The Grief Team by David Collins Read Free Book Online

one month, and twenty-seven days. Marcus is our pride and joy. We honour the child in our home, Mr. Scott.”  Emmett began to lick the dryness out of his top lip, realized what he was doing, and stopped. The Greenband was looking at him sharply. Emmett quickly decided that a question of his own was in order. “Surely no one doubts our sincerity or suitability? I am the Assistant Director of Crematoria, you know. I am not without responsibilities.”
    “Not at all, Mr. Strachan,” assured his interrogator deftly, managing to produce the words in such a tone of perfect neutrality that Emmett felt no wiser for having asked.
    Elise squeezed his left hand in support and he was grateful. Thus far, the questions posed by this single representative of the power of the malls had been disarmingly pleasant, even banal. A relieved Emmett had begun to regard the visit as perfunctory, a mopping-up of the details surrounding the terrible events which had overtaken his colleague and his family. He answered every question concerning Gordon’s activities and interests with complete honesty; moreover, he did so willingly given the fact that he didn’t know that much about Gordon anyway. They had often shared a drink and their wives and children knew each other quite well, but the substance of his own relationship with Gordon rested in their mutual concern in handling the Crematoria properly. Surely this Blueband was aware of that?
    But the questions had suddenly detoured into an examination of Emmett and his own particular views...about the Mayor, about Mall operations, shopping choices, and his extra-curricular affiliations. Emmett dutifully recorded his favourite stores in the mall, his prejudice towards Mulls, and his ongoing problem with shoes that were too tight. 
    His interlocutor was a Greenband, a fact that had offered some initial relief when he appeared on the Strachan’s doorstep a scant twenty minutes after Marcus’ worry about imminent ‘lickadation’ had been resolved. Greenbands meant a low-key investigation: interview only, no injections, no removals. When Elise, returning from the mall cooking centre several floors below in the E.C., joined her husband a few minutes later, she sat protectively by his side on the small sofa in the living room. Emmett had experienced an enormous sense of relief when Elise joined him. They were a team and would face this intrusion by the Mall into their lives together. Ultimately, he told himself, whatever Gordon had done—what did you do, Gordon? How much did you know?—it should be obvious to the Greenband that Emmett had not been involved. 
    The Greenband had introduced himself as John-Roger Scott and seemed to be following a prepared list of questions, although he kept them just outside Gordon’s view. He hinted that a number of Latimer’s colleagues, associates, and friends were also receiving brief visits. Everything seemed quite straight-forward, but Emmett was aware that a subtle shift in focus had taken place toward the end of the interview and that now his own personal views were being carefully weighed. He took care to speak clearly and concisely, employing language which bespoke his fervent admiration for the Mayor and the Malls. He aimed his voice directly toward the microphone in front of him and spoke with all the confidence he could muster.
    John-Roger Scott placed a neat tick beside the twenty-fourth of the twenty-five questions on his list. Possessed of enormous black eyebrows—and more than a little vain in his cultivation of them—the two overfed, succulent caterpillars began to slowly undulate. Aside from the standard Grief Team tattoo on his glans, Scott considered them his most redeeming feature and he employed them liberally in his assignments, allowing them to express at different times incredulity, humour, suspicion, or fury. With his stylus poised above the final question, Scott’s fuzzy appendages assumed the arched position of twin Doubting