La Femme by Storm Constantine & Frances Hardinge & Stephen Palmer & Maura McHugh & John Llewellyn Probert

Author:Storm Constantine & Frances Hardinge & Stephen Palmer & Maura McHugh & John Llewellyn Probert [Constantine, Storm]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: NewCon Press
Published: 2014-04-13T00:00:00+00:00

Haecceity

Stewart Hotston

He was waved through by an armed policeman at the perimeter. Faizul was standing on the other side of the shivering yellow cordon of inch wide tape. “Morning boss. You’re not going to believe this.”

“C’mon then,” said Michael. He stepped gingerly through the unending detritus of pulverised wood, glass and waste paper that always covered the site of every explosion he’d ever worked. The end of human civilisation was non-descript rubbish. The wreckage was beyond recovery and too vast a volume to begin imagining the clean up that would inevitably occur once they were done with forensics. Amazingly, the building was still standing, reinforced concrete struts peeking through the damp mist and floating debris as he negotiated his way around shattered masonry.

By the time they reached the point of interest, Michael was trudging through the mess without a second thought. In spite of himself he was amazed; a girl lay, without burns, in the recovery position while paramedics attended.

“First responder Darren Hall found her under a ton of roof. Got the fright of his life when she shouted out as he poked around between collapsed joists.” Faizul was reading from notes, peering occasionally over the top of his pocket book to look at the girl. “Lapsing in and out of consciousness, hasn’t said a word. Duty physician is Josh Cohn.” Michael nodded. He knew the man, mid-forties, career in public service.

“Have you met him before?” he asked Faizul.

His sergeant shook his head. “No, Sir.”

“Word of advice, he’s seen more blood than Dracula. It’s left him with a unique view of the world.”

“I’ve met my share of pathologists and morticians,” said Faizul dismissively.

Michael shrugged. He didn’t care to babysit and had warned his man about the desert-dry doctor. The rest was down to him. Waving over one of the white scene suited SOCOs he said, “Where’s Dr. Cohn?”

The eyes of the woman behind the mask rolled and with a turn of the head she indicated deeper into the site, through a partially pulverised doorway. Faizul followed after him, taking photos on his phone. They found Cohn talking to another medic. The Attending was tall and thin with a greying moustache hanging heavily and untrimmed over his top lip. Like SOCO he was wearing a white suit, although his face was uncovered.

“More survivors?” asked Michael, interrupting Cohn in mid-flow. The doctor ignored him and finished his conversation. Michael didn’t say anything else.

Cohn turned to Michael, “Ya wee shite, did your mother teach you nae manners?” His voice was like three day old cigarette smoke.

“I’m a disappointment to my mother in so many ways,” said Michael.

“Aye,” said Cohn approvingly. “Seen the wee bairn with nae a scratch on her?” Michael nodded. “What ye won’t have seen was the man she must hae been with.”

“Where’s he?” asked Faizul, looking over his shoulder to where they had come from.

“Well, big man, I’d say he’s on ye shoes, ye troos and pretty much spread across the rest of the site. If yer lucky, yon white suited minions might find his teeth.

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