“This is thick, Rupert. Very thick.” He stood and paced as best he could in the confines of the small room. “Had it not been for Nell’s timely intervention, both of you would have shared Sir Godfrey’s grisly fate.”
A shudder went through me as Clara’s blooded blade flashed across my thoughts. “Do you think they will send another?” I asked. “Another assassin?”
“I think not. For an agent of the Fervent Fist to fall into police custody will be a heavy blow; who knows what secrets she may spill? They shall not risk a second.”
I breathed a deep sigh of relief, and Urban-Smith uttered a brief laugh. “Ha! Fear not, Rupert. Your nether-realms shall live to fight another day.”
After Urban-Smith took his leave, I returned to my bed to rest my laurels. A little after eleven o’clock, I was joined by a handsome, young Indian chappie who introduced himself as the surgical registrar. He reassured me that no serious damage had been caused, and that, in time, my fun-zone should be able to resume normal duties. I was free to return home with instructions to remove the bandages after forty-eight hours, but to keep the area clean, and away from any sharp-edged cutlery or machinery with moving parts.
Duly dismissed, I waddled, legs akimbo like a toddler with a full nappy, down to the hospital lobby to purchase a newspaper and call for a taxicab. I sat for a few minutes, perusing the main stories until a gruff voice called my name, and I looked up to see a surly, muscular gentleman with a thick dark beard, chewing an unlit cigarette and shuffling his feet impatiently.
“Here,” I called, lurching from my seat with a grimace.
“Come,” he said, ushering me towards the exit. “You come, brzydki karzeł [ugly dwarf].”
I followed him to his taxicab, climbed gingerly onto the back seat and closed my eyes.
“Niech moc będzie z Tobą… zawsze [may the force be with you…always],” said he, and with a squeal of tyres, we were away.
It seemed to me as if every pothole in London had congregated upon the route, and I whimpered and shuddered with every bump and jolt until I had no option but to lie down on the seat with my feet up against the window, cupping my swollen bathing area with both hands.
Never before had I been so relieved to see the red front door of number sixteen, Chuffnell Mews. I paid the taxi driver and staggered up the garden path, my mind filled with the promise of my soft, quiet bed. As I put key to lock and pushed the door open, the quiet was shattered by a frenzied barking, and Gonzáles, seemingly in a state of considerable excitement, launched himself into my groin with his paws outstretched.
Although I remember nothing beyond the searing agony that dropped me to my knees, I am given to understand that my wails of anguish brought several of our neighbours streaking from their houses in terror, convinced that the air-attack warning had been sounded.
While Mrs Denford attended to the traumatised (and likely deafened) Gonzáles, who had fled to cower behind the sofa, Urban-Smith helped me to my feet and led me upstairs to my bedchambers. I crawled gratefully into my bed and, despite my pain, fell asleep within minutes.
*
It was supper time when I awoke, and the smell of Mrs Denford’s delicious cooking filled me with sufficient enthusiasm to drag myself from my bed and pull on my loosest trousers and shirt before ambling down to the kitchen, where Urban-Smith was browsing the internet upon his laptop.
“Rupert. How are you?”
“Hungry,” I replied, lowering myself into a chair.
Gonzáles huddled in the corner, looking daggers at me and growling menacingly, while Mrs Denford busied herself at the stove, clattering and rattling her pots and pans.
“That smells delicious, Mrs Denford,” said I. “What is it?”
“It’s baked salmon, Dr Harker.” She eyed me sympathetically. “I thought it might cheer you up.”
“It already has,” I replied with a smile. I turned to Urban-Smith. “Did you know that salmon can help to fight prostate cancer?”
He looked up from his laptop. “Need it be applied topically?”
“I don’t think so. I believe that eating it should prove sufficient.”
“Delighted to hear it.” Urban-Smith set aside his laptop. “I assume that you will be taking a few days off work.”
“Yes. I rang Beefy first thing.”
“What did he say?”
“I’m not sure. He was laughing so hard, I couldn’t understand a word he was saying.”
