Chapter 8
Stephanie, Morrison and the team moved quickly through the building. Vast and hollow, it was cold, forcing their senses to sharpen and their imagination to create hidden dangers.
They climbed the stairs quickly to the third floor.
"This is the floor with the open window," said Morrison.
"What are we looking for?" asked Stephanie.
"We need to find the south side of the building that overlooks the front entrance. If we can find their room we can look for evidence that they were thrown or pushed.”
Stephanie felt sick at the thought of what they might find. Murder would change everything, not only the objectives of her personal task, but the entire proposed method of ending the riots. So far a mass panic had been avoided, but fear can change people. The military and police forces would be forced to undertake unthinkable methods of detaining the rioters. It was a scenario that could change the world.
"Stop here," Morrison commanded.
He looked through the door of the stairwell.
"We’re here, straight down the corridor, look, that glass door, it looks like it has been barricaded from the inside. Follow me closely."
They moved quickly, bending down as they ran, using desks and control panels for cover. Many of the windows were smashed, covering the floor with glass which crunched underfoot, sounding across the entire floor. As they approached the glass partition, it was clear that nobody had entered. Inside chairs and a sofa were piled up against the door and windows. Morrison looked through a small gap between the furniture.
"It's definitely the right room and it looks like they were broadcasting, the live light is still on and the control desk is still lit up. Why would they have been broadcasting? Why hadn’t they left the building?" he asked.
"Can you see the window?" asked Stephanie.
"It's not smashed, but open," Morrison replied. "Did they jump? We need to get in there, everyone stand back and cover your ears."
Morrison shot the window once, immediately breaking the glass, sending the furniture tumbling into the corridor.
"Why would they stay once the rioters entered the building?" asked Stephanie.
"That’s a very good question," replied Morrison.
He wandered over to the window and looked down at the bodies that lay below.
Stephanie continued to observe the scene in disbelief. Turning to the main console, she noticed a piece of paper with a message in thick black letters that simply read, WHOEVER FINDS THIS MESSAGE PRESS PLAY ON CHANNEL 5.
"Morrison, look," she said hurriedly.
"A message from the dead. Let's see what they left us."
He pressed play on the console and they waited anxiously.
"My name is Anton Everett and I am with Peter Osbourne."
"The names match the ID badges," Morrison confirmed.
"We are here in Broadcasting House on the third floor, trapped by what seems to be a group of the rioters who have begun attacking London. We have tried to leave but there were too many of them surrounding the building … wait, they are on our floor and they have tools. They are smashing everything. Shit they’re coming, they’ve seen us, I’m getting out … “
The window could clearly be heard being opened before the message ended suddenly. They stood in silence.
Stephanie crouched down as a feeling of nausea swelled inside her.
"Oh my, they jumped," she said, beginning to cry.
“There’s nothing we can do for them now,” said Morrison, crouching beside her.
As horrifying as this revelation was, they all knew it was better that it had ended this way. If news had broken that people were attacking each other, there would have been no return. The result would have been more than panic, it would have been anarchy.
"Make a copy of that recording and we'll meet you in the front foyer," Morrison ordered a member of the security team. "Stephanie, you and I need to get to the archive room."
Stephanie was struggling to stand.
“Stephanie, think of the bigger picture. We have to move on. Don’t let them die for nothing.”
“You’re right,” she said. “I’m sorry, lead the way.”
The archive room was situated in the basement. Morrison and Stephanie were now sprinting to make up for lost time, taking two stairs at a time. They reached the basement quickly, finding a sign for the archive room directly in front of them.
"Are you feeling lucky?" asked Morrison.
"More so than those poor people outside," she replied.
"I know. They must have been scared beyond imagination to have jumped," said Morrison.
"They couldn’t have known people weren't being attacked. It was too soon."
"Here we are," said Morrison.
