Lee
"Budgie" Barnett is a writer of comedy and of comic books. He first
broke into the business with three stories in Imperium Comics' TRAILER PARK
OF TERROR, before getting his first big break with Marvel in X-MEN UNLIMITED
#4, which hit the shelves in August 2004. Well known in the UK Comics industry
for the annual Hypotheticals panel
he devised and presents with Dave Gibbons at the UK Comics Festival, he's been
described as being to accountancy what Indiana Jones is to archaeology. He currently
writes GOING CHEEP at the Pulse.
Two hours later, as it was approaching midnight, Grable was very glad she’d accepted the invitation to dinner. Docherty had turned out to be a delightful dinner companion and for the first hour of the meal, he hadn’t raised work at all, and she had been happy not to suggest that he did so.
She’d been surprised, when she arrived, that he’d already been there and despite knowing that she’d been correct in the impossibility of getting a table at that short notice, they had a superb table by the window.
The meal had been magnificent, but that was no surprise, and it wasn’t until they were finishing their desserts and had ordered coffee that she looked quizzically at Docherty and asked why he’d invited her out to dinner.
“Why, Doctor Grable,” he protested in mock-surprise, “isn’t the pleasure of your company enough of a reason?”
“Of course it is,” she replied, grinning, “but I suspect that’s not the reason you invited me out.”
“OK, no it isn’t,” he said, a look of serious contemplation appearing on his face. “I want to talk to you again about the incident.”
Docherty had similarly been enjoying the evening, and was not exactly looking forward to dropping the surprises that he was about to on her. He’d gotten permission from the Department to include her in the small circle of people who knew the information he was about to relate but while he enjoyed surprising people, he didn’t feel it was appropriate to be smug about it. And certainly not about this.
Slightly disappointed, despite her comments of a few moments earlier, Grable sighed. “There’s really not a lot I can tell you. Honestly. You’ve read the report, I know. And pretty much everything I know about the effects of the material are in there. I still don’t know why you want to know though.”
“No?” Docherty asked.
“No,” she said. “You worried me for a moment, with your questions about the dead tissue, but I’ve checked with the mortuary at the hospital where… what was his name?”
“Withers, Samuel James,” replied Docherty slowly.
“Thanks. Yes, where Withers was taken. They’ve checked the body for radiation. There wasn’t any.”
“That’s what they said, was it?” Docherty asked, his face innocence personified.
“Yes, and no one else was contaminated, so, what’s the problem? Why are you so interested?”
“That’s your professional assessment, is it, Doctor? Everything’s ok, because nothing actually went wrong? Well, it’s a novel approach, certainly.”
Grable paused in the midst of pouring herself a glass of the exceedingly fine wine that Docherty had purchased for them. She felt once again as if she’d missed something, just as she’d felt that same feeling when he’d quizzed her about the dead tissue some hours earlier. She waited for him to continue, and he did a moment later.
“Well, Doctor, there are only two things wrong with your reasoning. Not major things, you might think, but others, including me, could differ on that assessment.”
“OK,” she said, taking another swallow of the exceedingly fine wine that Docherty had purchased for them, “tell me what they are.”
He ticked them off on his fingers.
“First, the mortuary were instructed to give that information to you. It’s true they can’t find any radiation on the body, but mainly because they can’t find the body.” He paused at the look that had appeared on Grable’s face. “And before you ask, yes, the remains of Withers, Samuel James of that ilk, were clinically dead when he was taken in. At the moment, it’s assumed that the remains have been removed by persons unknown for similarly purposes unknown.”
Grable took a large swallow of the wine, now not caring in the least how exceedingly fine it was. “Well, that’s a good assumption, I’d have thought. Because whatever the alternative it, I really don’t want to consider it. However, I’m more concerned about the other potential error in my judgement,” she said, knowing what was coming and not wanting to hear it.
“The CCTV cameras covering the street area near the National Provident bank have been examined and all of them, both film and digital are completely blank.” He halted briefly and pulled out a cigarette, sending her questioning look. Grable shook her head, but indicated that he should light up if he wanted to. He did, and did so quietly, using a gold lighter. “Understand what I mean, Doctor. I’m not reporting that the cameras recorded nothing – I’m saying that the cameras were completely blank, as if they’d been wiped clean. So they’re no use at all. However,” and here he again took a break, as if considering his words.
