by Dave Warner
7
An even, regular rhythmic swish for a soundtrack. Cold on her face but not her body, which was active, pumping blood, muscles straining. She was skating, looking up at a sky crisp as a bright blue tablecloth.
Crack! Like a rifle shot. Terror, instant, complete through every cell of her body for that shard of a second that preceded the inevitable plunge. Nothing you can do to stop it. Freezing water, over your head in a blink, lumps of ice scraping your ears, chin, nose. She tried to reverse it, fight gravity, push up, telling herself don’t panic, just make the surface, the weight of her skates an anchor. She wanted to scream but it was all water, rushing into her mouth and lungs, deadening her cries.
Hands seized her, pawing at her, not to help, she realized as they encircled her throat. This WASN’T A DREAM!
And there was his face up close … a dead man, a dead man in Victorian clothing, his hands choking her so she couldn’t … couldn’t …
Georgette thrust up from the sofa gasping. What a ghastly nightmare. A panic attack, that’s what it …
She became aware of the deep burring sound of a cell phone on vibrate. She checked the time. Four-twelve. She’d grabbed her clothes and new sheets and sat down on the sofa for like a minute. She must have dropped off to sleep. The number showing on her phone was familiar but she was too groggy to place it yet.
‘Yes?’
‘Doctor Watson? It’s Jason Cormack, the security guard at the labs. Sorry to disturb you at this hour …’
‘That’s okay, Jason.’ Jason’s smooth dark skin and clear eyes had initially led her to believe he was in early thirties. Later she learned he was mid-forties with two tween daughters. Often, she and Jason were the only two hanging around the complex in the early hours. ‘What’s up?’
‘I was doing my rounds down your wing when I heard a noise in your lab. I opened up. One of the hamsters was running around in there. I tried to get it but it ducked under some crates. I thought I better call you before I went poking around.’
Sleep seemed all the more alluring now that it had been shattered.
‘You did the right thing.’ Thank God he hadn’t walked in on Percy. She forced herself to her feet. ‘I was on my way back anyway.’
She picked up the sheets and bag of clothes. How the hell did a hamster get out?
The answer came without much effort: Simone. Fiddling with that beaker, probably accidentally unlocked the cage. Not hard to do, they were on a spring so Georgette could depress them with an elbow while her hands were full with a hamster in limbo. No time to waste, a maverick hamster could severely damage her settings, chew through equipment, make Percy unsalvageable even as a curio.
She grabbed her keys from the hall side table, stopped. On the table was a snow globe which she was sure she had never seen before. It showed Bow Bridge, the quaint bridge spanning the lake in Central Park. She hadn’t noticed it until now but then the mood she was in she wouldn’t have noticed King Kong. Once again, the solution announced itself: Simone. Likely when Georgette was away and Simone had been staying here she had brought it with her for some reason and left it under a bed or table. Jemima the cleaner must have found it and put it there.
The car had her at the labs in less than fifteen minutes. Jason was waiting behind the security door and let her in.
‘Really sorry if I woke you.’
She’d not even had time to brush her hair.
‘I’m glad you did.’
Assuring Jason she didn’t need his help, she sped down the corridors and unlocked her lab. It was dark inside except for the life-support panel to which her glance was inevitably dragged: the lights were no more animated than when she’d left and she tasted anew the bitterness of failure. She reached for the main light switch, felt something touch her foot and jumped. But as her eyes adjusted she saw it was the escaped hamster.
‘Columbus, that you?’ She picked him up, tickled him. ‘Rascal.’
On the way to his open cage she saw that the hungry hamster had shredded Simone’s gift plant.
‘Are you tripping, man?’
Columbus looked up with soft eyes. She kissed him on his head and replaced him in his cage. The other hamsters were up and about, their water and food adequate. Percy, though, might have been carved of soap.
‘Sorry I couldn’t do the same for you,’ she said.
Picking up her bag of clothes, she shuffled to her captain’s cabin and was about to cross the threshold when she heard a beep. She froze mid-stride, not daring to turn. Was it her imagination? Two more beeps followed, and then a whole salvo. She swung towards the monitors suddenly ablaze with dancing lights.
The incubator was illuminated by a dim blue glow. This showed the activation of sophisticated low-illumination lamps triggered by the sound of a beating human heart. These she’d installed to protect Percy’s long dormant eyes from sudden, potentially damaging light. For an age she stood there, summoning courage. She made herself look into the incubator. Percy seemed as before, eyes still closed, but there was one big difference: the slow rise and fall of his chest.
He was breathing.
‘Oh my God, his eyes are open!’ Simone’s excited shout reached her from the captain’s cabin where Georgette had moved Percy once his vital signs were stable and he was breathing normally at room temperature.
‘Hi there, gorgeous.’ Simone did a flirtatious little wave.
Trust Simone to be the one to be there when his eyes opened the first time! Two whole days Georgette had spent cramped in an armchair, waiting for this moment, the culmination of her life’s work. Heart thumping like a jazz drummer she forced her sister aside. Simone was right, cloudy grey eyes were blinking awake.
