BOX SET of THREE TOP 10 MEDICAL THRILLERS

by Ian C. P. Irvine

  After his talk with Susie he felt a tremendous sense of mission. He had a job to do: he had to track down the killer, and find out what he had done, who he had killed, and where he had killed them: to try to understand the mind of the killer.

  It was also his hope that by tracking down the details of the murders and the murderer that he would be conducting a form of personal exorcism. By understanding everything and 'capturing the killer', perhaps he would in effect be helping to lay the sins of his shared past to rest.

  If he could do this, then he would be able to live with his new self, and the dreams would then stop.

  Or at least, so he hoped.

  .

  --------------------

  .

  There had been at least two other deaths. Two more murders that he had now seen. And he felt that there were more. A number kept coming into his mind and leaving before he could grab it or see it, but he knew that it was significant. He felt, instinctively, that it was related to the number of murders. The number of people whose lives he had taken.

  Both the new visions that he had seen had started as flashing images in his mind, like before. A multitude of pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that slowly found order and meaning and were placed together, until he had a running sequence of moving images that made sense and portrayed in graphic detail the deaths of two attractive young women.

  The first vision was about a red head. She spoke with an English accent. Her hair flowed and curled and blew in the wind, and he was chasing her in a field. She carried her shoes in her hands and as she ran away from Peter, she laughed and screamed with pleasure. She wore a short blue denim skirt. A bright vivid blue, just like the summer sky above.

  The grass was long and pretty flowers covered the field.

  Peter chased her, pushing aside long ears of grass as he ran.

  He caught her. He pulled her to the ground. They kissed. For a moment they fought with each other's clothes, the beautiful redhead reaching down and pulling open Peter's belt and opening his trousers. Peter loosened her top and pulled it off, and started to kiss the woman's soft, ample breasts. Impatient now, he lifted her skirt, rolled on top of her and whispered something into her ear that Peter didn't quite understand...either he didn't hear it properly or it was words that he did not understand. He felt himself quickly putting on a condom, and they made love. Afterwards they lay on their backs looking up at the sky.

  An airplane crossed high above them, and a vapour trail formed and hung motionless in the deep blue above.

  She curled up beside him in his arms on his left, resting her head on his chest.

  Peter stroked her hair and the soft, warm skin on her cheek.

  He held her close to him and kissed her.

  At the same time his right hand reached down to his ankle, unclipped a knife and brought it swiftly up to her breasts.

  He kissed her again and as her lips parted to let his tongue explore her mouth, he gently eased the knife into her chest, pulling her tightly towards him and preventing her from struggling.

  The knife found no resistance. It glided in easily.

  Peter felt her struggle against him, but his powerful arms engulfed her, capturing her struggles, cradling her tightly and ensuring that he felt every moment of her last few seconds on this planet.

  Her free hand pulled at his hair, but only for a second or two, and then it began to lose its power, and fell gently to her side...

  Peter pulled back from her face, carefully covering her mouth with his hand just in case, and he watched as her eyes began to dull, and the beautiful twinkle left to dance in the sunshine above.

  She was still beautiful. So very beautiful.

  He kissed her gently on the forehead, lay back down on the ground, looked up at the sky and listened to the sound of summer all around him.

  The white vapour trail was no longer hovering above them. It had dissipated and gone.

  Instead there was just emptiness. A vast, deep, open, blue that went on forever and ever. To the stars and beyond.

  He loved this time of year.

  .

  Then Peter was in a wood, digging. It was dark. He could hear an owl hooting. It was cold.

  Blackness. Then he could see again. He was dragging a roll of black rubber matting into a hole. Blackness. His arms felt heavy. He was carrying something. Blackness. He was putting heavy stones on top of the rubber matting. Something cold fell on his right cheek. Rain. It was raining. More pictures that he didn't yet understand. The smell of grass, and damp earth. A rustle in the bushes or the trees nearby. He felt his heart beating. Another heart, not his...weird...very weird...

  He was standing at the base of a cliff. It was cold. He looked up. He could see the dark walls disappearing into the blackness above him. Water. He could hear water. A waterfall.

  A sudden realisation: the cold water on his face had not been rain...it was the spray from the waterfall.

  A spade, he was carrying a spade...walking through trees...

  Inside a car...driving...

  He shivered.

  .

  --------------------

  .

  The second dream or 'vision' came early one evening while he was reading a newspaper in his flat.

  Her hair was blonde. About twenty-eight years old. There were no lines around her eyes, her skin was smooth. Her eyes were blue. Beautiful light blue. Her lips were red. Not bright red like a rose, but soft, pinkish-red. Soft to touch. Soft to kiss. Her nose was slightly squint, -it must have been broken at some time- but the little twist and bump of the bridge gave her character, and made her somehow more attractive: you wanted to look at her.

  Her laugh was contagious. Peter couldn't help but smile slightly when he heard her laugh in his head.

  They were lying on a floor. A television was playing in the room. He could hear moaning. The sounds of sex. Of false love.

  The ground was cold. Almost damp, but then Peter moved and he realised it was the cold, clammy, clinging feeling of some form of rubber mat underneath him.

