Nurse Becky Gets Shot

by Gary Baker

  'Please, no,' she pleaded. 'Please don't hurt me any more. Please, I beg you.' But Loki grabbed at her dress, at her bra, at any clothing he could get hold of and ripped it off her body. Jennifer fell from the chair onto the floor crying and pleading as Loki grabbed and pulled; tearing manically at her clothes, grabbing and pulling so hard her body sometimes left the ground. Like a bird of prey tearing the skin and flesh from its unfortunate meal.

  He didn't stop until he was sated, until she was naked.

  Jennifer lay in the foetal position. A large, gangly baby covered in blood and urine and snot and tears. 'Please,' she begged, 'please don't. Please.'

  Loki stood over her, sneering at his handiwork, getting his breath back. He noticed a small red rose high on her right shoulder blade. 'Hey,' he said, 'nice tattoo.' He prodded her with his toe. 'Put the gown on.' He unplugged the shaver and left.

  Jennifer heard the door being locked. She lifted her head cautiously. The only other things in the room, apart from the chair, were a hospital gown folded neatly in one corner, and a chrome bedpan.

  Jennifer crawled to the hospital gown; used the outside of it to wipe the worst of the mess off herself before putting it on, struggling to tie the cloth straps as tight as she could behind her.

  She put the chair back on its feet then sat on it. Her head shaking, her mind numb with fear, Jennifer counted bricks. Counted her breaths. Counted as many bruises on her arms and legs as she could see. Just counted.

  After a while, Jennifer stood and walked slowly around to ease the ache in her buttocks. Counted the bricks. Counted her breaths. Counted her steps.

  The noise of the lock startled her.

  A big man dressed in black appeared at the door. Fear turned Jennifer into an automaton as he made her sit. He stood in front of her, legs apart and arms behind his back. Loki stood at the door. The big man in black grinned at her showing a gold tooth and she immediately christened him Heimdall after the Norse God. Loki's long time golden-toothed enemy.

  'We're going to ask you to do us a little favour,' he said. He put two fingers on her swollen lips when she tried to speak. 'We don't want to hurt you but your co-operation is vital to us.' He produced a handheld computer from his pocket, turned the screen towards Jennifer. It played a short film of Loki asking Jennifer's mother for directions. Jennifer had to clamp her hands over her mouth to stop herself from screaming. The meaning was clear. Do anything stupid and your mother dies - as well.

  They left Jennifer alone. What do they want? What will they do to get it? Will they torture me for information I don't know I have? Then torture me some more to make sure I'm telling the truth?

  Time passed. Ten minutes. An hour. Jennifer couldn't tell. The fear was timeless.

  A noise at the door threatened to still her heart. Loki, fluffy haired and terrifying, stood by the open door and motioned for her to leave. She was guided along brick corridors to a green door and into a white tiled room with toilets, sinks, a shower.

  Loki threw a towel and a clean gown at her. 'Knock yourself out,' he said. Then left locking the door behind him.

  The shock of her face in the mirror.

  Knock yourself out, he'd said. Bash her head against the wall?

  That's when Jennifer started thinking about suicide. Whatever Heimdall and Loki wanted it wasn't good. And when they had what they wanted, then what?

  Ten minutes later Jennifer was taken upstairs to a room with boarded up windows, an easy chair, a bed, en suite, and a desk with a computer.

  'You take it easy and relax,' Loki said, in the kindly voice of a concerned relative. Then his tone changed, became sinister. 'I'll be watching.' He smiled, pointed to a camera high in the corner of the room and turned to leave. 'Oh,' he said turning back with a new jocular air, 'don't touch the computer or I'll kill you. Okay?'

  More time passed. Jennifer was given a cheese sandwich, a plastic cup of water, some Good Housekeeping magazines. She laid on the bed, pulled the sheet over herself and slept. She awoke with Loki looking down at her.

  'Hello pretty one.' He leaned down and stroked her sore stubbly head. 'Soon you will do us a great service. Do not mess it up, okay?' He pulled back the sheet and let his gaze move slowly along her bare legs. With his free hand he grabbed the front of his trousers, as if weighing his genitals, and said, 'Or I will mess you up good, my pretty. Okay?'

  His sneer stayed long after he and his mouth had left.