*
That night, I retired to bed early and slept through until Monday lunchtime. After a light snack, I summoned a taxicab and made my way back to Ealing Hospital to visit Clara, who had become the prime suspect in the murder of Sir Godfrey Pingum and, although unconscious and sedated, was currently under constant police guard.
I made my way to the intensive care unit, identified myself to the satisfaction of the nurse in charge, and was granted access. A uniformed police officer sat at Clara’s bedside, reading The Beano. I took a seat on the far side of Clara’s bed, shuffling and grunting for a few seconds until I was able to find a comfortable position in the shiny plastic chair.
Clara was no longer on a ventilator, but remained heavily sedated, so there was to be no conversation. I sat quietly, watching the condensation wax and wane against the inside of her plastic oxygen mask, and listening to the steady beep-beep-beep of the cardiac monitors across the unit.
I cannot explain why I felt compelled to visit. Over the preceding fortnight, I had begun to harbour deep feelings towards Clara, but the feelings had transformed from desire and affection to sorrow and bitterness. Perhaps I thought that the sight of her laid there, vulnerable and still, might stir within me an element of pity or understanding, but it did not. I sat for almost an hour, searching my deepest recesses for some trace of empathy, until I gave up and attempted to engage her attendant nurse in conversation. Sadly, this also proved futile, as her duty of confidentiality meant that she could tell me nothing, merely that Clara’s condition was stable.
A glance at the wall clock informed me that it was approaching half past two, and I decided that it would not do to pass the rest of the day without accomplishing something of merit. I summoned a taxicab to number sixteen, Chuffnell Mews and, upon my arrival, immediately contacted the pathology department of the Royal Battenburg Hospital in Chelmsford. I was connected to the departmental secretary, who informed me that Dr Arisov had retired the previous summer.
“Is there a way for me to contact him?” I asked.
“I’m afraid not,” said she. “Perhaps somebody else may be of assistance.”
She placed the call on hold for a few minutes while she searched the department for somebody to answer my enquiry.
“Hello?” said soft female voice.
“Hello,” I replied. “This is Dr Rupert Harker, pathologist at St Clifford’s. To whom am I speaking?”
“Hello Dr Harker. This is Dr Christine Lingford, head of the department.”
“I’m sorry to trouble you, Dr Lingford, but I was hoping for some advice on a case of inflammatory gastroenteritis. I have read some of Dr Arisov’s research on the subject. Did you share his interest?”
“I’m afraid not, but if you want to e-mail the information to me, I can forward it on to him at home. I’m sure he would be delighted to help.”
I thanked her for her time, and set about composing an e-mail summarising my findings of Chris Peabody’s autopsy. This accomplished, I attempted to apply myself to some long-overdue clinical reading, but I was unable to focus upon the matter at hand, my mind returning again and again to Nell, to my battered manhood, and how close I had been to losing both of them. My eyes roved across the pages of text and illustrations, but none of the information could penetrate, and I flung the books aside in frustration.
During the course of the afternoon, I rang and texted Nell several times, but received no response until the following lunchtime.
“Goin 2 c Clara @ 2 o' (o). C U there?”
*
16. Boy Band Ablaze
Tuesday the 6th
I arrived at Ealing Hospital a little before two o’clock and made my way to the intensive care unit, where I found Nell sat at Clara’s left side. The same bored-looking police officer was stationed at the foot of the bed, reading Bunty, although he was able to tear himself away for long enough to give me an evil look as I approached. I was heartened to see that Clara was awake, and her colour noticeably improved.
A woman’s capacity for forgiveness never ceases to amaze me. Clara had been moments away from murdering Nell and me, yet here they were, a mere three days later, side by side, with Nell stroking Clara’s forehead and whispering softly into her ear as if nothing untoward had passed between them.
I, however, was not feeling so charitable. I greeted Nell with a peck upon the cheek and seated myself beside her, but I could not bring myself to acknowledge Clara.
“How are you, Nell?” I asked.
