to hang around here with DS Cameron for any longer than was strictly necessary. Not when she was on the verge of the giggles.

‘God, did you see his suit?’ she said as the mortuary door hissed shut behind them. ‘I’ve not seen anything that shiny since I worked vice!’

Given the neon-green monstrosity she was wearing, she was in no position to criticize.

Will led the way along the long, antiseptic corridor to a door marked ‘STORAGE & EXAMINATION’. Someone had stuck a cartoon up beneath the sign: a hunchback and a mad scientist on the beach, playing volleyball with a brain. Frankenstein’s monster sat by the net, the top of his head open like a pedal bin. It was captioned: ‘IGOR’S DAY OFF’. And just in case that was too subtle, the word ‘IGOR’ had been crossed off and ‘GEORGE’ written in its place. It was a surprisingly good likeness.

The man in question was sitting on one of the slabs, drinking a mug of something that sent sweet-lemony-menthol steam into the cold, circular room. His lunch was spread out on the stainless steel beside him, and as they crossed the floor he popped a slice of CheatMeat in his mouth and made blocked up chewing noises.

‘Supposed to be teriyaki swan,’ he said, voice echoing off the metal walls, ‘but it tastes more like old socks.’ He polished off another slice. ‘Who’s this you’ve brought with you?’

‘George: Detective Sergeant Jo Cameron. She’s going to be with us for a while, helping coordinate Network-Bluecoat investigations and resources.’

‘A veritable vision in green…’ A smile pulled at George’s podgy face, making his cheeks swell and his eyes disappear into little wrinkly slits. Like a short-arsed Buddha on an off day. He reached out and took the hand Jo had stuck out for shaking, turning it at the last minute to kiss the back. ‘What’s a lovely creature like you doing hanging around with Mr Misery Guts here?’ He beamed up at her, apparently having no intention of giving her hand back.

Indecision flitted across DS Cameron’s face and Will got the nasty feeling she was about to punch the pathologist’s teeth down his throat. But she didn’t. Instead she performed a graceful little curtsey and batted her eyelashes.

‘Well now…’ she treated George to the full strength of her smile. ‘How else would I get to meet a man as handsome as yourself?’

George just giggled and blushed.

‘If you two have quite finished.’ Will marched over to the centre console and brought up the file on the mangled remains they’d retrieved from Sherman House that morning. The lights dimmed and an old holo projector flickered into life: 3D shots of the victim’s remains crackling in the air as the carousel started to turn-its long mechanical arms selecting the appropriate bodypod from the pigeon-holes lining the walls.

An examination slab creaked up out of the floor and the carousel clicked the metallic canister into it, retreating back to the roof as George waddled over and unclipped the tabs. With a faint poom of trapped air, the tube fell open, revealing a collection of pale-yellow body parts, all neatly labelled and categorized.

George had forgotten to put the top of the skull on, exposing a nasty interior view of their victim’s head. ‘Oops.’ He popped the hairy lid back in place and secured it with a squirt of skinglue. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, may I present Mr Allan Brown.’

‘You got an ID?’ Will was impressed. ‘How the hell did you manage that?’

‘Ah.’ George tapped the side of his nose, scrunched up his face, and sneezed explosively. Then snorked into a scabrous hanky. ‘Mr Brown was part of the PsychTech programme. They kept full records: dental, retina, DNA…you name it they kept it.’

PsychTech. Jesus, even the word was enough to make Will’s stomach churn. He swallowed hard, wondering why it suddenly felt hot in here.

The little pathologist waved a hand at the holo image. Nothing happened, so he did it twice more, cursed, then stomped back to the console, kicked it, and stabbed a couple of buttons. A naked child appeared next to the cutting slab, fizzling in and out of existence. A little blue tag, floating next to his head, said ‘ALLAN BROWN-5 YEARS OLD’. The image lurched as the child grew, the counter increasing with every holographic scan. The last one in the series showed Brown at eighteen, six years before someone decorated a stinking toilet cubicle with his innards. An unremarkable young man with nothing but pain and death in his future.

George hauled a transparent plastic bag from the canister. There was a large, unmistakeable, gelatinous-grey lump sitting in a puddle of yellowy liquid.

‘You’re not going to like what I got out of his brain.’

Will forced a smile. ‘Can’t be any worse than the stomach contents.’

‘You’d be surprised.’ He waved at the display again, and this time it worked: a large schematic of the victim’s brain appeared, bright green, yellow and red bands glowing in the dim mortuary light. ‘See it?’

Will frowned, trying to work out what the different colours meant in terms of neural chemistry. He’d only ever learned to recognize two patterns: one was the distinctive mark of the confirmed serial killer, the other was far more dangerous. Right now he was looking at a combination of the two.

‘You’re right. I don’t like it.’

‘There’s more.’ The little man pulled a datapad from his pocket and typed in a rapid stream of numbers. Another naked figure flickered into life beside Allan Brown, only this one looked like a jigsaw puzzle where half the pieces were missing. ‘Mr Kevin McEwan, he came in day before yesterday. They found bits of his family all over the apartment. Wife and two children.’

A second brain appeared, turning slowly in cross section. Large chunks of it were missing-most of the back where the brainstem should have been was gone-the edges all torn and frayed.

‘Doesn’t have the same level of prefrontal lobe activity, but everything else is the same.’

DS Cameron stared up at the floating brains. ‘I don’t get it…What are we looking at?’

Will pointed at the one on the right. ‘This is the guy we scraped off the toilet floor at Sherman House this morning. You see the yellow banding? That’s caused by a lack of serotonin and glucose; it means a loss of activity in the prefrontal lobes. When that happens, you get someone who has a great deal of difficulty controlling their base urges. More often than not they don’t even try. It’s a classic indicator of a disorganized serial killer.’

She nodded. ‘So this could be a revenge thing: our victim-’

‘It’s also indicative of something else.’

‘What?’

The pathologist pulled out his hanky again. ‘Remember the VRs?’

‘You’re kidding!’

George blew his nose, then sighed. ‘I wish. The brain patterns are almost identical. I started looking for a connection as soon as I got an ID on the stiff you brought in. They’re both from Sherman House. Lived two apartments away from each other.’

Oh shit…This was not good. This was not good at all.

Will stared at the ceiling for a moment. Took a deep breath. Swore. ‘We’re going to have to go back there, aren’t we?’

DS Cameron turned on him. ‘What do you mean, “we”? This is my investigation, you were only there for SOC backup. All that bollocks you spouted about cooperation, and first chance you get you steal my case!’

‘I don’t have any choice, OK?’ Will ran a hand across his eyes. ‘If this really is an outbreak of VR syndrome it’s a Network matter. Fuck…’ He kicked the nearest chunk of machinery. Didn’t make him feel any better: his stomach was still full of snakes. ‘Better grab your coat DS Cameron: we’re going on a little field trip.’