  Jennifer thought again about killing herself. But she knew she did not have the nerve and they would probably take revenge on her mother anyway. Not an option.

  The silence was broken by something heavy being dragged past her room. She fought the impulse to go to the door and press her ear against it. The camera would see her and they might get annoyed.

  Her heart missed a beat as she heard the lock turn once more.

  The big man in black, Heimdall, stepped into the room carrying a large bound manuscript. He dropped it on the desk next to the computer.

  'You will need to refresh your memory,' he said, his voice like cold steel. 'Study hard.'

  When Heimdall had left, Jennifer approached the desk. She recognised the logo on the cover. Title: PDMX MAC Codes. Sub-title: INT CNC BANK 7909 R PEERSON.

  She held the familiar document in her hands. The smell of it bringing back memories.

  Oh, my God.

  Chapter 3

  Roger woke to find himself tied to a wooden chair in a windowless brick walled room. The air was thick and damp, and smelled of rotten vegetables.

  'Hey. Welcome back, killer.' Lenny stood over him smoking. 'How do you feel?'

  Roger shook his head. It hurt. He pulled at the ropes binding his wrists.

  'Sorry about that,' said Lenny, 'but I want to make sure you've calmed the fuck down.' He dropped his cigarette, crushed it under his heel.

  'I am calm. I am perfectly calm.' Roger struggled against his bonds. 'What the hell's going on? Let me go! Untie me now!' Roger's struggles caused him to rock dangerously on the chair.

  'Whoa boy,' said Lenny steadying Roger's shoulder. 'You be calm, now. I'll let you free when you settle down. Okay?!'

  Roger struggled more almost tipping over. 'Let me go!' he shouted. Lenny back-handed Roger across the face.

  There was that strange brain rattle again. Roger felt a sudden surge of fear and tried not to be sick. Roger B observed that this was a brand new experience. He'd never been tied to a chair before. A bit like the movies. Only it hurt. What you didn't get from the films was the way your shoulder blades sort of scrunched together and the inside of your biceps dug into the top of the chair; the way your arse got sore because it was hard to shuffle around and how your fingers got pins and needles through lack of blood.

  Lenny shook his hand. 'Fuck!' he complained. 'That fucking hurt!'

  'Oh, I'm sorry. Did my face hurt your hand?'

  Lenny raised a fist to strike down at Roger.

  This was really going to hurt. Roger turned away, closed his eyes, held his breath.

  'That will be enough of that!' a stern male voice filled the room. Roger opened his eyes. Lenny lowered his fist and took a step back to reveal a large man dressed completely in black. Roger breathed again and thought this new man looked like some cliché secret agent. Roger B wondered if dandruff was ever an issue.

  'Just trying to get the prisoner into a fit state of mind, sergeant,' said Lenny.

  Sergeant? Prisoner?!

  'Thank you, Mr Ludhoe,' said the newcomer moving behind Roger, 'But Mr Peerson is hardly a prisoner.' Roger felt the man's breath on the back of his ears and the rope around his wrists loosen.

  'He was very fucking agitated, sergeant,' warned Lenny.

  'Mr Peerson is our guest, Ludhoe.' The tone was of someone not used to disagreement or disrespect of any kind. 'Stand down and keep quiet. I'll deal with you later.' Lenny stood back against the wall.

  Roger felt a firm hand under his arm helping him stand.

  'Please forgive our
… inhospitality, Mr Peerson. May I call you Roger?'

  The confusing tumble-drier had started up in Roger's mind again. 'Sergeant?' he managed.

  'That's more a … nickname, really. Meadhill, John Meadhill.' He held out his hand which Roger shook automatically. 'Sergeant, to my friends.'

  'Hello, Sergeant,' said Roger. That sounded weak and Roger B said so.

  'Please … ' Meadhill motioned for Roger to follow him and led the way along brick lined corridors, up a flight of stairs, into a well appointed hallway. Soft carpet, fancy coving on the ceiling. They passed a study; leather chairs, leather-topped desk, bookshelves; on to a plush living room with two sofas arranged facing each other across an enormous coffee table. Roger moved to a bay window which allowed magnificent views of the Humber estuary.

  'Hardly the arsehole of Britain,' said Roger turning around.

