Secret Histories 10: Dr. DOA

by Simon R. Green

  “I’ve never actually been to the Clinic myself,” said Molly. “I’m just going by what Isabella told me. This isn’t the kind of address you can look up on Google Maps. It shouldn’t be far now.”

  “What was Isabella doing at this Clinic, anyway?” I said.

  “She wouldn’t tell me,” said Molly. “Which usually means, Don’t ask, as the answer would only upset you.”

  “You’re not exactly selling me on this,” I said.

  “Isabella told me the Peter Paul Clinic could save people everyone else had given up on,” Molly said stubbornly.

  “Maybe,” I said. “But did she say how? Because I’m going to say it again; some prices can be too high.”

  “Relax,” said Molly. “I brought my credit card.”

  “I thought the company cancelled it?”

  “That’s what they think. Ah, this looks right.”

  She took a sudden turn down a narrow side street, and just like that, the whole character of the neighbourhood changed dramatically. The bright lights disappeared, replaced in a moment by subdued lighting and sprawling shadows. As though no one here wanted to be seen too clearly. The terraces in this street were decidedly older, and less well maintained. Smaller, less ostentatious businesses squeezed in side by side, with a general air of Enter at Your Own Risk about them. Establishments where it would always be cash in hand, and no questions asked on either side.

  There was hardly any traffic on the quiet road, apart from the odd ambulance, and none of them bothered with lights and sirens, as though there was no need for them to hurry any more. A few people on the pavements, definitely more down-market than the visitors to Harley Street. Everywhere I looked, all the windows in all the buildings were covered. By blinds, drawn curtains, even heavy wooden shutters with hex signs carved into the frames. There were lights on, here and there, but no trace of movement. The whole street had a gloomy, depressing ambience. A place where people came to watch their loved ones die.

  I went to raise my Sight again, and found I couldn’t. A really heavy-duty security barrier was in place, suggesting everyone here took their privacy very seriously. I couldn’t decide whether I found that reassuring or not. And it did bother me that I didn’t recognise this particular side street. I thought I knew all the streets in this area; it was part of my local knowledge as a London field agent. I looked around the grubby walls for the name of the street, but there wasn’t a sign to be seen anywhere. I turned to Molly.

  “Where are we?”

  “Off the beaten track, and off the sides of the map,” Molly said briskly. “One of the shadowy places. Because the kind of miracle you need can only be found in places the Light can’t reach.”

  She stopped abruptly before a small anonymous establishment. From the outside, it could have been any kind of storefront. Bare brickwork, covered with accumulated grime, interrupted here and there by long streaks from the leaky guttering. It looked to me like the kind of place where unlicensed surgeons would perform unauthorized cosmetic surgery, on people who’d been turned down by everyone else. The kind of place where you could take the cure for tanna leaf addiction, or a taste for recreational possession; or get an elemental off your back. Off-white plastic blinds covered the only window, and the dull brown door didn’t even have a number. Nothing about it said medical clinic to me. Apart from the small and very discreet sign above the door: The Peter Paul Clinic.

  I looked at it doubtfully. “Is that the name of the guy who runs this place?”

  “No.”

  “Then . . .”

  “Look, just wait till you get inside,” said Molly. “Everything will be made clear.”

  “That’s what’s worrying me,” I said.

  I looked dubiously at the lone ambulance parked a short distance away. There were no patients being unloaded, no driver at the wheel. It was just . . . waiting. I found its presence ominous, and more than a little creepy. Suddenly, I couldn’t get my breath. I was shaking all over. I shook my head hard, trying to clear my thoughts. Part of me just wanted to turn and run, and keep running. Molly moved in close beside me, slipped an arm through mine, and pressed it firmly against her side. So I couldn’t run, even if I wanted to. Her presence did help me to feel a little calmer.

  “We’re almost there, Eddie,” she said.

  “You sound like a dental nurse,” I said numbly. “Announcing, The dentist will see you now! Like that’s a good thing.”

  “You get scared of the strangest things,” said Molly. “I’ve seen you stand up to demons and ancient gods and never blink an eyelid, but . . .”