‘Hi. I’m Georgette, Doctor …’
That was as far as she got. His eyes closed again. Simone gasped.
‘Dope-a-funkendelic. He must be what? One hundred and seventy …’
Georgette put a finger to her lips to silence her. It was extremely important that Percy didn’t get overwhelmed.
Without giving away the reason for her interest, she had consulted with neurologists and psychologists who had dealt with people regaining consciousness after a long coma. All of these specialists had stressed the need for a period of gradual acclimatization before the patient was given the real facts of their situation. Premature disclosure might be literally, mind-blowing.
First things first, make sure they were breathing, eating and drinking. Georgette checked the drips that were supplying the body with nourishment and removing waste. Everything was good. She gestured for Simone to join her in the lab proper. Simone bent to kiss Percy on the forehead.
Georgette hissed, ‘No! I told you.’ Who knew what bugs he might be susceptible to? Simone sulked and followed her into the lab. Georgette quietly closed the door.
‘You just want him all to yourself,’ Simone said.
‘He has to be looked after.’
‘Then why isn’t he in a proper hospital?’
‘Because he’d have to be signed in with a name and address.’
‘Just say he’s some homeless guy.’
‘He’s my responsibility. And he needs to understand his situation in a way that can’t be overwhelming.’
‘How long can you keep him here?’
Truth was she’d been asking herself that same question. The fact that she hadn’t planned better made her consider that she’d never truly believed she would be able to revive him.
‘Once he has strength, can walk, talk. Probably two or three weeks.’
That meant the only way that she might be able to leave the lab herself would be if she had somebody absolutely reliable and discrete to babysit. Unfortunately, she had no colleagues who had been on this journey with her and Harry was still on his annual vacation. Simone had already been entrusted with far more information than was prudent but to date had kept the secret. To give her any actual role however was an invitation to disaster. At any rate, while it was hardly convenient, bei
ng closeted in here wasn’t the worst thing. Georgette had stocked up on food, she had the Internet, a Netflix subscription and enough clothes to keep her going for a while. If those scientists at the South Pole could handle it, she was sure she could.
Simone said, ‘I have to get off to rehearsal. Call me if he starts talking. You are a fucking genius.’
Georgette reminded her she could not breathe a word to anybody.
‘Hey, it’s in the vault. It is funny though, it’s just like Rocky Horror isn’t it?’
Which was not exactly the comparison Georgette would have chosen. Her mind was running more to Curie, Fleming or Pasteur.
Displaying no sense of the occasion nor any flair for originality the very first word Percy spoke was ‘water’. It was late the next day. He had been waking more frequently and staying conscious for longer, the cloudiness gone from his eyes, now alive, intelligent. Georgette was attending his nails, smiling at him.
‘It’s alright, I’m just trimming them.’
She had not been expecting a reply.
‘Water,’ he whispered, so surprising her that she fumbled for the filled cup she kept ready and spilled some of it. She had to refill it. He gripped her arm with surprising strength, was able to raise himself and sip quickly. A coughing spasm followed.
‘Don’t be alarmed, coughing is quite normal in cases like yours,’ she said trying to reassure him.
He slumped back. His eyes tried to take in the room which she had kept deliberately bare and free of modern devices.
‘You must have many questions.’
He nodded.
‘You need first to get your strength up. You have been unconscious for some time.’
‘American,’ he managed. It was only one word, but he sounded English.
‘Yes, I am American. There is water here, and fruit. The bathroom is through there but you may not yet be strong enough to use it by yourself.’
‘What … happened?’
‘You had a fall. Do you recall anything about that?’
He slowly shook his head.
‘Your name? Do you know your name?’
His eyes rolled back as if he were calculating some difficult formula. Then once more he shook his head.
‘Never mind. It’s been quite an ordeal you’ve been through.’
He closed his eyes again and she left him but her whole body felt electrified.
She had done it.
Over the next forty-eight hours he continued to progress, taking solid foods – cereal, fruit and a little rice – but he remained confused and still did not recall his name. Simone had visited in the afternoon on the way back from her rehearsal but was disappointed to find the patient sleeping.
‘Wake him up. Please.’
‘No.’
‘I could just bounce a ball near him or something.’
‘He needs rest.’
Her father had left one message to say he was having a great time fishing and playing poker and may never come back to work. She could have done with him now. She would have to tell Percy something soon. After he was aware of his situation she could think about going public, doing it in a tasteful way, not too sensational. Although exactly how you did that when you have revived a person thought dead for one hundred and twenty-nine years she wasn’t sure, but perhaps one of the public news channels or maybe through the university. She was tired. It had all caught up with her. She closed her eyes.
She couldn’t say what had woken her but she was alert in a second. The lab was in darkness but the clock told her it was near five in the morning. She felt uneasy, knew she hadn’t woken for no reason and was worried something had happened to Percy. Maybe he had called out? She got up off the foam mat on which she’d been sleeping – now that her patient was conscious she wanted to give him his privacy so she slept in the lab on the floor – and listened.
Something wasn’t as it normally was. Too late, she sensed a presence behind her and opened her mouth to scream. A powerful hand clamped it, and something sharp pressed into her jugular.