  Meadhill looked slightly nonplussed. 'No,' he said, pausing. 'The … amenities are just through here,' he continued. 'Please feel free to … tidy yourself up.'

  Roger caught sight of himself in a gilt-edged mirror hung over a fireplace. Grim. Car crash grim.

  'Thanks. I think I … ' Roger didn't look good. He noticed Meadhill's reflection in the mirror: Meadhill smiled showing a gold tooth. A different shade of gold to the gold edging the mirror.

  'I think I will,' said Roger.

  In the immaculate bathroom, Roger washed his hands and face. He toyed with the idea of stripping off his shirt for an underarm wash. Thought better of it but felt guilty about leaving blood-stains on Meadhill's towels. Guilt-edged towels.

  What the hell was happening? Roger wondered what Julia was telling Harry at that moment. What was the answer to the question, 'Where's Daddy?' Guilt-edged. And why does Julia keep coming into my mind? Harry's round innocent face with bright grey eyes and spiky blond hair was very clear but Julia? Flowing dark hair? Too much makeup? She wasn't clear. Her face wasn't clear.

  A startling knock at the door.

  'You all right in there, Roger?'

  'Yes, coming. Just … coming.'

  Meadhill sat on one sofa, legs to one side, avoiding the coffee table now laden with sandwiches, fairy-cakes, sugar bowls and assorted paraphernalia associated with afternoon tea. 'Sit down,' he said. 'Help yourself.'

  Roger sat on the opposite sofa. Interesting times: death and fairy-cakes.

  'Where's Lenny?' he asked leaning towards the salmon and cucumber sandwiches.

  'Lenny's been telling me … all about you,' said Meadhill ignoring Roger's question.

  Roger froze.

  'Lenny tells me you worked for the MOD.'

  'I did?' Ministry of Defence? There were memories there somewhere. Roger's hunger won. 'And, um, how does he know that?' he said to move things along so he could take a salmon and cucumber sandwich.

  'You're quite famous in certain … circles, you know Roger.'

  'I am?' The sandwich was delicious. Should he be enjoying this quite so much? It was all Roger could do to stop himself stuffing the whole thing in his mouth at once.

  Meadhill picked up a piece of paper from the coffee table. 'What's the cube root of two five six zero four seven point eight seven five?' he asked suddenly.

  Sixty-three point five, said Roger C. It felt, to Roger, as unremarkable as chewing. And it was right. Roger knew it was right. 'Really couldn't tell you,' he said.

  Meadhill looked at Roger for what seemed an age.

  'Sixty-three point five,' said Roger eventually through mouthfuls of another sandwich. He swallowed.

  'You seem to be exceptionally well informed,' said Roger. This wasn't good. This didn't feel right. This man knew more about him than he did.

  Meadhill smiled, flashing his gold tooth. 'Like I said; you're famous.' Meadhill studied Roger. Still smiling. Still showing gold. Gilt.

  Roger wondered what Meadhill meant. Famous? Was he just trying to flatter him? Did he think Roger knew he was well known?

  'Let's try another,' Meadhill said at last. 'You don't mind, do you?' It wasn't a question. Meadhill read from his crib sheet, 'What's nine eight seven six five four three two one divided by one five seven?'

  Six two nine zero seven nine one point eight five four, said Roger C instantly. Come on, give us a hard one. Roger repeated the number out loud wondering where this was leading.

  'That's … remarkable,' said Meadhill visibly impressed. 'Look at this,' he said passing another piece of paper from the coffee table to Roger.

  Roger looked and saw a mass of numbers, hieroglyphics, symbols of all kinds. It's a speech, said Roger C.

  In a dead pan voice Roger said, 'Before I come to describe the Agreement which was signed at Munich in the small hours of Friday morning last, I would like to remind the House of two things which I think it very essential not to forget when those terms are being considered … It's Neville Chamberlain isn't it? You want me to go on?'

  Meadhill slapped his thigh with delight. 'How the hell do you do that? It's just … gibberish when I look at it.'

  'There's a little voice in my head,' said Roger smiling. It was clever, wasn't it. 'You should see me rattle off a fiendish Su Doku.'

  'Well however the hell you do it, that is … amazing.' Meadhill sat back and studied Roger again.

  Roger ate. Poured himself some tea. Tried to adopt the expression of someone not thinking. Didn't think about Harry. Didn't think about the dead mock-blonde.

