David Trevellyan 03 -More Harm Than Good

by Andrew Grant

  I’d expected to see a hospital security guard standing there, or possibly a medic. But I was wrong. It was the woman in the wheelchair. She was on her own this time, with no sign of a real porter to push her.

  “Evening,” I said. “Is this your room? Sorry about the mess. Things got a little out of hand.”

  “A little?” she said, looking at the guy’s prostrate body.

  “It’s not as bad as it looks. We’ll soon get everything cleaned up.”

  “I don’t think we’ll soon do anything. What are you doing here?”

  “Well, I just was passing by and saw this chap trying to steal your briefcase. So I stopped him.”

  “Really?” the woman said as she wheeled herself forward, coming fully into the room. “I don’t believe you. So let’s try this, instead. I want you face down, on the ground. Fingers laced behind your head. Legs spread. And I want you there right now.”

  “I beg your pardon?” I said.

  “You heard.”

  “You’re right. I did hear. Only I was expecting something more along the lines of a ‘thank you’ for stopping your stuff from being taken.”

  “He wasn’t trying to take anything. And you’re the one holding somebody else’s wallet in your hand. So, get on the ground. Face down. Now.”

  “OK. Maybe I should try a different question. Such as, why would I want to do a thing like that?”

  “You took the wallet from the man on the floor?”

  “I did. I was looking for some ID.”

  “Then go ahead. Look inside.”

  I was curious, so I looked. I found six credit cards. Two ten pound notes. An Oyster card, for the London Underground. And an official identity card.

  “See that?” she said. “Read the name.”

  “Timothy Jones,” I said.

  “No. The name at the top. His employer.”

  “The Security Service.”

  “Correct. He’s an MI5 Intelligence Officer.”

  I didn’t respond.

  “Have you seen one of those cards before?” she said.

  I didn’t answer.

  “I have one just like it,” she said. “Do you want to see that, too?”

  “Not especially,” I said.

  “Are you surprised?”

  “A little.”

  “Do you like surprises?”

  “Not really.”

  “Well that’s a shame. Because I’ve got three more for you. Tell me when you’re ready.”

  I said nothing.

  “One,” she said anyway, and pulled a matching Sig from beneath the folds of her sweater. “Ready for the next one?”

  I shrugged.

  “Two,” she said, effortlessly standing up and stepping away from the wheelchair. “Don’t worry. It’s not a miracle. And the next?”

  “Why not?” I said.

  “Good sport,” she said, pulling a pair of handcuffs from her belt and dangling them off her left index finger. “Guess who these are for?”

  Chapter Five

  The MI5 agent was about five foot eight when she wasn’t sitting in the wheelchair. She was wearing dark skinny jeans with black ankle boots - flat enough to run in - and a long grey sweater that was sufficiently baggy to hide the holster for her sidearm. There was no sign of any jewellery. Curly blonde hair reached down beyond her shoulders. She wore no make-up, and her face looked like it could be quite pretty if she hadn’t been scowling so vigourously.

  I let her cuff me - she was still holding a Sig, after all - and I didn’t interfere when she called a medevac team for her partner. It was a little ironic, given that we were in a hospital, but I knew she wouldn’t be ready to drop her cover just yet. I also knew what her next move would be. To summon a snatch squad to spirit me out of there, and without any ID it was the devil’s own job to convince her I was from Royal Navy Intelligence and that we were on the same side. The best I could do was persuade her to hold off calling the cavalry until she’d at least run my code words past her liaison duty.

  “Wait by the wall,” she said, eventually, then prodded a number of keys on her phone before holding it to her ear.

  Someone answered inside ten seconds, and it took her another minute to pass on her request. Then she raised the gun and held it steady, centred on my chest, while the person at the other end ran the necessary checks. She was silent for another three minutes, occasionally glancing down at the guy on floor. He was twitching slightly now, and moaning quietly to himself. She took a step towards him but stopped abruptly, concentrating on the phone again, then lowering the Sig to her side.

  “You’re to go to your room,” she said, ending the call and retrieving the handcuff key from her pocket. “Don’t go anywhere, and don’t contact anyone. They’re going to talk about us, your people and mine. They don’t want anyone disappearing. And they don’t want anyone muddying the water.”

  Julie Smith, the nurse who’d admitted me, was standing in my room when I got back. I opened the door and the initial look of panic on her face turned to anger when she saw it was me.

  “And where do you think you’ve been?” she said. “Do you think I’ve got time to hang around patients’ rooms, waiting for them to decide whether to show up?”

  “Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t realise you were coming back, tonight.”

  “I told you I was.”

  “Really? I don’t remember. And the truth is, I’ve got a bit of a problem.”

  “I’m sure you do.”

  I took two halting, half steps backwards then sat down heavily on the bed, my right hand settling against my temple for a couple of seconds before I let it fall back to my side.

  “Are you OK?” she said.

  “Not really,” I said.

  “How are you feeling? Can you describe it to me?”

  “Tired. Absolutely exhausted. It just came over me. I feel like I need to sleep for a week.”

  The nurse’s hands didn’t move from her hips but her head tipped slightly to the side, she let out a long, slow, breath, and the harsh expression on her face began to gradually soften.

