Secret Skin (40 page)

'And I'm telling you,' Savage said. 'Sit down.'

He turned to the board and took up the proper cricket pose, bat down by his legs, facing them side on.

'You see because the content is usually aesthetic rather than factual, military PR bods use PowerPoint to numb reporters into submission.' He took a test swing. 'They call it "hypnotizing chickens".' That got a laugh.

'So, I don't feel any qualms about cutting the crap.' He slung the bat casually over his shoulder.

'I'm here to find out if any of you,' he pointed a finger, 'or your departments, or your staff, have been stealing money, or investing like addicted gamblers, or consorting conspicuously with the wrong types of people, you know, money launderers.

'And as 85 per cent of corporate crime goes unreported and only 5 per cent of that gets convicted, just by playing the numbers I know somebody in this room is up to no good. So, if it's you, make sure it's hidden, or so small it's irrelevant, or I will find out.'

The Sales Director tried to speak.

'And how will I find out? Good question that man. Active investigation, that's how. So please do play your political games, bully your subordinates, each other, all that passive-aggressive shit.'

He shook his head.

'But understand this, I don't do passive. It's just aggression dressed up to look nice. It's the serial killer next door who always seemed such a pleasant man. You feel me?'

A table of stunned faces looked back.

'Great, so if I want to see your files, work on your computers, talk to your staff, make it happen. Otherwise? Well-'

He smashed the cricket bat down on the laptop. The sudden violence made them all jump. The slide on the projection screen flashed once, then dissolved into a pixelated mess.

'Any questions?'

'Who the hell do you think you are?' the Chief Risk Officer said.

'Excellent question,' Savage said. 'Now, get out. And be prepared for me, that includes those listening via recording.'

Nobody moved. 'Chop, chop,' he clapped.

Everyone got up. There were a few grins. The owner of the bat said, 'That really wasn't cricket, you know,' and winked.

Natasja was the last to leave. She uncrossed her long legs, stood up from the end of the table and walked past him, holding his gaze all the way. What is it about some women? The scent? The pheromones? That heat from their skin? He gave her a small audible, 'Grrr!' as she passed. It was all he could do not to tear her clothes off.

Mmm, adrenaline. His old friend.

When they all left, he turned to Thomson, who scowled predictably. 'Now you. Where's my desk?'

*

He hated Monday mornings. Always had, always would. The same way he hated drill sergeants and liberals. In fact the sleeping man in front of him was a lefty, even though he called himself a conservative. The man wanted change, too much change. That's why his name came up green.

The last man who'd been given this job failed, made his best guess and been arrested, but that wasn't good enough. He pressed record then walked over to the bed.

He slapped the sleeping man's face, left and right, left and right, until the man came around. It'd be hard for him with the anesthetic. Eventually the man's eyes cracked open and he peered up at the smiling blue eyes behind the surgeon's mask.

'Hello Minister, and how are we this fine Monday morning?'

The minister's head lolled back as he tried to focus on the doctor in front of him.

'Where am I?' he said looking around him, at the hospital setting, white walls, white curtains, white everything. 'Who are you?'

'I'm the man that killed you.'

'What?'

'Well Minister, people like you send people like me to fight and kill for you. To do bad things in the name of freedom. And when we come back we do bad things in our homes and our communities. Take me, I murdered my whole family. Well, someone's family, and now, if I do as most men of my calling I'll kill myself out of shame and guilt.'

'What are you wittering about, man?' the minister said, eyes wide.

'Ssssh,' he said and placed a hand on the minister's lips. 'You can make all the noise you want in just a moment. Right now, listen.'

The minister began to struggle. The smile behind the mask became a laugh.

'You have gone too far Minister. Men of your ilk, particularly your cabinet, need to be scared to the new reality. No longer will we kill our own on our return, we will kill yours. You need to learn what happens when you change things without consent. Do you understand?'

'What the hell are you talking about man?' He struggled again, his worry growing at the madman in front of him. 'Nurse, nurse!'

'I had planned on letting you die peacefully, but-'

'Why can't I feel anything. Let me go.'

'Certainly sir,' he unclasped the strap that held the minister's head in place. It fell back against the pillow.

The surgeon walked back to the camera phone mounted on a stand.

'What's that?'

'This is your final words. Broadcast live to the world via the internet. If the police are quick enough they may even find our location and save you. But I doubt it.' He looked into the view screen. Zoomed the camera in tight on the minister's confused face.

'Save me?' the minister said.

'If you look down, sir.'

The minister hesitated, scared of what he might see. He lowered his head forward. The camera zoomed slowly out.

The minister recoiled and thrashed as he tried to run away, but only his bloody stumps jerked backwards and forwards. Dark red stained the crisp white linen where his arms and legs had been removed. Each new movement splattered fresh blood in tiny arcs across the sheets.

'I used a laser cutter on your limbs and the tourniquets on your stumps are military grade. They never really worked that well in the field either, sir. You should bleed out in five or ten minutes.'

The minister screamed, silent at first, his head jerking left and right, until finally a nerve-shredding wail of despair broke through.

Kevorkian stepped through the white curtains that made up the outer wall of his set. He pressed play on a machine at the back of the studio.

'Ahhhh,' the singer began. 'You're on a road to nowhere...' He listened to the minister's frantic cries for a moment, savored the disappearing life, then stepped out into the hallway of the old warehouse converted to artists' spaces.

A dread-locked woman walked past at the same moment, saw his blood soaked gown, and gave him a look.

'Performance art's a bitch,' he said.

###

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