The Reviver (7 page)

‘Who?’

‘The victim support officer. You’re fairly transparent. You know that, right?’

Jonah ignored the jibe. ‘Yeah, she’s cute. And what are my chances?’ The chances of anything coming of it. The chances of her not getting chill.

‘Fuck all,’ said Never. ‘But then that’s about the same as my chances, so we’re even.’ He raised his can. ‘Cheers.’

Jonah thudded his cup into it. ‘Cheers,’ he said.

*   *   *

Detective Johnson returned two minutes later to give them the go-ahead to begin setting up. Jonah and Never broke out their protective clothing and donned their paper suits and latex gloves in practised silence, putting shoe covers in their pockets, ready to put on before they entered the house. During the revival Jonah would only wear one glove, on his left hand. The right hand would be bare, ready to make contact with the victim, but he would wait until going into the house before he took it off.

Jonah sat where he was, nursing his coffee as Never led Johnson to the car. They took two cases of equipment each and went into the house.

It would take Never twenty minutes to complete the set-up and testing of all the equipment. Jonah reached inside his paper suit to his own trouser pocket and pulled out a small blue plastic box. Inside, there were four blister packs of pills, a necessary evil for a reviver’s work. One was a nausea suppressant. One was an antiemetic. One was BPV, a drug developed specifically for revivers to suppress the remnant effect. The fourth was plain old aspirin. He popped out one of each into his hand, and glared at them.

Vomiting during the initial revival was a common annoyance, and could even scupper the attempt; the nausea-suppressant and anti-emetic made that less likely, but the cocktail left him with a dry mouth and restlessness that lasted for several hours. The BPV gave him a suite of side effects including a headache, sometimes a bad one. That was why he always took the aspirin in advance.

He threw the lot into his mouth, washed it down with the coffee, and waited for them to take effect. He carefully avoided eye contact while he sat, wanting to escape any kind of interaction. Preparation time, he told himself – he needed to focus, not be distracted – but mainly it was his nature. Shy. Loner.

He found it difficult, sitting in the open, surrounded by people who were mostly strangers yet who knew what he did and what he was. It wasn’t as bad as his days at court, but even the people who were used to being on the periphery of an onsite revival could be wary of the reviver.

His drugs were kicking in, and he could already feel the slight dizziness BPV sometimes brought with it.

‘You OK?’

The voice startled him. He looked up. It was Nala George, the victim liaison officer. She nodded towards the chair beside Jonah.

‘Go ahead,’ he said automatically, avoiding her eyes. She sat.

‘I was looking for you. I didn’t recognize you with the protective clothing on. Did anyone pass on the attendance request?’

Jonah looked at her warily. Relatives of a subject could request attendance at the revival, but in 80 per cent of cases they didn’t. Even when they did, it was at the discretion of the duty reviver, but Jonah understood the importance of saying good-bye. He always tried to accommodate it. Nonetheless, it was an additional complication.

‘They want to attend?’

Nala George nodded. ‘Uh huh. Try not to sound so enthusiastic.’

‘Sorry.’ He winced inside at being so easily read. ‘I’ll do my best. Are they sure?’

‘They’ve been at a private revival before, when Nikki’s grandmother died last year. Nikki was present. She’d even mentioned that she’d want to have the same opportunity to say good-bye if anything happened.’

He thought about the complications for a moment, then opted to be honest. He lowered his voice. ‘You understand there’s a question over the father?’

Nala shook her head, with a grimace. ‘I know. It’s bullshit. Someone raises the question, and then everyone starts treating the man differently. They just like to think the worst of people.’

Jonah nodded. Thinking the worst of people wasn’t hard when you were exposed to the results – and the perpetrators – every day. ‘All the same, there’s a good chance the questioning will have to address it, so I’d rather they didn’t attend the interview.’ He saw Nala’s face drop. Her mouth opened to protest, but he held up a hand to stop her. ‘The girl’s young, her injuries are minor. Chances are good she’ll still be coherent after questioning. As long as the father’s in the clear—’

Nala broke in, impatient. ‘He
is.
’

Jonah nodded an apology. ‘As long as he is, if Nikki’s still coherent I’ll give the word and they can come in. Would they be OK with that?’