  “Heightened fatigue is perfectly normal in these situations, Mr Trevellyan. Your body’s trying to repair itself. That takes a lot of energy. So try not to fret. Everything will sort itself out, in time. And for now, we’ll keep a really good eye on you. At least you’re back in the right place.”

  “Thank you. I do appreciate the care you’re taking of me. But now, I really need to get off to sleep.”

  “You’re probably right. But let’s have a look at you, first. Best to be sure, you know.”

  “Couldn’t we leave that till morning? I’m honestly fit to drop.”

  “No,” she said, reaching for the chart which was hanging from the foot rail of the bed. “I’ve got to do your obs’ now. Those are the rules. Now come on. Play along, and I’ll be as quick as I can.”

  Nurse Smith was true to her word. She wasted no time with her poking, prodding, and scribbling. But fast as she was with her observations, I was faster to grab my phone from the bedside table drawer the second the door closed behind her.

  There was a knock on my door at 9.35 the next morning, but it wasn’t one of the nurses coming to check on me. It was the MI5 agent. She was back in her wheelchair. Her blonde hair was straighter than before, making it appear slightly longer. The blue of her eyes seemed a little more pronounced. A hint of lavender and bergamot washed over me as she opened the door. And surprisingly after last night, I saw she was smiling.

  “Question for you,” she said, from just inside the doorway. “Destiny. Do you know what determines it?”

  “That’s profound for this time of the morning,” I said. “Do they serve coffee early, on your floor?”

  “Coffee, no. And it’s not so profound, either. The answer, apparently, is ‘the choices we make, and the chances we take.’”

  “Oh, OK. I’m with you. And I’m getting a vision. An old rowing boat, painted white, tied up on a deserted sand
y beach. Crystal clear water lapping against its picturesquely weathered sides. Some kind of weird big rock in the background...”

  “In a cheap, cheesy frame, hanging over a visitors’ table.”

  “Exactly. So, you’ve had the pleasure of an audience with Mr name-on-the-door Jackson as well?”

  “I have,” she said, resting her hands in her lap. “First thing this morning. I got the job of smoothing over the rumpus about that spontaneously self-collapsing chair, since its suicide occurred in my room. That wasn’t the kind of low-profile insertion my people were hoping for. They wanted me to throw a couple of buckets of iced water around, if you know what I mean. Make sure none of the neighbours were getting too nosey.”

  “Were you successful?”

  “Time will tell. And don’t worry – I kept your name out of it. Can I come in?”

  “Be my guest.”

  “So I’m told you’re here because you’re sick,” she said, crossing to the foot of the bed and unhooking the clipboard that held my charts.

  “Injured, actually, rather than sick,” I said. “See for yourself.”

  “This looks convincing enough,” she said, studying the papers.

  I shrugged.

  “One more question for you,” she said. “What were you doing in my room, last night? I mean, what were you really doing?”

  “I saw that guy go in. Jones. I followed him. I thought he was a thief.”

  “The elusive boot thief, perhaps?”

  “You know about that?”

  “I took a peep at Jackson’s email while I was waiting for him to turn up, just now. There was one from a woman called Lydia. She was refusing to officially record the theft - alleged theft - of your boots because you wouldn’t fill in some form.”

  “According to her, if it’s not down in black and white, it didn’t happen."

  “So, your boots get stolen and you do what? March barefoot all the way to the CEO himself. You don’t think you could have been over-reacting, just the tiniest bit?”

  “There was no one else around to talk to.”

  “This isn’t some elaborate cover for what you’re really doing here?”

  “No. They were just nice boots. I wanted them back.”

  “Listen, David. Your name actually is David? Please. I’m in a bind, here. We both could be. The people above us may not play well with others, but that doesn’t mean we can’t. We’re the ones at the sharp end. And we both have reasons to be here. They could be separate. Or they could overlap. Yes? So I’d like to know. I don’t need specifics. But tell me - should I be looking over both shoulders, now? Or only one?”

  “Only one,” I said, after a moment.

  “Really?”

  “Really. I’m here because I hurt myself. I was busy making a serious mess of someone else’s day when a metal spike did the same thing to my head. So now, I’m waiting for test results. I’m not working. And I’m not going to interfere with what you’re doing - whatever that may be - in any way.”

  “Are you sure? Cause you pretty much interfered the hell out of Tim.”

  “That was an accident. He was in disguise. I didn’t know who he was.”

  “Some accident. The guy’s young. He’s fully fit, and he finished top of his class in training school. Which means I’m struggling to see someone with brain damage demolishing him in two seconds flat.”

  “It took longer than two seconds.”

  The agent didn’t reply.

  “Look, the truth is, I don’t have brain damage” I said. “And I may have prolonged my stay here a little because I want my boots back. It’s outrageous they were stolen, given how I got here, and the hospital suits won’t do anything to help. But that’s all.”

  “Give me your word on that?” she said.

  “I do.”

  She didn’t look convinced.

  “OK,” I said. “If you don’t believe me, look around for those boots. Any footwear, in fact. If you can find a single thing in this room I could wear on my feet, you can call me a liar.”