  The woman was not naked. She was wearing some form of rubber suit. Peter did not like the touch of it, or the sensation that he felt when he thought of this, when he tried to recall the vision in his mind's eye.

  Peter was naked.

  Peter said something to the woman, and she rose up above him, standing above him and looking down. She looked tall and slender, from where Peter was lying, looking up. He said something else and she sat down on top of him.

  He was inside her. They made love. All the time Peter could hear the stupid sounds of others simulating sex in the background. Once he looked over to the television and he realised it was playing some form of porn.

  He looked away, quickly turning his attention back to the woman.

  Peter closed his eyes tighter, trying to recall the other things he had seen in the room as he had looked around.

  There was a light on the wall. Not switched on. A sofa behind them. He couldn't see its colour. There had been blinds on the window. Not curtains.

  It was strange...so very strange...Peter could feel that in his vision he was aroused...he could 'feel' it, sense it...he knew he was enjoying it, but Peter hated this vision. It made him feel uncomfortable to think about it.

  By now Peter was beginning to realise that whoever the murderer was or had been, he must have been very dominant and slightly kinky. This was the second woman that he had killed who had been dressed up to fulfil his fantasy...Or..., or was it the other way around? Was he fulfilling the fantasies of the women? He must not be so quick to judge.

  The dream moved forward.

  The woman had orgasmed and was lying on the floor beside him now. Peter was still aroused.

  He stroked her head, and reaching back onto the sofa...it was a white sofa...soft, enough room for three people, ...he had pulled down a piece of black cloth and offered it to the woman.

  She laughed, took it and wrapped it around her eyes.

  A black
blindfold.

  Peter started kissing her, caressing her, touching her. He was inside her.

  Blackness. Silence.

  He was lying on the floor now. The room was quiet. Beside him the woman was motionless, the blindfold now pulled down over her nose so that Peter could see her eyes.

  A knife protruded from her chest.

  Peter stood up and looked down at her body. He walked away from her, into a kitchen.

  Blackness.

  He was sitting on the floor beside her, drinking a cup of coffee. Black. With lots of sugar. Peter grimaced involuntarily as he recalled that part of the dream...he couldn't stand sweet coffee.

  The woman was still lying motionless beside him. He reached out to stroke her face. It was still warm.

  Peter shivered.

  Blackness.

  He was back in his room in Edinburgh.

  .

  --------------------

  .

  The vision had stopped now, and Peter felt empty, lost, disgusted. Shaking and feeling weak, he stripped naked, threw all his clothes into the washing machine and starting to wash them clean.

  In the bathroom, the water from the shower cascaded down over his head, and Peter started to cry.

  This was going to be much harder than he thought. Perhaps he could not do it after all.

  .

  When the water turned cold, Peter still felt dirty. Uncomfortable, disturbed.

  Very disturbed.

  It was only eight o'clock in the evening, he had not eaten yet, but he climbed into his bed, washed down a tablet with a glass of water, pulled the duvet above his head and closed his eyes.

  He slept.

  Chapter Forty Seven

  .

  .

  Royal Infirmary of Edinburgh Renal Unit

  The Royal Infirmary of Edinburgh

  Dr Jamieson's Office

  April 29th

  .

  .

  It was late. Long past time to go home. Another evening when Mrs Jamieson was upset with him, angry that yet again she had had to entertain their dinner guests by herself.

  He felt for her. She was a good woman, and he was lucky to have her.

  He had met her on one of his trips back to Jamaica, when he was young and eager to explore his roots and his heritage. They had fallen in love, he had been back and forward to Kingston several times in two years, and then he had proposed.

  She had said yes, but had not been so keen to move to England, land of perpetual rain and bland food. She had been even less keen to move to Scotland when he had been offered the role of consultant at the Royal Infirmary. But she had stood by him, as she always did, and she followed him as he advanced up the medical career path.

  Perhaps one day, he would take her back to Jamaica, back to the land she loved so much; a new hospital was being built in Kingston, the capital, and there was always a possibility that he could find a senior role there. Maybe not on a permanent basis, but perhaps for a couple of years.

  In the meantime, Stephen Jamieson was determined to focus on the opportunity that God had given him by serving both Him and the people of Scotland in the best way he knew how: by saving the lives of as many people as he could and administering the best possible care to his patients.

  Stephen loved medicine. He loved people. He was fascinated by nature, its mysteries, its beauty, its simplicity and yet at the same time, its incredible complexity, a paradox that had kept him wondering all his life. He loved the mysteries of life that science was helping unravel on an almost daily basis, and the new tools that science was giving people like him to help heal the sick and make them well.

  Stephen Jamieson was a believer. He believed in God. But he also believed in Man, made in God's image, each person carrying that incredible touch of magic that somehow was breathed into them at the time of their conception and then vanished at the moment of their passing.

  Life was a mystery. Life was mysterious. Life is amazing.

  It is precious.

  Each and every person that came to Stephen for his help became part of his existence while he strove to do the best that he possibly could for them.

  He never judged them...no, that was not true...increasingly he was finding it harder to tolerate those that came to him, ill and smoking cancer sticks every day, who then refused to kick the habit.