‘I’ll ask them.’

‘They have to understand, it’s not a given. And Forensics wants us to keep the scene pristine, so you’ll need to scrounge some protective clothing and keep them out here for the time being. If I give the go-ahead, they need to get inside quickly. They may not have long.’

‘Understood.’

‘If they agree, I’ll want to talk to them before I start.’

Nala George smiled at Jonah. ‘Thank you,’ she said, placing her hand on Jonah’s shoulder.

‘You’re welcome,’ he replied, looking down at the ground. With his paper suit and clothing between her hand and his skin, she didn’t feel it. Jonah was acutely aware, though, and the hint of chill was unmistakable. He felt himself deflate a little, the tension of being around her gone. She was, as expected, off limits.
Shame,
he thought.
I liked her eyes.

Nala George walked away to find the parents, to ask them if they were ready to speak to their dead daughter.

*   *   *

The third camera was causing Never some trouble. Mounted in the corner of the room farthest from the door, it had a wide-angle lens and was the least critical of the three, but testing had shown some signal degradation. The revival would be observed from the dining room next door, and so the cables he had used were among the shortest he had with him. Degradation over that distance could only mean a fault, so he had opted to swap the cable for the next length up, and live with the spare five metres coiled beside his monitor console. As he plugged the gold connector into the camera, he was aware of Detective Johnson hanging around by the door, fidgeting.

‘Nearly done,’ Never said, quietly amused by the man’s impatience. Perhaps it was a desire to get on with the revival and with the investigation; or it may have been his unease at being in the same room as a corpse. If it was the latter, Johnson would have to get used to it, if he wanted to continue working with Crenner on homicides.

The thought of the corpse reminded him it was there. Even though the cameras were trained on it, and he had spent the last ten minutes studying the live feed and checking recordings, it stopped being a body while he worked. It was just an image.

On first entering the room, he had spent a moment looking at the child, getting it out of his system. Children struck home with more power. Partly, it was their innocence and youth, but it would be naive to think that was all that made it harder. It was the
rarity.
He was in no doubt that, given enough dead children, he could become immune to the sight, just as he was to the sight of dead adults. He was grateful to find his eyes watering when he saw Nikki Wood’s body for the first time.
Not immune to it yet,
he had thought.

He finished securing the connector to the camera, took a careful step back from it and looked again at the subject. Nikki Wood’s body lay against the front edge of a light beige sofa. She lay as the paramedics had left her: on her back, her arms limp at her sides, her pyjama top pulled open. Her eyes were closed. The side of her head on the pale carpet lay in a small patch of dark blood.

She had been dead for seven hours now. Rigor mortis would be creeping in already, but revival was not always affected by early rigor; the forces involved were strong enough to stretch the muscle fibres that rigor had contracted, while leaving the muscle structure intact. Once rigor was too far advanced, this pulling would cause damage to the tissues severe enough to risk the continuation of vocal revivals, damage that would complicate the pathologist’s job even more than normal. The choice was either to wait until it began to subside, possibly another twelve hours or more, or use a series of enzyme injections aimed at freeing up the muscle.

Neither option was ideal. A long delay would reduce revival chances and required the corpse to be kept cool to minimize degradation, either with use of an onsite cooling system, or relocation of the body – which again made revival harder. The enzyme alternative was a pathologist’s worst-case scenario. Jonah’s kit contained the enzymes, and he could overrule pathology concerns – making the ultimate decision to use it his – but it always led to friction with the pathology liaison. The liaison on this case was Sally Griggs from the North East office; as no issues had arisen yet, she was handling it by phone, but Never could imagine the dialogue that would result if Jonah had to call her to clear enzyme use. It wouldn’t be pretty.

Movement to Never’s side, and a subtle cough, snapped him from his thoughts. Time was pressing.

‘I’ll see if that’s sorted it,’ Never said, walking to the living room door. ‘Then I’ll run the final checks.’

‘How long?’ asked Johnson.