‘No sudden movements, no screams.’ An English accent. ‘I gain no pleasure threatening women and I shall unhand you forthwith, but I warn against any attempt to raise an alarm.’
His hand was removed. She breathed evenly.
‘Now tell me. Who is your master?’
She was spun around. Before her, in the murk, stood Percy, wearing his old clothes, one of her sharp scalpels in his hand. She couldn’t contain her stifled cry. He allowed a lopsided grin.
‘Yes, a lot fitter than I pretended. I have been able to walk for the last two days, exercising while you slept. From an examination of my surroundings I conclude that this is a scientific laboratory. Now, miss, you must tell me, whose laboratory and where precisely I find myself situated.’
The scalpel could slice the skin from her bone, kill her with the flick of a wrist. She wanted to reassure him.
‘You are in Manhattan. The laboratory is mine.’
He leaned back, the scalpel dropping to his side but remaining in his hand.
‘Yours?’ The word was smeared with disbelief.
‘Yes, well part of the Manhattan complex of Rasmussen Biotech. There are over thirty labs in here and this one is mine. You have been through a lot. You should not exert yourself.’
‘I could not feel more well-rested than if I’d slept a hundred years, thank you. Your accent adds credence to your assertion that we are in New York, however, that could simply be a clever ruse, the brainchild of You-Know-Who.’
‘Who are you talking about?’
‘The professor.’
‘The professor has nothing to do with this. This is all my work.’
He was taller than her by a good five inches and he looked down a longish nose at her as if examining a specimen under a microscope.
‘What are you? Mormon? A mason? To what arcane purpose have you kidnapped me?’
‘I did not kidnap you, I revived you.’
‘Revived?’
His eyes were piercing, demanding. Perhaps he had been a lawyer.
‘Yes. You were in …’ she was about to say ‘inert’, caught herself. ‘ … Switzerland.’
‘Switzerland?’
He said it with an inflection of curious wonder. She could see him trying to think that through.
He shook his head. ‘Unfortunately my recent history is a fog. Perhaps induced by some opiate. I wonder might you be deceiving me, Miss …’
Waiting for her to supply her name.
‘Doctor. Doctor Watson.’
He chuckled, waved the scalpel at her in the way one might wag a finger.
‘Oh, indeed, you are playing with me. My senses are not so distended that they cannot tell the difference between my dear colleague and an imposter – albeit an attractive one – of the opposite sex.’
‘Sir, this is very difficult to explain …’
‘Of course it is. You must attempt to conceal your nefarious intent from the one to whom no secret is secure.’
She was having trouble following his Victorian-era phrasing. ‘Who is that?’
‘Me, of course.’
‘You have me at a disadvantage, sir. I know only that you are a man of some repute who is … was … a very dear friend to …’
‘Some repute? Miss, I am not one who needs to wallow in public admiration but I will speak plainly and truly and in this spirit I tell you, that I am without peer in my chosen profession.’
‘Diplomacy?’ Georgette suggested hopefully.
‘Detection. And I detect right now that you, with your pretty face and innocent wide eyes, dissemble, and that I may be in some little danger. I seem to remember being in Chen’s den at Shoreditch pretending to chase the dragon while I followed the American sailor Ernest Evans who was in London to assassinate …’ he stopped and offered a knowing chuckle. ‘But then again, that may be your game, might it not? To find out what I know. Such information would be like gold to Professor Moriarty.’<
br />
The last two words slithered from his lips. ‘I am certain his hand will be revealed somewhere behind the curtain pulling the lever.’
Finally, the veil was yanked from Georgette’s brain. ‘Moriarty … that’s the professor you were …’ She stared at him, seeing him truly for the first time: well over six foot, wiry, a longish nose though not as long as one might have been given to believe.
‘You can’t be real,’ she said, wondering if she might still be dreaming.
‘I assure you I am. Despite many finding my methods astonishing, I am quite as human as my good, but somewhat more mundane friend and colleague whom you purport to be.’
Her breath caught. Her great-great-grandfather was John Watson, living in London in the eighteen-nineties. Of course. It seemed so obvious now but how? It was a fiction. Or perhaps not. Like a child following a rolling ball she let its path drag her onwards.
‘You reside at Baker Street,’ she said, as if she were certain, when it was no more than more speculative fat tossed on a hot fire.
‘Still claim not to know me?’ There was a twinkle in his eye.
Oh my God.
‘You are …’
‘Sherlock Holmes.’ He bowed slightly. ‘And now, miss, for I fear the snare could be tightening, I must bid you … adieu.’
With that he leapt for the exit door, pushing down on the handles and vanishing through as the alarm sounded.
‘No, wait!’ she cried and tried to follow but slammed into one of the hamster cages. She regained her feet and ran outside into the alley and cold morning air just in time to see a shape leap from the top of the adjoining wall to the other side.
‘Please, stop!’ she shouted but knew it was hopeless.
It could not possibly be, and yet it was.
She had revived not simply a one-hundred and twenty-nine year old corpse but the greatest detective of all time.