“However,” he began again, “according to four separate eye witnesses, a man, aged in his mid-to late thirties, was standing about twenty metres away from the explosion. He was seen enveloped in a cloud of smoke, and then witnessed wiping his suit down afterwards, before exiting the scene.” Docherty stopped talking as the waitress arrived with their coffees. Grable and Docherty looked at each other, the former’s eyes wide and shocked.
When the waitress had walked away, Docherty poured some milk into his, and stirred. He passed the other coffee over to Grable as if he expected her to take it. She didn’t and he placed it in front of her. He looked at Grable who was staring incredulously at him as if he’d grown a second head. “How are those lottery numbers coming along, Dr Grable?”
She gazed at him in utter disbelief. His face had hardened and for some reason, she suddenly shivered. He looked like a completely different man, his eyes had taken on the look of chilled stones. “Now,” he said, “don’t you think we ought to be talking about what effects that stuff can have on a human being? And right now, Dr Grable?”
She nodded slowly, her brain racing.
“From prelimin…” she stopped and sipped at her coffee. Her face pinched and she took some sugar cubes and dropped them in, stirring slowly, marshalling her thoughts. “From preliminary results,” she said in what her mother referred to as her ‘teacher mode’, “the material affects both the natural healing abilities of a body as well as the autonomic systems. In most cases, that increased healing led directly to tumours forming, although the precise causal effects were untraceable. However, in every case, the exposed mammal died. Anyone exposed to it would almost certainly die.”
“And if they didn’t?” asked Docherty, stubbing out his cigarette and immediately lighting another.
“If they didn’t what?”
Docherty sighed loudly. He thought of how often he’d sighed since that morning, and realised that he was rapidly approaching his month’s quota. That concerned him slightly and he sighed again. “If they didn’t die, Dr Grable? What then?”
“If they didn’t die, it’s genuinely impossible to guess what would happen to them: the effects could be anything from being a carrier of, for want of a better word, let’s call radiation poisoning, to vastly improved reaction times and healing.”
Docherty leaned forward into sharp relief, the candles throwing an odd lighting pattern onto his face. “Well, Doctor, so we’ve got either Typhoid Mary or Superman running around somewhere in London tonight.”
He leaned back and laughed, a short barking, laugh. “I’m almost hoping it’s the former.”
Grable looked at him, puzzled. “Why…?”
“Because I don’t much fancy being Lex Luthor.” He stood up. “Come on.”
She stood up and watched as he threw some £50 notes on the table.
“Where to?” she asked.
“I’ll take you home. Tomorrow we…”
She interrupted him with “…go and get your head shaved?” and walked away from him, leaving him grinning behind her.
Davies was glad the lights were low, and he was only surprised when he woke up that the Doctor was still there as the clock on the wall showed it was a little after three in the morning. Her head was on the shoulder of the man Davies had assumed was her husband, and she was snoring softly, while the man read a novel. His assumption was confirmed when the man gently shook her awake, placed the novel on a side table and then walked forward to introduce himself.
“Mr Davies,” he said hesitantly, “I’m Scott Jordan.”
The name sounded familiar, but Davies couldn’t recall why for a moment. Then the man moved into the light and he placed it immediately. “You’re Scott Jordan,” he said, cursing himself for his stupidity.
“Erm, yes,” said Jordan, mystified.
“I read your pieces in The Guardian,” Davies said quickly, and then ruined the effect somewhat by saying “well, sometimes, when I can’t get The Times.” Any worries he had of offending Jordan though vanished at the genuine laugh that Jordan let out.
“That’s fair enough,” Jordan said, “honesty. I like that in a bloke.” He sat by Davies’ bed and became serious. “Though, I’d be prepared to forgive a blatant lie from the man that saved my wife and son from a gun, and took a bullet for them.”
Davies noticed that Jordan hadn’t included himself in that tribute and his estimation of Jordan took a few jumps before he remembered that Jordan made his living through words, and through persuading others through his use of them.
Jordan’s next few words though took his breath away. “Hope you’re ready to be a media star, Mr Davies.”
“What?” He was stunned.
