The Early Nineties

 

The government newspapers—a daily tabloid and a broadsheet, The Orb and The Inquisitor—were open under their noses. Pictures of the exterior of the latest murder house, along with photographs of the victims extracted from their Asylum patient files, took prominence on the front pages. The headlines screamed: Butchery in Lie, Death in the Community, Fresh Murders, with the promise of more details and further pictures—shots of the butchered corpses—on the inside pages. As ever, the press had their sources, and a scurrilous police photographer had provided the goods.

The fifteen minutes of morning break was almost up and by now an audible buzz was about the room on the subject of these murders most foul. People were animated by the heinous crimes. Joe and Mordechai began to vent on the topic, too.

—“I hope they get the fucker soon,” was Grudge’s contribution to the discussion. “He must be one sick bastard! Look at the details, he chopped them to bits.”

—“I wouldn’t count on the police to find him that quickly, Big Grudge,” Mordechai said. “Of course, it would be a different story if it was you blogging against the government. They’d be around to your gaff in a second.”

—“Easy, Mord,” Joe said, throwing his eyes towards the listening device attached to the canteen wall. “Watch what you’re saying, you never know when they’re monitoring you.”

Mordechai put his finger to his lips and smiled. Grudge nodded. It was an unusually perceptive remark from Joe.

The horn blasted again. The drones returned to the factory floor and resumed their chores.

©Brian Ahern 2014