  “I’m allowed to hit demons and ancient gods,” I said.

  “Better now?” said Molly.

  “Some,” I said.

  She looked me over carefully, till she was sure I could stand on my own, and then disengaged her arm and approached the Clinic door. She didn’t try the handle; she knew it would be locked. She leaned over the intercom grille set into the rough brickwork beside the door.

  “It’s Molly Metcalf. Isabella’s sister.”

  The buzzer sounded immediately, and Molly pushed the door open. I followed her in, thoughtfully. Her name, or that of her sister, was a passWord.

  * * *

  The interior turned out to be much larger than I’d anticipated. A great open space, with pleasant pastel-painted walls designed to be calming and soothing to the eye, and to the troubled mind. Comfortable chairs had been set out in neat rows, vending machines offered snacks and hot drinks, and bland, inoffensive music played quietly in the background. But there were no signs on the walls to describe the practices or options available. No list of doctors or departments. As though you were supposed to know what you were getting into. A flowery perfume hung heavily on the still air, undermined by something astringently antiseptic.

  “You take a seat,” said Molly, “while I go and sort things out. Do you want to get something from the vending machines?”

  “You have got to be kidding,” I said. “Boiling hot flavoured water and sugary cholesterol bites? If you weren’t sick when you came in, that stuff would do it to you.”

  “You’re in a mood, aren’t you?” said Molly.

  “Yes,” I said. “I wonder why.”

  I looked suspiciously around the reception area while Molly just walked off and left me, heading straight for the long reception desk at the far end of the room. It was manned by a half-dozen bright young things in starched white uniforms, all of them doing their best to appear professional and efficient as they worked their computers and answered the constantly ringing phones. Molly planted herself in front of one of the reception staff, and just glared coldly at her until she put down her phone. Molly then proceeded to talk urgently and implacably to her, in a way that made clear she wasn’t going to take any variation on no as an answer. I left her to it.

  Visitors and family members, and those there to be supportive, had their own section, off to one side. They sat in quiet rows, showing great concentration as they read the magazines provided. So they wouldn’t have to think about anything else. On the other side of the room, a man with a horse’s head sat next to a man with a shrunken head, who sat next to a man with two heads. Under a sign that said, simply, Cursed. They seemed quite resigned, all things considered. Not far away, a middle-aged man in a crumpled suit sat on his own, staring at the floor, while half a dozen smoky ghosts swirled around him. Their faces were vague and unfocused, all dark eyes and chattering mouths, all of them talking at once while the man did his best not to listen. The miserable look on his face showed he’d been listening for some time. I sympathized. Haunted houses are bad enough; haunted people are worse.

  A woman sat alone, bent right over on her chair. At first, I thought she was hunchbacked, given the way her ridged spine rose up to press against her coat, but then I saw her back heave and swell, before subsiding again. Something inside w
anted out. The woman’s face was pale and drawn from the pain, and slick with sweat. Her eyes had a lost, hopeless look. I hoped someone here could help her.

  There were a great many other patients, sitting quietly, all of them wrapped up in their own problems. Hoping against hope someone in this very out-of-the-way Clinic could do something for them. They looked at me, searching for symptoms. And when they couldn’t see anything obviously wrong, they looked away again. Not one of them.

  A woman in one of those distinctly unflattering hospital gowns that do up only at the back came marching through the waiting room. She was attached to an IV drip on a stand, but it didn’t slow her down. Heading for the front door, she strode past the other patients without even looking at them. When she got there, she propped the door open just enough to smoke a cigarette. Through a hole in her throat. She blew the smoke outside, her face impassive. I winced. If I ever got to that stage, I think I really would seriously consider quitting. The woman looked round, caught me watching her, and stared me down. She blew a smoke ring at me through the hole in her neck. I shuddered, and she smiled briefly.

  And then I looked up sharply as the background music changed to a sappy orchestral version of Blue Oyster Cult’s “Don’t Fear the Reaper.” Hospital humour. Molly came hurrying back to join me, and I nodded to her thankfully.