“PR Executive saves journalist and family from gun crime? Tailor made for a story. Beats ‘man bites dog’ all to hell.” Jordan looked earnestly at Davies who thought briefly and then made the penultimate decision that, together with everything else that had happened to him since nine o’clock the previous morning, changed his life forever.
“Is there any way my name can be kept out of it? Seriously – I don’t want to be named.”
“Unavoidable, my friend. Sooner or later, it’s going to come out. Someone will find out who you are. It’s not as if you have a secret identity or anything.” Jordan stopped for a moment, then said “Why not take the bows? Defending members of the public like you did. It’s something to be proud of.”
Then Davies made the final, fateful, decision. “Well can’t you call me something else? I mean, your wife made a crack about super heroes earlier,” he glanced at her and even in the darkened room, he could see her blush, “and you just talked about a secret identity. Can’t you call me just…”
He paused as if in thought, but more just for effect if he were honest about it. “You said it yourself a minute ago. Just call me just A Public Defender.”
Now if only he’d have been talking to a reporter from any other newspaper, he would almost certainly have been fine. Any other newspaper. The Times would have been fine. The Daily Express has been known to report things accurately. Even The Sun has, on occasion, as has The Socialist Worker.
But no, the fates had conspired to put him at the mercy of The Guardian.
And despite each of them knowing why some people referred to it as The Grauniad, not one of them even saw it coming. The dawn had barely broken when the Mercedes belonging to Andrew Patt pulled into the underground car park belonging to Monkton and Doncaster. And less than five minutes later, he, together with his two companions, both dressed in dark suits, entered the building. Patt, wearing a lightweight cream business suit, had swiped the card through the card reader and was walking through the empty reception when one of the other two men called to him. Holding out his hand, he said, “Hold up, Andrew – let’s take a look at that.”
With the briefest hesitation, Patt handed over the ID card, with an almost apologetic air. Why he did so became apparent and obvious immediately. The man who’d asked for it looked at the card in faint disbelief. “This is what you call security? This piece of rubbish?”
He handed it back to Patt, who merely grinned. “OK, it’s not perfect, but…”
The other man was 32 but looked even younger. His employers were legally the Ministry of Defence, but like Andrew Patt’s curriculum vitae, the error was one of deliberate omission. Neither of them were recorded anywhere as members of the intelligence services (in Patt’s case, retired) but Monkton had long suspected that Patt had not retired from the army. However, the previous day was the first time Patt could recall that Monkton had ever explicitly said I knows, you know. It concerned him, but not overly so. He’d always known that sooner or later his cover would have been blown. Fortunately, it wasn’t likely to lead to his death, unless the news circulated outside the office.
But Patt had been with Monkton and Doncaster now for three years, and didn’t ever again expect to have to deal with his former employers. The two men with him at the moment, however, were from his old Section. They dealt with security, which explained the disdain with which they both looked the card.
“Not perfect?” said the man, who was named Brendan Ross, not bothering to keep the contempt out of his voice. “Not perfect? Andrew, even young Powers here could forge one of these.” He tossed it to his assistant, who looked at it doubtfully.
“Brendan,” said Patt, “it’s been five years since we worked together, mate, so leave it out, eh? This is a public relations firm – it’s not like we need additional security, is it?”
“Well, isn’t that what we’re here to discover?” And Patt had no real reply to that.
When they got to the boardroom, the two agents went straight to the table and looked at the chunk of it in the ground, Ross getting down on his haunches. Powers had opened his briefcase and taken out some measuring equipment and some electronic devices that Patt didn’t recognise, as well as a small digital camera. He was using the former now, taking the measurement of the hand-sized slice of table that was missing, and scanning the surface of the table watching the hand held device’s oscilloscope. He frowned, then scanned around the room. The signal didn’t vary, even when he played it over his body, and then the carpet.
“Well?” enquired his boss.
“Nothing. Nothing at all out of the ordinary.”
Ross grunted a non-committed sound and looked again at the chunk of table in the ground. “Go through it again for me, Andrew,” he instructed Patt, who was leaning against the wall, one foot placed flat against it. Patt stood upright and then paced as he spoke. Ross rolled his eyes at Powers, who grinned back in return. They’d both been to training sessions given by Patt and he was well known in the game as a pacer.
“Well,” Patt started, knowing what he was saying made no sense, “he was in the middle of a client briefing.”