“So-so,” Nell replied with a shrug, and I was struck by a distinct coldness on her part.
“Have you been in to college?”
“Yes. I went in yesterday and this morning.”
“Good.” I gazed around the unit, feeling distinctly uncomfortable. “I’m not due back at work until next week.”
I regret to say that the conversation did not rise far beyond these heights, and after half an hour or so, I made my excuses and left, having promised to return on the morrow.
I had just crossed the threshold of number sixteen, Chuffnell Mews when Urban-Smith hailed me from the living room.
“Rupert,” he cried, “you must see this.”
He was on the sofa, perusing his laptop while Mrs Denford flicked a duster hither and thither, Gonzáles dogging her every move. I sat beside him, and he rotated the laptop so that I could see the screen.
“It is all over the internet,” he explained.
Playing upon the screen was footage of a pop concert, recorded from the crowd by means of a mobile telephone held aloft. Onstage, five young gentlemen pranced to and fro in time with some grim ballad while several-thousand pre–pubescent girls screamed in deranged happiness.
The stage itself was most impressive, with dry ice billowing, flashing strobe lights, imitation Grecian columns, and a fountain. Each band member was clad in a different hue of baggy trousers and waistcoat, but no shirts, their smooth, muscular chests glinting beneath the stage lights. Each handsome head was immaculately coiffured, each set of teeth iridescent and pearly, and each grin as cheeky as a seaside pantomime.
As I watched, one of the five gents began to slow and sway, then staggered to the side of the stage and dropped to his knees. As the camera panned to him, he collapsed onto his back, thrashing wildly as his abdomen ballooned, growing larger and larger until he looked ready to deliver twins. A jet of steam and flame erupted, the young man’s abdomen split, and his intestines spilled out onto the stage.
The crowd’s screams reached a horrified crescendo and the young man became consumed by fire. The camera panned back to show the other four members of the band, who had ceased dancing and miming and were backing away from their fallen comrade with revulsion while the dreadful music played on. A stagehand ran onto the stage and used a fire extinguisher to douse the flames, but it was too late; the young man was no more.
“That is terrible,” I said, closing the laptop. “What an awful affair.”
“I quite agree,” said Urban-Smith, “although the fire did liven it up somewhat.”
“I wasn’t referring to the show,” I protested. “I meant the chap’s death.”
“Of course, Rupert, of course.”
“Who was he?” I asked. “When did it happen?”
“According to the news, the victim was a Linus Parker, member of boyband, ‘Man Partz.’ This happened last night while they were performing at the Wembley Arena. As you can imagine, the country is in uproar. There is a mighty clamour for something to be done.”
“But what can be done?” I asked. “Unless The Fervent Fist is planning to corner the market in asbestos undergarments, I fail to understand the purpose of causing people to ignite.”
“We may not understand it yet, Rupert, but have no doubt; there is a purpose to all of this. Perhaps we can reason it out together. Let us recap; there is The Fervent Fist, an Illuminati franchise operating in the capital, who have discovered Hitler’s lost archive, said to contain documentation of human experimentation, plans for the next World War and the location of billions of pounds’ worth of Nazi gold. They also appear to be in possession of a device which can implant dreams, and an infection that can cause an individual to burn to almost nothing. We know that they seek to dominate the proletariat by insinuating themselves into positions of power, and by dominating major markets, including media, utilities and finance.
“Clearly,” he continued, “current events have been engineered to strengthen their position, but I cannot believe that they would have laid waste to the World Trade Centre and several football stadia simply to put more money into the coffers. These are such bold and high-profile attacks that they risk exposing their entire organisation, an organisation that depends upon its anonymity and ability to operate from the shadows.”
“But surely,” I interjected, “money is power, and it is power that they seek.”
“Not power, Rupert; dominance. Power is merely the tool with which one works in order to achieve that dominance.” Urban-Smith set aside his laptop and rose from the sofa in order to retrieve a notebook from the bookcase. He selected the relevant page and handed it to me for my inspection. I immediately recognised the diagram before me; it was Urban-Smith’s arachnotabula of known Illuminati-affiliated companies in the United Kingdom.
