Recorded for 1-1-23A Speedometer Outside Of Windshaw
by PepperSalt89
Everyone knows what a speed camera is. Roadside cameras that track your car's speed. You've probably seen the ones with LED matrix displays; they form a happy face if you're going below the speed limit, and a sad or angry face if you go above. They're very common in my part of the world, anyway. Now I feel abject terror whenever I pass one on the road, stiffen up as its LED display blinks to life. It sounds ridiculous, but if you had seen the same thing that I've seen, you'd understand.
Just outside of Windshaw (a village I used to live in), a new speed camera had just been put in. Several speed cameras, in fact, were being erected around the village, after a child was hit by a speeding car the previous year. I had passed by them hundreds, maybe thousands of times, when the incident occurred. It was a late night, and I was driving home. I was going a little over the speed limit. I passed the speed camera. I was aware that I was going a bit fast, but I didn't care. The red angry face that would appear on the LED matrix was nothing more than a slap on the wrist. I'd decrease my foot's pressure on the accelerator, and that would be it. But instead, something worse happened. The LED display began showing images. Images of corpses. Children's corpses. It all happened so fast. It was a blur of legs and arms and spines and limbs bent in directions that made me physically sick, streaks of red and the discolored blues and greens and pinks of kid's clothes, chunks of suffering smeared across a background of tarmac. I was so distracted and horrified that I swerved off the road, hitting the speed camera.
I had never spent a night in a jail cell before, but it wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. The police were ready to let me off with a warning for reckless driving, but after I had explained the whole story, they seemed to get even more tetchy. They were convinced that such a speed camera did not exist, and I wanted to believe them. They tried to convince me that I had imagined it in a tired stupor, and some suggested that I had been taking drugs. I was ready to leave the police station and (hopefully) never look back, but one officer took an interest in my story. His name was Detective Shall, and he invited me to discuss the incident later that afternoon. Well, the afternoon came, and I returned to the Detective's office. I found him to be a fairly likable man, though he had a habit of interrupting me. We came to the conclusion that the speed camera that we dubbed the 'murder camera' did exist, and was some sort of macabre PSA. The government's never shied away from using shocking or grisly imagery as a way to scare us straight. Shall suggested that the corpses were victims of vehicular manslaughter, like a way of saying 'this is what happens when you go over the speed limit'. We joked that the murder camera would take your eyes away from the road, making it even more likely to crash. Shall told me that the village council were in charge of implementing and managing the speed cameras, even if they were surveyed by the Windshaw police. He suggested we went to the camera, to look for evidence. Why not.
The road was closed, but Shall's police pass gave him access. The speed camera lay on the side of the road like a wounded animal, surrounded by construction workers and council members in blinding hi-vis jackets. Me and Shall watched them for a while, before the apparent foreman noticed us and came to have a word. He was a snide, slightly overweight, red-faced man, closer to sixty than fifty. Shall was out of uniform, and the foreman must have thought we were trying to vandalize the construction site or some other lofty claim. He seemed somewhat deflated when he found out that Shall was a police officer, and I immediately got the sense that he took great joy in calling the police on people. Shall asked him if the speed camera's LED could be tested. The foreman said that he wouldn't, as the speed camera was not connected to the mains electricity yet, as 'some lout had hit it with his car'. Fair enough, I thought. The foreman added that his men would be testing the LED at around 4AM next morning, but 'he'd be surprised if we'd be there to see it'.
I'd like to see the look on the foreman's face if he saw me and Shall at the construction site at 4AM sharp. But he didn't see us. We were hidden in a hedgerow on the side of the road, eyes fixed on the murder camera. Sure enough, the foreman gave some sort of hand signal, and the LED display lit up. I instinctively flinched. Another slideshow of images, a slew of bent bodies that moved so fast they seemed to blend together into this half-remembered... shape. The council members gathered around the speed camera, standing stock-still. It was like something from a horror movie. I looked to Shall, who was watching the whole ordeal through the lens of his camcorder. Finally, the LED display shut off. Me and Shall slipped away into the night, getting back to his car and driving as far away - and as fast - as we could. I hoped we wouldn't go past a speed camera.
