“It’s disgusting,” said I. “How can a doctor lower himself to such monstrous behaviour? Do the words, ‘primum non nocere,’ mean nothing? The man’s a disgrace.”
“Be that as it may, he has done us no small service, for there can no longer be any doubt that Schwarzkröte is responsible for this latest outrage.”
“Hmmph!” I hmmph’d and, forgetting my injuries, threw myself down onto the sofa. I screeched with pain, and Urban-Smith threw me a disapproving glance.
“Honestly, Rupert,” he tutted as Gonzáles shot in from the kitchen, growling and barking. “He’ll be in here for hours now, searching for imaginary cats.” He leaned forward and shouted. “Mrs Denford! Mrs Denford!”
There was a brief pause, and then Mrs Denford bustled into the room. “I’m sorry,” she muttered as she scooped up the excitable Bichon and whisked him out of the room.
“I shall have to pass this new information along to MI6,” Urban-Smith lamented. “I shall endeavour to do so via telephone, as I fear that I may turn to stone should I gaze directly at Mr Church. I suppose that I shall also have to speak to Detective Chief Inspector Gad-jay.”
“Rather you than me, Fairfax,” said I sympathetically. “The man seems to fly into a fit of apoplexy at the merest mention of your name.”
“Well,” he sighed, reaching for his mobile telephone handset, “there is nothing to be gained by delaying the inevitable.”
I closed my eyes and listened for a while as Urban-Smith made his first telephone call, but I was exhausted both physically and emotionally, and his words seemed to melt together into a soothing drone of white noise, and I quickly passed into a deep sleep.
*
I awoke after midnight, stiff, chilled and in darkness. It took me a few moments to realise that I was still sprawled on the living room sofa. Mrs Denford had considerately thrown a blanket over me at some point during the evening, but it was a bitter night, and I was shivering as I climbed the stairs to my room, changed into my pyjamas and climbed into bed.
I dreamt of a fire, a creeping, spreading fire that crawled about the walls and ceiling and defied all attempts to extinguish it. My lungs filled with scalding smoke, and I knew with certainty that the fire would burn and grow and spread until the whole World was in flames.
*
18. Liberated
Wednesday the 7th
When I came down to the kitchen for breakfast the following morning, it took but one glance to tell me that Urban-Smith and Mrs Denford had experienced the same ominous dream.
“Someone has fired up the dream machine again,” I observed. There was a crash as one of the breakfast plates slipped from Mrs Denford’s grip and shattered upon the tiled kitchen floor. I hurried over and assisted her to clear up the debris.
“Oh, Doctor,” she crooned. “I’m so afraid.”
“Come, come, Mrs Denford,” I said, patting her forearm soothingly. “No harm can come from a dream.”
“Och, I know, I know,” she said. “That’s not it. I am afraid of the effect that it may be having on Gonzáles.”
At the mention of his name, Gonzáles ceased his snuffling and sniffing at the skirting board, and turned to face us, his head tilted to one side and his tail wagging frantically. Mrs Denford leaned over to whisper in my ear. “He’s been dreaming it too.”
Gonzáles turned his attention back to his explorations.
“How can you tell?” I asked.
“He’s not himself, doctor. He’s all nervous and jumpy this morning. He was just the same the last time.” She trotted to the dustbin to deposit the broken plate. “He’s a sensitive wee soul,” she sniffed, wiping a tear from her eye with the edge of her pinny.
In response, Gonzáles curled up on the floor and began to lick his nether regions.
“Yes,” I said. “Very sensitive.”
I joined Fairfax at the breakfast table, and together we sat and watched Gonzáles attending to his ablutions, while Mrs Denford prepared our full English.
“He really is remarkably flexible,” observed Urban-Smith. “I should have terrible backache if I were to attempt that.”
“I would strongly advise against any such attempt,” I cautioned. “I think he prefers to do it himself.” I nodded towards Urban-Smith’s copy of The Scrump. “Is there anything of note?”