  “What took you so long?” I said.

  “We had a bit of a discussion,” said Molly. “What’s the problem?”

  “You mean apart from the fact that this place is depressing the hell out of me? I mean, look at it. Are you sure we haven’t accidentally wandered into the Nightside?”

  Molly smiled. “It’s not that easy to get into the Nightside, even in this part of London. Trust me, if we were actually in the long night, you’d know it. This is more like an overlap. So much weird shit happens in Harley Street, it calls out to other strange stuff. It attracts abnormal places and situations, shadowy areas, and they attach themselves to the real world. We’re in the Shade, Eddie. The overlap between the day and the long night.”

  “Why didn’t I know this street was here?” I said.

  “Sometimes it isn’t,” said Molly. “This is a place for people who don’t want to be noticed. And even then, nothing that happens here is important enough for the Droods to care about. Look, never mind all that. I’ve got you an emergency appointment! The doctor will see you right now.”

  “You intimidated a hospital receptionist?” I said. “Damn, girl; you’re good.”

  “Money talks,” said Molly.

  “How much?”

  “I told you; don’t worry about it. I’ve got you covered. See the white door at the far end? Go through there, and Dr Benway will see you. I’ll wait for you here.”

  “You’re not coming in with me?” I said. “I don’t want to go in alone. Strange doctors make me nervous.”

  “Don’t be such a baby,” Molly said briskly. “It’s just hospital rules, to protect your privacy. You’re the patient; I’m just a friend. What do you want me to do, anyway—hold your hand?”

  “That would be nice, yes,” I said.

  “Get in there.”

  “Do I get a nice sweetie afterwards?”

  “Eddie . . .”

  “All right!” I said. “I’m going.”

  I made my way somewhat gingerly across the open space, trying not to notice all the other patients hating me for jumping the queue. I knocked on the white door, and a cheerful voice invited me in. I strode in, trying to project a confidence I absolutely didn’t feel. It could have been any consulting room, anywhere. Pleasantly appointed, comfortable furnishings and fittings, a desk to one side and a long red leather couch on the other. I looked hopefully for a human skeleton standing in one corner, but there wasn’t one. I always felt there should be. The usual framed diplomas had been carefully mounted on the walls. It occurred to me no one ever checks the details on these documents; they could say anything. Framed prints displayed unthreatening countryside scenes. At least there wasn’t any background music.

  The doctor came out from behind his desk to greet me. Middle-aged and unremarkable, in an expensive suit, he seemed a smooth and plausible sort, with a professional smile already in place. His handshake was firm and reassuring.

  “Hello, old man. Do come in. Make yourself comfortable. I’m Dr Benway.” He leaned forward, to look closely at my torc. Which startled me just a bit, because civilians aren’t supposed to be able to see it. Unless you’re the seventh son of a seventh son, and family planning has mostly taken care of that. He straightened up again and nodded cheerfully. “And there it is; the famous Drood torc. Amazing. Remarkable.”

  “How are you able to see it?” I said.

  “Hmm? Oh, all part of the job, old man. To be able to see hidden things.” He smiled in a satisfied sort of way. “Eddie Drood . . . Never had a Drood in here before. Heard all about you, of course. Before you leave, you really must let me examine that thing . . .”

  “No,” I said. “Not a chance.”

  He shrugged, entirely unconcerned. “Didn’t think so, but I had to ask. Come and sit down, sit down.” He sat behind his desk again, and I sat down facing him. “Now then, old man, what are the symptoms?”

  “Didn’t Molly tell you anything?” I said.

  “For the amount of money she’s paying for this emergency consultation, she didn’t have to,” Benway said cheerfully. “Besides, I always prefer to hear the details of any problem direct from the patient. Don’t be shy, old man. We really have heard it all before.”

  “My family doctors tell me I’ve been poisoned,” I said. “With something they’ve never seen before. No cure, no treatment. According to them, I’ve got three months. If I’m lucky.”