Shall was practically ecstatic that we had evidence. During the whole journey, he kept telling me to make notes of this and search up that on my phone, and that 'the boys at the station are gonna shit themselves' when they found out that their self-inflated lies were just that. I found that the head of the village council was our local MP, Elizabeth Ross. We both wanted to pay her a visit, and ask her some questions. I was given this task, while Shall would try and sell his story to the Windshaw news. Sleep would have to come first, though.
I woke up at around 9AM the next day, opting to walk to Mrs Ross' house. It was a large stately home that appeared to be crumbling at the edges. I half-expected the doorbell to fall away when I pressed it down. Mrs Ross came to the door almost instantly. She appeared to be about fifty, but her already-greying hair and wrinkles suggested otherwise. She seemed very pleased with a visitor, and practically demanded that I come inside. The first thing that hit me was a strong smell of rotten food. The house itself was surprisingly dirty, with mold-infested furniture and dust-covered trinkets packed into every corner. I breathed through my teeth, but somehow the smell still managed to permeate into my nasal cavities. She led me through a maze of hallways, finally coming to a sitting room where she told me she would bring us some tea, disappearing away into the bowels of the house. I hovered above my armchair, trying to avoid the stained everything of the house as much as I could. The mantelpiece was covered with images of a girl - presumably Elizabeth's grand-daughter. She looked familiar, but I couldn't explain why. There was also an old digital camera, which was surprisingly dust-free. Suddenly, Elizabeth returned with tea for the both of us. It was cold.
Trying to break the awkward silence, I asked Elizabeth about what it was like being a MP. This eventually lead to "What are you doing to improve the village?" to "What do you think about the new speed camera plan?" to "I had a strange experience with one of those speed cameras the other night." I ended up telling her about everything I had seen, bar my experiences with Detective Shall. Her demeanor instantly changed. She seemed more on edge, more... unstable. "We need to scare these wrongdoers. To show them what happens when they hurt people we love." I asked her who had designed the murder camera.
"It was my design. The sort of thing you see after watershed. I want to make Windshaw safe." I asked her how she had got the images. "Drink your tea, dear." I cautiously took a sip, trying not to swill it around my mouth too much. When Elizabeth looked away, I spat the tea back into its mug. I asked her if anyone on the council had spoken against her plan. "It does not matter. I have the final say. Windshaw is my child, and I will do whatever it takes to keep my children safe." I started to feel uncomfortable. The sickening heat, the omnipresent smell of rot, the bitter taste of the tea that I only now recognized as curdled milk, it began to make me feel very worried. I quickly diverted the topic, asking about the girl in the picture. "My granddaughter, Lucy. Such a sweet girl. I cared for her like I cared for my own child." Cared. Past tense. Lucy is dead, either that, or grown up. Did I recognize her from the murder camera? I decided to ask her the burning question. "What happened to Lucy?"
I don't know what happened exactly, something must have snapped. Elizabeth began screaming at me to go away, and that it was 'my fault'. Her fingernails were sunk deep into her armchair. I began to spout apologies; I didn't know what Elizabeth would do, or what she was capable of. Finally ending her outburst, Elizabeth seemed to shrivel into her armchair, hands shaking. I quickly performed the old trick of pouring the tea into a nearby potted plant, asking her if I could have another. "Why of course, dear." Elizabeth had returned to her old self, snatching up the empty mug and disappearing out of the door. As soon as she was gone, I grabbed her camera, and a few images of Lucy, placing them in my bag. I then made my way to the window, jimmying it open with the help of a fire-poker. I practically fell out of the window, lungs automatically gasping the first breaths of fresh air in what felt like hours. I sprinted across the garden and back to the street, where I was protected behind the hedgerow. I could hear Elizabeth screaming in anger from the house.
I walked very briskly back to my house. I had to go through the village marketplace to get home; it was a short detour, and I was not immediately worried about it. I was surprised, however, to walk past the newsagent's and see the Sunday newspaper's headlines. "WINDSHAW COUNCIL TO BLAME
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