  Smoking was one of his worst enemies. He hated it. And as he got older, increasingly he was finding it harder to like smokers.

  The phone rang, dragging his wandering, tired thoughts back to reality. He had been waiting for the call for over an hour, and as he picked up the receiver he hoped the annoyance would not show in his voice.

  "Hello, this is Philip Grant of the StemPharma Corporation in New York. May I speak to Prof Stephen Jamieson please?"

  "Hello Mr Grant, this is Stephen here. I'm so glad you were able to call me back. I've been looking forward to speaking with you."

  "It's a pleasure. How can I help? I'm guessing it is very late over there...you are in Scotland, right? That's about six hours ahead of here?" the VP of Sales and Marketing for StemPharma asked.

  "Five. But it's okay, your secretary said this would probably be the only time I could speak with you this week, and I wanted to speak with you sooner rather than later."

  "So, how can I help?"

  "I don't know if your secretary passed on my professional profile I emailed over to her, but in case she didn't, perhaps I should explain that I am one of the resident renal consultants here up at the Royal Infirmary of Edinburgh. We treat hundreds of patients here each year, and we are one of the six hospitals in Scotland that is now using your limited release of SP-X4 to treat organ transplant patients."

  At the other end of the phone, Philip Grant coughed and reached for a glass of water.

  "And how are you finding it, Mr Jamieson?" the VP of Sales asked.

  "It's an incredible treatment. Absolutely amazing. Rejection rates are almost non-existent now, and a full recovery amongst all our patients is becoming commonplace. What's more, the speed by which they recover is particularly impressive."

  "Good. That's what I was hoping you would say. Everyone is reporting similar feedback. The treatment is being universally hailed as the biggest breakthrough in postoperative care for organ transplantation in years. We are very proud of it."

  "And so you should be. It's certainly transforming the whole field," the doctor replied, then pausing for a second, before continuing. "...The thing is, though, almost all of the patients I am caring for have been reporting symptoms and experiences following the operation that I now find rather concerning."

  "Such as, what?" The VP interjected quickly,"...although I must say that I am a little confused here. I thought you just said that the drug treatment was amazing, and that full recoveries amongst patients were now commonplace. Are the patients complaining? What have they got to complain about?"

  "Please, if you let me give you some examples of the experiences that patients are reporting, I am sure you will understand. And, to answer your other question, patients are not complaining. They are all happy with their progress. The things is though, that..." , and Professor Jamieson then went on to explain the symptoms that his patients had been reporting. "On the internet, it is relatively easy to find other patients who have reported similar symptoms in the past, although there have been few recent cases reported and such experiences have historically been relatively few and far between. A common theory for them is given under the popular 'cellular memory' concept, which I won't explain to you because I am sure that you are already familiar with it?" the doctor said, almost asked, testing the man at the other end of the phone to see if he would rise to the bait.

  Philip Grant did not respond. He was not so stupid as to admit that he was aware of the explanations for such experiences, because to do so would be to associate SP-X4 with the necessity to be aware of such things, and then the next question would be to ask him if he was aware of such experiences am
ongst other patients of SP-X4.

  Instead, he denied it. "Sorry, I am not, but I will look it up afterwards. I am sure it will make interesting reading."

  "Please do so Mr Grant. The thing is, all this leads to some questions from myself. For example, last week there were three new reported cases of, shall we call it 'cellular memory' syndrome? All very interesting in their own right, but collectively, when added to the other cases I have already, perhaps rather concerning..."

  "In what way?" Philip Grant replied, stalling for time.

  "Simply, in that it would seem that whereas such phenomena were relatively scarce in the past, suddenly with SP-X4, they would seem to be the norm. Obviously, that leads me to wonder, what percentage of organ transplant recipients in the rest of the trials you have conducted or are conducting, also report such experiences back to you? And then also, what is it about SP-X4 that makes this happen? I was hoping that you could perhaps help me understand more about the drugs involved in the treatment, how they work, and what the possible answers and explanations for my questions are?"

  Philip Grant was silent. Thinking. He had started to sweat. He reached up and undid his shirt collar, removing his tie, and slipping his jacket off his shoulders on to the table in front of him.

  "Mr Grant?...Are you there?" the consultant in Scotland asked.

  "...Yes..., sorry, yes I am. I was just looking quickly at some of my notes in the SP-X4 file...trying to find out anything that might help you...Of course, you will understand that I cannot reveal or share with you any confidential information about the treatment, so I can't really answer your questions without being fired by my company for breaking my contract."

  "Mr Grant, please understand...I am only thinking of the best interests of my patients... The treatment your company produces is proving to be a lifesaver, but I am responsible for overseeing the trial of the drug in this hospital, and I am influential within the British National Health Service. I have concerns. Something is happening to patients who take this treatment: something extraordinary, almost paranormal. And I have to understand it. I have to be sure that what we are seeing here is not a precursor of something more sinister to come. If my concerns keep growing, and I don't find answers to allay my fears, then I will have to recommend a full review of its usage by the NHS. And soon."