He handed me the newspaper. “Page three may prove of some interest. There is a picture of a young lady in a state of disattire that may appeal to your sensibilities.”
“No, thank you,” I replied, setting the paper aside. “My sensibilities are out of order for the moment. How did you fare with Church and Gadget?”
“It is pronounced, Gad-Jay,” said Urban-Smith haughtily. “It’s French, you know. In answer to your question, the information was treated with feigned indifference by Mr Church, and undisguised contempt by DCI Gad-jay.”
“Feigned indifference?”
“Oh yes, Rupert. I think that The Fervent Fist are of great interest to the security services.”
I was confused. “Why should Church wish to hide the fact?”
“That much remains unclear, but he did enquire as to the nature of your relationship with Clara, and any possible connection that we may have had with the late Sir Godfrey Pingum.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Simply the truth.” We paused briefly to accept our breakfasts from Mrs Denford, but while I tucked into my B&E with gusto, Urban-Smith sat merely prodding at his with his fork.
“Off your feed?” I asked, concerned for my friend and colleague’s constitution.
“No, no,” he muttered. “Not at all, but something curious has struck me. I explained to Mr Church our reasons for attending Sir Godfrey’s house, including Sir Godfrey’s promise of important information, yet Church did not press me on the nature of this information. How does that strike you?”
I finished my mouthful and pondered this question.
“It seems to me,” said I, “that there are two likely explanations; either Mr Church genuinely has no interest in the matter, or he already has the information and is playing his cards carefully. I suspect the latter.
“My thoughts exactly.” Urban-Smith began to consume his breakfast, but with little enthusiasm. I sensed his great intellect dissecting and examining our situation from every angle, and I said nothing, reluctant to interrupt his deliberations. It was some minutes later when he came out of his meditation, by which time my own breakfast was completed, and I was enjoying a second cup of tea. He reached for his laptop, as is his habit at the dining table, and began tapping frantically at the keyboard.
“Needing some light relief?” I enquired, but he said nothing, scrolling with his mouse with his right hand, and forking scrambled egg into his mouth with his left. A little while later, he emitted a short bark of triumph and rotated the screen for my approval.
“Look here, Rupert,” said he, “the motive for this outbreak of BaNG.”
I drew the computer towards me and straightened my spectacles. Urban-Smith had found an abstract of a 1979 paper from the Papua & New Guinea Medical Journal entitled, ‘The Prevention of pig-bel in Papua New Guinea,’ expounding the merits of vaccination with beta toxoid (a toxoid being the inactivated form of a toxin).
“A vaccine?”
“Absolutely,” he confirmed. “You may recall that Dr Arisov described the infection as unstoppable. Once again, Saxon Schwarzkröte proves himself a master of the problem-reaction-solution axis. The problem; an incurable infection. The reaction; public panic. The solution; a vaccine, freely available to every man, woman and child in the Kingdom.”
I returned the computer. “You believe that there will be something hidden in the vaccine?”
“Yes.”
Just a few months previously, the LOL curse had created similar panic, only abated by the distribution of a free mobile telephone application which could filter out harmful frequencies. Unknown to the public, buried within the application was a program that a
llowed The Fervent Fist access to all of the user’s telephone calls and texts.
“Any idea what they might have hidden in the vaccine?” I asked.
“Nanochips,” he replied without hesitation. “Tiny devices, too small to be detected with the naked eye. Tracking devices most likely, or possibly micropellets designed to release toxins or poisons when triggered remotely.”
I rubbed my eyes wearily. “Again I ask you, Fairfax; to what end? It is not possible to track an entire population, and there are far simpler ways to poison or despatch your enemies.”
“Mark my words, Rupert. It shall come to pass.”
“And if you are wrong?”
“Hmph,” he snorted. “I should hardly consider that a likely proposition.” He straightened suddenly in his chair. “Good Lord! Is that the time? I have to meet with Drake Weathers in an hour to apprise him of our progress.”
“That should be a short conversation.”