“Ian… Davies, right?” interrupted Ross, standing and then taking a seat in one of the comfortable chairs.
“Yes, Davies,” replied Patt, mildly irritated at having been interrupted. “If I can continue?” he asked, letting the irritation show slightly. There being no response from either of the other two men, he took that as an indication that he might indeed, continue. So he did. “As I was saying, he was in a client meeting. Nothing special. A big client if we landed them.” He stopped for a moment, and showed a half smile. “From all accounts, it was profoundly boring until… it happened.”
Ross looked up at Patt. “Was this usual?”
“What? That initial client meetings are boring? Hell yes.” The half smile became broader. “Fully half of all client representatives could bore for England were it an Olympic event. Makes sense, really, I guess. If they could put themselves over in an exciting and original manner, they wouldn’t need us.”
“OK, point taken,” conceded Ross.
“So from what I understand, and from what he told me, after a couple of hours, Davies was struggling to stay awake, a feeling that was shared by most of his colleagues. Then he saw a spider hanging from a web about to land on his hand. He knocked it off its web and slapped his hand down. There was an incredible BANG and well… then this happened.” He gestured towards the table. “What do you think?”
“Honestly, Andrew? I haven’t a clue,” Ross said. “The only thing I’m sure of is that the story you’ve told me…”
“Story?” protested Patt. “Story? It’s what happened, damn it.”
“Sorry, you know what I mean. The scenario you’ve outlined, better?” He looked at Patt questioningly and Patt nodded slowly. “OK, the scenario you’ve outlined just simply couldn’t have happened.” He raised a hand to forestall Patt’s inevitable protests. “Look, Andrew, no-one, and I mean no-one has the sort of strength and speed to hit a table so fast and so powerfully to slam a piece of wood six inches thick from this table. It’s impossible.”
“And yet… it happened,” maintained Patt.
“And yet… it happened,” repeated Ross. “So that’s our problem. Look, the best thing can do is to go back to the office, and report in.” He stood up and gestured for Powers, who’d been taking photographs of the table and carpet, to cease. Ross started for the door and then stopped, turning. “Just in case, though…”
Patt looked at him, the puzzlement clear in his eyes. “Yes?”
“Let’s put this Davies through the ringer. I take it you’ve his personnel file handy?”
Patt nodded vigorously. “It’s in the HR office,” he said. “I’ll get a copy sent over.”
Ross shook his head. It was rather touching really how quickly Patt had forgotten the rules. You never, never, allowed someone the opportunity to tamper with paperwork when you had the chance to prevent it. “I think I’d rather take a copy. Now, please.” For the first time that morning, Ross allowed a touch of authority to enter his voice.
Patt recognised the tone, and bristled before recognising the reason for it and with a mental shrug said, “Suit yourself. It’s in HR. This way…” and left through another door. Ross followed him, after instructing Powers to take a final set of shots.
They returned in a couple of minutes and Ross studied the papers for a moment, particularly Davies’ terms and conditions of employment. He was looking for something and smiled when he found it. “Nice one” he exclaimed, “employees can be suspended on full pay pending a disciplinary board leading to dismissal for gross insubordination or for what this thing calls gross negligence.” He turned to Patt. “Fire him.”
Patt was stunned. “Fire him? For what reason?”
“Oh, come up with a reason. You’re in PR now, Andrew. You lie for a living. Though I’d have thought that the table gave you enough reason. Did you land the client?” Ross contrived a semi-interested look.
“No,” said Patt ruefully, “and we’re unlikely to.”
“Excellent,” retorted Ross. “Sorry, Andrew, but I do mean that. Nothing against your agency, but this gives you a reason to fire him. Well, suspend him, anyway. After all, if he hadn’t smashed the table, you may have landed the client, yes?”
“Well, yes… but why on earth do you want him suspended?”
Ross sighed loudly. “You’re slowing down, my friend. I don’t want him fired, I want him available. When he comes into work this morning, call me, then suspend him for negligence and we’ll have a tail on him from the moment he leaves the office.”
This week's artist: Tony Rollinson Tony Rollinson lives in London, where he counts money for a living. When he's not sitting there with his shoes and socks off wishing for extra limbs, he draws the occasional comic book.