‘Not long. Better go and get Jonah and your boss.’ As he spoke, a crime scene officer walked past the doorway, and Never glared at his back. ‘Aren’t they supposed to be out of here? We don’t want intrusions.’

Johnson nodded. ‘I’ll get the house cleared of everyone except those attending.’

‘So who else’ll be here?’

Johnson smiled ruefully. ‘That’s up to Bob. Pretty much everyone wants to observe. I think we could sell tickets for this one.’

Johnson left, and Never returned to the other room to see if the signal problem had been resolved. As he looked at the image of Nikki Wood’s corpse, he thought of Jonah and found himself growing anxious for his friend. He knew the questioning would not be easy. But at least the initial revival should, he thought, be a simple one.

But how could it be? How could it ever be simple to bring back a child?

*   *   *

Barely two minutes had passed when Nala George returned to the tent. Jonah felt his meds settle, the dizziness short-lived this time, and mild.

Wordless, he looked the question at her, and she nodded: the parents had agreed. He stood and followed her out.

He squinted coming out of the shade. The sun seemed relentless, the skin on his face tender and sensitive to the harsh light, another BPV side effect. The heat was immediate, and for a moment he wished he’d done the same as Bob Crenner and taken his shirt off under the suit. But he rejected the idea at once – he felt exposed enough as it was during a revival.

They reached the tape marking the inner limit of the exclusion area. The onlookers were thinner on this side, the side on which the cul-de-sac lay; most of the gawkers on the other side presumably came from nearby streets. They ducked under the tape, and a uniformed cop moved one of the metal barriers, letting them pass.

Nala spoke, her voice low, ‘Julie and Graham,’ she said. ‘They’re staying with their friend Dawn Hannick. Number 30. Just ahead.’

Five doors down from the Woods’ home, a lone female cop stood at the garden gate. She and Nala nodded at each other as they passed.

Nala knocked at the front door, and it opened to a woman who looked exhausted.

‘Dawn,’ said Nala. Dawn Hannick said nothing, merely turned and walked inside. Nala and Jonah followed, Jonah closing the door behind him.

Julie and Graham Wood were in the kitchen, sitting at a small table in one corner. They looked up – distraught, utterly adrift. Jonah had his doubts about their ability to understand what it was they were asking to do. He would have to rely on the victim liaison’s judgment, and keep a close eye on the parents during the revival if it proved possible to bring them in.

Dawn Hannick walked over to the sink, busying herself. Wary and haggard, she seemed older than her friends, perhaps mid-sixties to their late forties, but at times like this age crept up on people.

Attendance cases were often difficult, but also worthwhile – illustrating how it was not just money that drew revivers into the private revival industry. Helping bring justice to bear gave Jonah a feeling of usefulness and a deep satisfaction in his ability; it was common for forensic revivers to dismiss the work of private operators as less important. The reality was that there were far more deaths than those Jonah and his colleagues dealt with each year. The majority were unexpected. Most were devastating.

Private revivals helped people deal with the aftermath. Yet standard private revival insurance could guarantee nothing, paying only for a chance of success. It was a simple problem of numbers; how many revivers there were, at what levels of ability, against how many deaths. Inevitably the best of the best were reserved for the rich. The cheapest insurance bought you revivers with success rates of 10 per cent for uncomplicated cases. In contrast, even the worst forensic revivers had to be D3 rated, with 85 per cent success for the same case category.

There was certainly a steady trickle of defectors from forensic to private; for those revivers who had suffered all they could of vicious deaths, the appeal was obvious. Private revival work was easier in so many ways. Jonah didn’t share the disdain for it that many of his colleagues did, and could easily understand how people might be tempted by the better pay and working conditions of private revival, but he also understood that it wasn’t only the money, or the reduction in stress.

More than once, he had considered swapping the satisfaction of justice for the satisfaction of helping the bereaved – what Eleanor Preston had regarded as her calling. Sometimes, though, he could do both.

Nala walked over to the Woods and sat at the table. The couple were red-eyed and horribly gaunt, as though the trauma of their daughter’s death had physically eaten away at them. Julie Wood was wearing a dressing gown over a nightshirt, sandals on her feet; Graham an old tee shirt, jogging pants, trainers.