  Benway sat back in his chair. He nodded slowly, his face giving nothing away. “Well, well . . . That is a bit of hard luck, isn’t it? Your family doctors do have an excellent reputation in the medical field . . . If they’ve said there’s nothing they can do for you, I wouldn’t doubt them. And you came to us? That is a compliment. I think we’d better take a close look at you, old man. Let the dog see the rabbit, eh? Lie down on the couch, please.”

  I got up from the chair, went over to the couch, and stretched out on it. “Can I just say, I hate needles!”

  “Me too!” Benway said cheerfully. “Fortunately, we don’t go in for that sort of thing around here.”

  He produced a pair of sunglasses from inside his jacket, and fitted them carefully on his narrow nose. They had silver frames and deep purple lenses. He leaned over me, hands behind his back to keep them out of the way, and looked me over carefully from head to foot. His expression never changed, but he did go Hmm several times. He finally straightened up again, took off the sunglasses, and put them away.

  “Yes . . . I see. Really quite remarkable. You have been poisoned.”

  “I already told you that!” I said.

  “Indeed you did, old man, and quite right you were. I’ve never seen anything like it. An entirely new poison. Quite appallingly toxic stuff too; it’s a wonder to me you’re still alive.”

  “But is it going to kill me . . . ?”

  “Hmm? Oh yes. Quite definitely. Your doctors gave you three months, you say? Well, they know your system better than I do. Personally, I wouldn’t bet on it.”

  I lay back on the couch and looked up at the ceiling. I’d known he was going to tell me there was nothing he could do, but it still hit me hard. A small part of me had really hoped he’d find something the Drood medics had missed. That they’d got it wrong, and it only looked like I was poisoned. That he knew what to do . . .

  “You really have no idea what the poison is?” I said finally.

  “Haven’t a clue, old man,” said Benway. “Not from around here . . . not of this world, I would say. Lots of visitors around these days, of course, but they’re usually so di
fferent, their little problems don’t affect us. How did this poison get into your system in the first place?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “Then I really can’t help you with identification,” said Benway. “Fortunately, that won’t be a problem. It’s a good thing you came to us, old man. None of the traditional forms of medicine could do a thing for you, but we’re not in any way traditional.”

  I allowed myself to feel a faint twinge of hope. “You can help?”

  “Of course, old man! Don’t you worry yourself; we have what you need!”

  I sat up on the couch and looked at him. “What is it you do here, exactly? What is your particular discipline? How can you help me?”

  “Easy, old man! One thing at a time, eh?” Benway smiled at me reassuringly. “Here at the Peter Paul Clinic, we rob Peter to pay Paul. We don’t deal in drugs or surgery, science or magic. As such. Or any kind of healing. We deal strictly in the transfer of life energies. Don’t ask me to explain how it works; I’m not entirely sure I understand myself. It works, and that’s all that matters.”

  “What about side effects?” I said.

  “Nothing you need to worry about, old man,” said Benway. “Though you might want to think about embracing a healthier lifestyle, after you leave here. Nothing to do with the poison or your treatment; just general good advice. I say that to all my patients. If people could only see the damage they do to themselves . . . Ah well, never mind.” I must have been giving him a really hard look, because he snapped back to the subject. “We drain the life energies from willing—and very well-paid—volunteers, and then transfer these energies to the patient. Who needs them more. The volunteers all give a little, and we give it to you in one big dose. They don’t miss it, really; no more than a blood donor.

  “This new life energy doesn’t actually cure anything, but it does slow down the dying process quite dramatically. The poison will still be in you, but the new life energy will slow its progress right down, and buy you more time. It’s not a cure, but the sheer amount of life energy will keep you going for years and years. You’ll feel perfectly well and healthy, with no unfortunate symptoms. Basically, we’re putting off your death, old man. And when you’ve used up all the new life energy, you can always come back here for more top-ups! Which will be expensive, of course, but then, you’re a Drood. I should point out . . . that this is not an indefinite process. Each transfer of life energies does take its toll. Each time, your body will accept less of the new energies, until finally it won’t accept any. We’re selling health, old man, not immortality. Or we’d be charging a damned sight more. And you must understand, there are problems . . .”