  'Roger,' began Meadhill, 'I … we could really use someone like you in our … association.'

  He was being recruited. Roger shook his head. 'I don't think it would be a very good idea,' said Roger. 'I'm not sure I could be very useful to you right now. My life is … in a bit of turmoil at the moment. Lenny must have told you about … '

  Meadhill nodded. 'The accident,' he said. 'I understand but just … hear me out for a few minutes. Okay?'

  Roger shrugged. What was the expression? It's his dime. They're his fairy-cakes.

  'I understand you've had one or two … over the years … one or two … psychological issues?'

  'You have my MOD files?' asked Roger. Where did that come from? Memories that seemed to have been there all the time. 'They're supposed to be confidential. Who are you really?' This was tricky. Roger's mind was offering up memories in real time. Having new memories that you knew were new, but the very fact it was a memory made it odd you could remember a time when the memory was not there. And talking at the same time! Forming sentences based on memories that were only just arriving. Like walking across a bridge that was building itself, extending, with every step. It wasn't there until you stepped on it.

  Meadhill brought relief, in the form of something else to consider, to Roger's tumbling mind by saying, 'The … association, has access to all kinds of information at every level. We have teams dedicated to … putting two and two together. And when Mr Ludhoe, Lenny, filed his report about you … well, all kinds of alarm bells rang.'

  'Alarm bells?' Roger sat back on the sofa. Deliberately casual. The sofa was extremely comfortable. Quilt-edged gilt.

  'Alarms in the … good sense.'

  Roger looked puzzled. Was the misuse of simple words Meadhill's way of showing stress? What do poker players call it? A tell.

  'Are you a philosophical fellow at all?' asked Meadhill quickly.

  'I'm … I'm not sure I follow you.'

  'You've heard of … Schrödinger's cat?'

  'Of course.' Roger was happy to regurgitate a memory. It was getting easier. 'Schrödinger's cat is in a box in a dual state of being simultaneously alive and dead until the box is opened and an observer sees if a random killing mechanism has done its job. Or not.'

  'Precisely. And the Zen question: does a tree which falls in the forest where no one can hear it, make a noise?'

  'Is it a Zen or Buddhist question?' asked Roger his interest returning to the sandwiches. 'And, do you mind if I … '

  'No,' Meadhill gestured at the table, 'please, help yourself.'

  Meadhill
sat back. 'I'd like to tell you more about our … association and about how you may be able to … help us and how we could help you.'

  'I don't know … I'm not really … ' Roger wanted to eat. 'If you don't mind me eating and listening at the same time?'

  Meadhill spread his hands. 'I couldn't ask for more,' he said. 'The association I represent is called … The KOPALDA.'

  Roger felt uneasy. He knew a confidence was being shared, but his discretion had not been requested. He had to speak.

  'I'm assuming everything you're about to tell me is to remain between these four walls?' interrupted Roger. 'I could sign an NDA? A Non Disclosure Agreement?'

  Meadhill smiled, flashing his gold tooth, brushed imaginary dust from his trousers. 'The KOPALDA, as an organisation, has one … fundamental belief. From that belief all else … springs. What do you think happens to your mind when you die?'

  The question caught Roger unawares. Was this to be one of those conversations he'd had at college? The meaning of life, death, religion?

  'I tend to lean towards the, rather pessimistic, view that, when the brain dies the mind dies with it,' said Roger.

  'So, on your death,' Meadhill steepled his fingers, 'it all just stops. Nothing. The end.'

  'Yes,' confirmed Roger nodding.

  'That's The KOPALDA's view too,' said Meadhill looking rather pleased. 'From this basic belief emerges a whole, logical philosophy. A philosophy by which we can live our … insignificant lives.'

  Because Meadhill paused, Roger nodded again.

  Meadhill continued, 'With no heaven or hell, no good or bad, no right or wrong, there are zero personal consequences to any of our actions other than those … meted out on us before we die. The KOPALDA was created by those who recognised; the futility of religion; the huge waste of time by the mass of humanity on traditional moral and ethical issues; and that the one single thing every human being on the planet should be striving for is, quite simply, pleasure.'

  'I'm convinced,' said Roger, 'where do I sign?'

  Meadhill's steady gaze made Roger regret his tone.