“Here,” he said. “Look at the companies that The Illuminati already own, and these are merely the ones that we know of. Boom-Banga Bank, U.P-1st, Scrotech, Transglobal Multimegamedia; these are all national or multinational corporations with a combined turnover of billions.” He shook his head severely. “No, Rupert. Power and money are not in short supply for The Illuminati and its subsidiaries. There is something more, something contained within the archive. That is why The Fervent Fist must not be the ones to locate The Atman. We must find it. Find it and destroy it.”
“But, we haven’t the foggiest where it is,” I reminded him.
“That is true,” concurred Urban-Smith, “but we know from your interrogation by Clara that The Fervent Fist is also ignorant of its location. Attempting to bypass the Apple of Eden’s security measures without the Atman is a risky business. If they trigger those explosives, they will lose the Apple forever.” He rose from the sofa. “And now, Rupert, you must excuse me. I have a little shopping to do before supper. Toodle pip!”
Urban-Smith took his leave, and I sighed miserably, for the time had come for me to remove my bandages and inspect the surgeon’s handiwork. I swallowed some painkillers, locked myself in the bathroom, and very delicately set about unwrapping my swollen accoutrements.
The entire scrotum was a livid blue, swollen to several times its usual size, and shaved as smooth as a baby’s chin. There were several randomly aligned, ugly incisions across the surface, which were Clara’s handiwork, accompanied by two further inch-long incisions on each side, courtesy of the operating surgeon. Each wound had been sutured closed along their lengths, and I estimated that there were at least twenty stitches, which would have to be removed the following week.
The overall effect was extremely sinister, falling somewhere between America’s most wanted and Frankenstein’s Smurf, and I briefly toyed with the idea of drawing on dark glasses and a beard.
I was interrupted by a gentle knocking on the bathroom door.
“Are you alright, Doctor?” crooned Mrs Denford. “I could hear groaning.”
“I’m fine, thank you, Mrs Denford,” I replied. “I shall take a shower and be down later for supper.”
“Would you care for some blueberries before supper?”<
br />
“Not really, Mrs Denford,” said I with a tear in my eye, “but for now, I seem to have little choice.”
*
Although my blue berries and I slept well, I was again troubled by dreams of fire and smoke, and woke up all atremble with the dawn. Urban-Smith had not yet risen as I ambled down for breakfast, but he had left for me the late edition of yesterday’s Scrump.
‘MAN PARTZ ABLAZE!’ cried the headline.
“One sympathises,” I muttered as I smoothed out the pages and read on. The article lamented the tragic loss of one of the country’s most beloved mime-artists, and implored me to turn to page five, where there were copious tributes and platitudes from a variety of well-known celebrities, none of whom I knew from Adam.
The Minister for Health, Patricia Hewitt, had vowed that the investigating authorities would move Heaven and Earth to protect the public from further loss of life, but the words rang hollow, and I feared that the worst might yet come to pass.
Gonzáles, Mrs Denford’s plucky little Bichon Frise, seemed to have recovered from our weekend altercation, although he did eye me suspiciously as he orbited the table, hoping for stray scraps. As I finished the dregs of my full English, my mobile telephone began to vibrate and spew forth, ‘Keep on Loving You’ across the kitchen table. According to the display, the call was from my place of work, and I hurriedly washed down my mouthful of scrambled egg with a swig of too-hot tea, cursing and muttering darkly as I pressed the telephone to my ear.
“Hello?”
“Morning, Doc.” It was Danny, the mortuary attendant.
“Yes, Danny? What can I do for you?”
“There’s a bloke here to see you.”
“But I shan’t be back at work until next week. Can he not come back in a few days?”
“He says it’s urgent.”
Well, what’s it about?”
“Dunno. He won’t say.”
“Did he give you his name?”
“Dr Arisov. He says you e-mailed him.” Danny lowered his voice. “I think he might be foreign.”
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