‘They’re in Tiger Lodge,’ said Smitt. ‘Only fifty residents.’
‘What’s this building?’ asked Bastian, pointing at the map.
‘A generator, we have electric here, thank God. I don’t know what we’d do without it.’
‘And this one?’
It was at the back of the homes with a rail link to the docks. It had no name.
‘We call it the Garden of Eden,’ said Smitt.
‘It’s a greenhouse?’
‘You can go inside after you meet Jeremiah and Eliza. I just have to see a colleague for a moment, wait for me in the golf buggy.’
Bastian did as asked, hoping Smitt hadn’t noticed the nervous tremor in his voice.
‘He’s here,’ said Smitt down the phone.
* * *
Bastian’s heart was pounding as they entered Tiger Lodge.
An old man in the corridor gripped a walking-frame and overseen by a care assistant to ensure his awkward balance didn’t lead to a fall. Bastian smiled at the carer and then the resident but they looked right through him as though he didn’t exist.
Smitt knocked on the door of room sixty.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ he said. ‘And don’t worry, it all stays confidential.’
The door swung open and Bastian took a deep breath before walking inside.
‘They said someone was coming to cheer us up,’ said Jeremiah, as the door closed.
‘You’ve lost weight,’ said Eliza.
She had a tear in her eye as Bastian bowed to them both. His parents remained seated and he pulled up the only remaining chair to join them.
‘You can see their rooms later,’ said the HCA with her back to him and her hair done up in a bun.
Bastian recognised her voice immediately, it was May. She turned around and put a finger to her mouth. Bastian was disappointed there was no smile to greet him.
There were four glasses on the table and May filled them with cider from the flagon.
‘To old times,’ she said.
Everyone raised their glass before knocking it back, except May.
A minute later and Smitt entered the room to check the pulses. ‘They’re dead,’ he announced with the stethoscope in his hand.
Bastian and his parents were collapsed on the floor, the cyanide killing them in seconds.
‘You know I hate this bit,’ said May, putting down her poisoned chalice.
‘Killing them?’ asked Smitt.
‘Euthanasia, actually. But I meant showing the concerned relatives around.’
A carer stepped into the room from outside in the corridor, as two more wheeled back the plywood wall. Behind it was a rail track that led to the Garden of Eden.
The three bodies were quickly thrown into a small freight truck on the tracks and rolled to their final resting place. The home managers tried to keep it quiet but the cutting, chopping, and finally the bone pulverising machines made too much noise as retirees’ bodies were converted to fertilizer and other goods. Concerned retirees were told it was the generator playing up and most chose to believe it.
Smitt filled out the death certificates, ‘natural causes.’
‘A happy diagnosed end,’ he said to May. ‘The kind our old people deserve with everything taken care of.’
‘The old man suspected,’ said May.
‘And he lied to himself and Eliza, like they all do. Remind Heinz to euthanize those bloody polo players and yoga students tomorrow, the show’s over.’
May began to tidy the room, careful of her baby bump. Bastian’s child already had his name down at an orphanage close to their old village.
‘You’d think that someone would warn their visitors,’ she said.
‘Are you kidding me,’ said Smitt. ‘That’s all the old ever did, sacrifice the young so they could rest in peace.’
‘Leave the carers to clear up, let’s go and have a meal together,’ he said.
And before they had put down their knives and forks in one of the wonderful staff restaurants, the remains of Jeremiah, Eliza, and Bastian were bagged up ready for a return trip, 55919 to 55921, with candles for the church and neatly stacked bars of soap for the chain-gangs left over.
Chapter Forty-Four
‘Who are those people?’ asked Wildflower, as they waited in the departures lounge ready to board the airship to Norway.
‘Retired HCA’s from Scotland,’ said Holroyd.
‘Scotland’s not good enough for them?’ asked Wildflower.
‘I guess they’ve seen too much of the place.’
It was a bright sunny day made for fresh starts and Wildflower purred as she saw the enormous white balloon with its fins and propellers. Underneath was the flight deck with a row of nine round windows behind. Their forged boarding passes were checked and they were waved through the cordon onto the tarmac with the care staff trailing behind, carefully looking at every small detail.
There were more militia at the ports these days after FA892 had breached security and escaped, with the previous commander in charge retired early.
A young man with freckles approached Holroyd and he paid him the remainder of their ticket money with a long tube of gold sovereigns.
Wildflower held the brass rail as they walked up the carpeted platform, her legs weak at the excitement and the exhaustion of keeping it together. Life took a lot of getting used to after two years in Angole.
Inside the airship, a smiling airhostess greeted them before leading the way to their private room courtesy of the captain and to prevent anyone blowing their cover. ‘VIP room,’ read the nameplate.
‘My bags?’ asked Holroyd, who’d packed a few masterpieces from the cart-boot sales in and around London.
‘In the hold,’ replied the airhostess.
The cabin was spacious with several aluminium chairs and a matching dining table covered with a white shroud like tablecloth.
Wildflower sat in a chair and tried to move it forwards but it was screwed to the floor like the table.
‘In case of air turbulence,’ explained Holroyd.
‘We’re really leaving,’ said Wildflower, looking out of the window.
The propellers were turning, humming in happiness, and Holroyd squeezed Wildflower’s hand.
‘A toast?’ asked Holroyd, looking at the bottle of champagne and glasses on the table.
‘Let’s get to Norway first,’ said Wildflower.
An hour into the flight as they excitedly caught up they