He opened the door with the ID card he had taken from one of the bodies outside. Inside the room the temperature was kept constant to keep the multiple computers cool. Every piece of recorded music that had been transferred to a digital format could be accessed from this room. Stephanie looked down the long aisle that separated the cabinets. Until that morning, she was unaware that the room existed and now felt excited and nervous. The room was not accessible to the general public and had been kept in a manner that demonstrated pride and care. The radio and television Broadcasting House produced was a formulaic schedule of state news and educational programming. Stephanie was suddenly aware that she knew nothing about who controlled the building. It was an institution that had great influence and responsibility, and yet, it contained valuable, historical items that were forbidden to public view. Stephanie hesitated momentarily. She was suddenly aware that she had stepped into an area that contained elements from the past that she was forbidden to see in the present. This realisation filled her with thoughts and questions that she felt would never be answered. Morrison brought her focus back to the task at hand.
"What are you looking for exactly?" he asked.
"Well, music used to be produced on a large scale and was accessible on many formats, until it was almost entirely digitalised and the internet became the main method of listening and purchasing music. The crash was the final nail in the coffin of recorded music. In this room however, we are standing in a museum of sorts that only a few people get to experience.”
"How do you know all this?" asked Morrison.
"I literally know what I just told you. Ken Buckley told me that and then showed me some images of what we need. But it was Jacob who brought the theory to the PM."
"The Prime Minister’s intern?"
"Yes, we wouldn't be here without him."
"Jacob - really? I like the young man, but he always looks so serious."
"I suppose he is, but I think that’s because he sees the world differently to us. He has this idea of personal freedom that is unreachable.”
“I wouldn’t know anything about it.”
“Maybe that will change soon,” said Stephanie.
“Maybe it will,” said Morrison. “Tell me what I should be looking for."
“I want a portable player, a compact disc player preferably, and we will also need some compact discs to play.”
“I’m not sure what they look like, but I’ll do my best,” Morrison replied.
They walked through the long room looking at the items that were displayed. They were walking back through time – a musical museum, kept in a basement away from sight. The room was organised so that the objects produced most recently were at the front. It took minutes for them to walk past the units that stored the massive amounts of data. Stephanie ran her hand along the units. The unit fans whirred and the lights flickered as if dancing to the music contained within.
“Who pays for the up-keep of this equipment?” asked Morrison. “For a deceased industry, they really take a lot of care of this stuff.”
“I expect it comes from our taxes,” answered Stephanie.
Stephanie and Morrison stopped suddenly. In front of them appeared storage cupboards - lots of storage
cupboards. They were clearly custom-made to hold a specific item of a particular size. Tentatively opening the first cupboard, Stephanie experienced a feeling of excitement and relief as tens of thousands of compact discs appeared in alphabetical order.
“Jackpot,” she said.
“Let me see,” said Morrison impatiently. “They’re bigger than I expected, and there are so many.”
“I don’t know what to say,” said Stephanie.
“How are you going to choose?” asked Morrison.
“I would like to try as many as possible, but I don’t really know what any of them are. I’ll pick some out from here at random, you find a player.”
As Stephanie looked through the discs she couldn’t help but admire the artwork of the sleeves. She tried to imagine what each one sounded like and then thought about the number that lay before her. She forced herself to pick three albums and quickly moved on to see what Morrison was doing.
“What have you found?” she asked.
Morrison was standing and staring, unsure of what he was looking at.
“I don’t know. Is this what we need?” he replied.
“No,” Stephanie replied bluntly, “This isn’t it. We need something much smaller.”
“When we have more time we must find out what to do with this,” said Morrison.
The room was filling him with questions.
“Here we go,” Stephanie interrupted. “This one says portable compact disc player on it.”
“Can we try it now?”
Stephanie had noticed Morrison becoming distracted and as much as she would have loved to have spent the next few hours exploring with him, she knew time was not on their side.
“We can come back Morrison, I’m sure,” she said holding his arm.
“You’re right,” he said refocusing.
Stephanie and Morrison left the basement and reached the ground floor. They met the rest of their team and moved through the foyer. Everywhere they looked was abandoned destruction. It was a scene that should have had a soundtrack of grinding metal and glass. But the silence created its own sound within them as they ran and imagined the fear that must have consumed the two people who took their own lives.
As they stepped outside they hesitated. They stood over the bodies and silently debated what to do with them. Maybe soon they would show them the respect they deserved - but not now, the holding cells were beckoning and the prisoners waiting.