Scrutiny

He was sitting on a comfortable chair in a small room.

He was holding a ticket. He had no idea how he came by it or what it meant. He wasn’t at all sure where he was. Other people were seated around the room; about a dozen or so. Men and women, all late in life, like him. He looked around, although there was little to see, just bare walls painted in a light grey. Nothing hung on them; no pictures, no certificates, no information boards, no clock. There were strip lights on the ceiling, but no windows. It was like a waiting room, but without it letting you know that’s what it was. In one corner, a door, and in the diagonally opposite corner, quite close to him, what looked like an elderly attendant. He was wearing the sort of uniform you would see in an art gallery, by such people. He was in a dark blue suit with a peaked cap. There was no sign of any insignia.

He was staring at him, when the man with a cap turned his head and smiled.

Getting up, he walked over to him and asked a question.

The attendant beamed up at him. Standing up himself and rolling his shoulders, he took a deep breath and said, “You want to know where you are. I can understand that. I must say, it is always most gratifying to be asked questions. Not many do. Most of them that arrive here are in a daze. I can be on duty here for two or three weeks, day after day, and not get approached by any of our clientele.” He sighed. “I can’t tell you much, I’m afraid. None of us can.”

The newcomer smiled while looking back around. “I just don’t know where I am. Sounds silly doesn’t it?”

“Not at all! A perfectly reasonable question. You’re in a very large, multi-storeyed building, just one of many. On this floor there are dozens of rooms like this. Each dealing with different groups of people. This one is identified by the ticket you’re holding.”

Looking down at the ticket didn’t help, just a string of alphanumeric characters.

“That’ll probably be meaningless to you. When they are ready for you it’ll glow. Don’t worry about it.”

Looking around again, the other grimaced and said, “Something tells me I should be worried about something, but I don’t know what!” He sniffed. “I mean, why are all these people being scrutinised? Have they done something wrong?”

“Look. You obviously want to know what’s going on. You could call it examination, analysis, and certainly judgment, if you like, but it’s definitely scrutiny. It’s very thorough, I can tell you that. Anyway, only those through the door over there, know what’s going on.” The attendant grinned. “The simple answer to your question is yes. They all…I should say, you all have something to hide. Things done in the past. Bad things, that is. Really bad things, mostly. As I… we, understand it, these wrongdoings have remained hidden.”

“Such as?”

“You know, money laundering, drug dealing, murder, genocide, but mostly murder, I think.”

“Really?”

“Oh. Yes. They are things that never get found out about by other people, but the scrutineers get to the bottom of it…”

Suddenly he sits up in bed, pauses momentarily with his eyelids flickering, then slumps back onto the pillow, releasing his last breath. The machine starts to give out a continual buzz.

“No ID on this one,” says the nurse. “Have to book him as a John Doe.”

Back in the room, his ticket glowed.