“Perhaps so,” he conceded, “but a necessary one, nonetheless. What have you planned for the day?”
“I am due to visit Clara at one o’clock. Nell is meeting me there after her classes.”
“Why do you persist in visiting her, Rupert?” Urban-Smith eyed me with concern. “She is a wicked woman who would kill you without a moment’s remorse.”
“It’s difficult to explain,” I sighed. “I have strong feelings for her, even now. It’s just that I don’t know what those feelings are anymore.”
“You should let it be, Rupert,” he counselled, with a stern look upon his features. “No good can come from this.”
How prophetic his words would prove to be.
*
I spent the remainder of the morning in quiet reflection before taking a light lunch. At half past midday, I changed, telephoned for a taxi cab, and was seated at Clara’s bedside by ten past one.
Nell had arrived some little time before me, and was already in situ at the bedside watching Clara sleep. She smiled at my approach, and I felt my heart lift just a little.
As before, a uniformed police officer was in attendance, a woman this time, slender, but with a confidence that suggested a physical capability beyond her size. She looked up from her magazine as I approached, and I nodded my head in greeting.
“How is she?” I asked Nell as I pulled up a chair.
“Much better,” she replied quietly. “She’s recovering fast. They should be able to transfer her to a normal ward in the next few days.”
“That is good news,” said I. I lowered my voice further in an attempt to afford us a little privacy. “How are you, Nell?”
The smile rapidly faded from her lovely face. “Alright, I suppose. It’s all been very upsetting.”
“I know.” I nodded sympathetically. “Would you like to come out for dinner tonight? We can talk about it.”
A smile played about her lips. “That would be nice. Where should we go?”
“There’s a new Neanderthal place opened up in Chelsea; ‘Ugh!’ it’s called. We could try there.”
“It sounds like fun. Will you come and pick me up? Around half past?”
But, whilst Nell and I discussed restaurants, another discussion was in progress at the door of the intensive care unit. Two hospital porters had arrived and were speaking with one of the nurses via the remote access panel upon the wall. Our police colleague set down her magazine to watch the exchange from our vantage point in the corner of the unit.
After a short while, there was a click, the automatic doors opened into the corridor, and the porters ambled onto the unit. One of the pair loitered just inside while his companion made his way across the floor, but there was something about his movements as he approached us that did not sit right. I stopped mid-sentence and rose from my chair.
The WPC had noticed it too, but as she leaned forward to rise from her seat, each of the two porters pulled automatic handguns from their pockets. The man by the door grabbed the nearest nurse by the arm and pushed his gun beneath her chin, as the second man, who was now but a few feet from us, fired two shots into the ceiling and bellowed at us not to move. There were screams and mutterings from the staff and other visitors to the unit, but we all remained in position for fear of being despatched. The door to the unit swung open once more, and another two men, each similarly attired, stormed onto the unit, carrying sawn-off shotguns.
“Nobody move,” they reiterated. One of the shotgun carriers hovered in the centre of the unit, rotating this way and that so as to menace every corner of the room with his firearm, whilst the last man came to us and forced the police constable to lay on the floor while he secured her hands behind her back with plastic cable ties.
“You!” A pistol was waved in my face. “And you,” he added, indicating Nell. “Move it.” We did as instructed, backing away into the corner, me standing in front of Nell for her protection. A pair of sturdy bolt cutters was produced, and within seconds, Clara’s handcuffs were broken upon the floor.
The man by the door had released the nurse, who stood against the wall, shaking but unhurt. He waved his pistol this way and that, sneering at any who dared to meet his gaze until they looked away in fear. The second man remained in the centre of the room, shotgun at the ready, head swivelling this way and that.
The third man stood at Clara’s bedside, tapping his foot impatiently and brandishing his shotgun in my direction, while the final man was engaged in detaching Clara’s various drains, drips and cables from the array of machinery about the periphery of the bed.
“Hey,” said I, taking a step forward. I was immediately forced to rear back as the shotgun was thrust towards me.
“Don’t even think about it,” he growled.
“You can’t move her,” I protested. “She isn’t strong enough.”
“Shut it!” he snarled. “I’m warning you.”
I took a deep breath and puffed out my chest. “Now look here,” I said, “I’m a doctor…” but that was as much as was able to manage. I was dimly aware of a movement to my side, then I was struck upon the temple with the butt of a pistol. I collapsed to the floor, with the room spinning about me, and a roaring in my ears. I heard a woman scream, Nell cried out my name, and then darkness engulfed me like a funeral shroud.
*
19. Epiphany
I awoke an hour later, confused and nauseated, laying upon a hospital gurney. I turned my head to look around, but the movement sent a sharp pain flashing through my skull, the room lurched dangerously, and the bile rose into my throat and scalded my chest.
“Dr Harker?” There was a nurse at my side. “Dr Harker? Are you alright?”
She smelled of perfume and soap, a welcome contrast to the smell of disinfectant and unwashed bodies that infested my surroundings. I waited a minute until the pain and sickness reached a tolerable level, and cautiously attempted to survey my surroundings once more.
I was in a cubicle, surrounded on three sides by a creased, shiny plastic curtain. I noticed that my shirt had been removed, and I was dressed in a hospital gown, from beneath which wires trailed to a nearby monitor upon a stand at my left side. The steady beep-beep-beep of my heart tracing sent a jolt of pain into my scalp.
“Can you turn that thing down please?” I croaked.
She went to the monitor, and within a few seconds, the infernal beeping ceased.
“What happened?” I groaned. “Where am I?”
“You’re in the casualty department. You’re suffering from concussion.”
“Nell!” My heart pounded at my breast and my mouth became as dry as aged beef. “There was a young lady with me on the intensive care unit. Is she alright?”
“She was here for a little while, but she’s left now.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank the heavens.” I attempted to sit up, but the nausea and pain was upon me again. My sudden exertion had caused my heart rate to spike, and the monitor rang out with its demented beeping. I groaned and clutched my pounding head.
�
��Please lay still, Dr Harker. You’ll be transferred to the ward soon.”
“May I have something for the pain in my head, please?” I whispered.
“I’ll speak to the doctor.”
There was a rustle of curtain, and then I was alone in the cubicle. All about me, I could hear the hustle and bustle of the emergency department; children crying, nurses and doctors on telephones, trying to arrange x-rays and scans, personal questions broadcast for all to hear from behind the plastic curtains, privacy but an illusion in this most public of private spaces.
I thought back to my early career (before a severe case of viral Tourette’s had rendered my conversation too unpalatable for the general public) and how it felt to be on the other side of the curtains, hurrying from one cubicle to the next, prodding here, suturing there, working relentlessly through the night, running on a lean mixture of caffeine, nicotine and the idealism of youth.
It often saddens me that my career had been so thoroughly derailed by circumstances beyond my control. For some time, I harboured hopes of returning to a clinical career, but my own doctors warned me that any excessive strain upon the system could trigger a relapse, leaving me in a chronic state of profanity.
I furnished myself with a snort of wry amusement. If ever there had been a strain upon my system, it was over the course of the last few weeks. I had been harassed, harangued, beaten, betrayed, mauled, mutilated and pistol-whipped, and to what end? What was the purpose of it all?
The more I pondered this question, the less clear it all became. I was no agent of the law, nor did I see myself as a moral guardian of others. I had not asked to be embroiled in these treasons, stratagems or spoils, so why was I in this predicament? Why did I insist upon pursuing such matters that threatened to cut me off in the blossoms of my sins?
I lay there, listless and brooding whilst my cranium and my bathing area competed with one another to see which could cause me the greater misery, until suddenly I was struck by an epiphany.
All these trials and tribulations, the constant struggle for status or success, the daily grind, year after year within the hamster-wheel of modern life; if I were to face it alone, it would be for nought, just a long set of ever stiffer steps towards the grave.
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