  She glanced at the locker at the side of the bed, then shook her head.

  “It’s all right,” she said. “I do believe you.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “And I’m sorry about your guy, Jones. I didn’t mean to hurt him. I wouldn’t have, if I’d known who he was. How’s he doing, anyway? Will he be OK?”

  “Don’t worry. He’ll be fine in a little while. He’ll recover, and he’ll have learned a useful lesson.”

  “And I’m sorry for throwing a spanner into whatever you’re working on.”

  “Thanks. I’m trying to keep the lid on a powder keg here, and flying spanners are the last things I need. Plus I’ve been stuck with mentoring Tim. That’s another reason I was a little crabby last night. I hate baby-sitting. Specially when the baby ends up in Intensive Care.”

  There was a sharp knock at the door before I could reply.

  “Come in,” I said, reluctantly. I was enjoying the conversation, and I wanted to find out more about what she was doing at the hospital. Hints about powder kegs with loose lids can have that effect.

  The agent broke eye contact as the door swung open and a nurse I’d not seen before stepped into the room.

  “It’s me, Suzanne,” the nurse said. “And you have a visitor, I see.”

  “Don’t mind me,” the agent said. “I can’t hang around, anyway. Just one more question for you, though, David, before I go. Your boots. If you got them back, would you hang around?”

  “Are you joking?” I said. “You wouldn’t see me for dust.”

  Chapter Six

  The new nurse held the door for the agent until she’d negotiated her way back into the corridor, then strode over to the bed and started her routine mauling. She was alarmingly enthusiastic.

  “Your temperature’s OK,” she said, making a note on my chart. “Blood pressure’s a little low, but nothing to worry about. Same for heart rate. Now let’s talk about what really matters. Your head. How is it? Have you had any pain?”

  “I had a pretty bad headache last night,” I said, thinking back to the conversation I’d had with my control once Nurse Smith had left me alone. They appreciated the heads-up, I suppose, but that didn’t outweigh their irritation at having to mend fences with MI5. “It’s a little better now, but it hasn’t quite gone away completely.”

  “That’s understandable. And what about nausea? Have you been feeling sick at all?”

  “I had one pretty bad episode,” I said, picturing myself surrounded by Jackson’s display of management-speak posters.

  “And did you actually throw up?”

  “Not quite. I managed to restrain myself.”

  “You shouldn’t do that, you know. If you feel like vomiting, your body’s telling you something. You shouldn’t hold back. If there’s something bad in there, it needs to come out.”

  “I’ll remember that, next time,” I said, suppressing a smile as I pictured how that would go down with Jackson’s prim secretary.

  “Any memory loss, while you’ve been here?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “That’s a difficult question to answer, isn’t it? How do you know you’ve forgotten something, until you’ve remembered it again? Or someone reminds you? But still, it’s important, so anything like that, we need to know. Now, concentration. How are you finding that?”

  “Sorry, what was the question?”

  “Concentration. Have you - oh. I see. Never mind. So, what’s next? Your sight. Any problems with focussing, field of vision, anything like that?”

  “I feel like I’ve maybe had a bit of tunnel vision since I’ve been here,” I said, thinking about my missing boots. Then the MI5 agent’s intense, worried face floated into my mind. “Although, that might be easing a little, now.”

  “Good. Now, one last thing. And don’t take offence at this, but you’re a man, so I want you to take a moment and think before you answer. I want you to be honest. It’s ab
out your emotions. Don’t deny having any. I know you do. So just think, and tell me if you’ve had any mood swings in the last twenty-four hours. Or if you’ve felt angry. Or frustrated. Or even just a little bit cranky.”

  The truth was I had been pretty irritable since I’d got there - with the betrayal over my boots, and having to deal with the unhelpful Jackson and obstructive Lydia. And the way I felt had suddenly changed, as well - since this morning’s encounter with the MI5 agent. So this time when I answered, I wasn’t just angling to be kept in the hospital.

  “Yes,” I said, after a suitable delay. “I think so. All of the above.”

  Suzanne scribbled deliberately on the chart for another couple of minutes, then hung the clipboard back in its place. But instead of leaving like the other nurses had done at that stage, she crossed to the window and gazed out across the square. Thirty seconds passed in silence, then she started talking. About the storm, and the damage it had caused. About her children. Her husband. Their neighbourhood. The TV shows she liked. Where she’d been on holiday. On and on, until a quarter of an hour had dragged by. I was beginning to wonder if it was some kind of technique to assess my mental state - seeing how long I could stand her babble before strangling her and hiding the body in a laundry cart - when someone tapped on the door, breaking her off mid sentence.

  “Who is it?” I said, before she could get back into her stride.

  The door opened and a man stepped into the room. I’d guess he was probably in his late sixties. He was tall - around six foot three - with immaculately combed silver hair, an elegant, plain grey three piece suit, and black Oxford shoes that were polished like crystal. If someone had told me he was an ex-Guards officer I wouldn’t have been surprised. He paused to gently close the door, and when he turned back to face me I saw he was holding a green plastic bag in his right hand, low down by his side.

  “Would you by any chance be Lieutenant-Commander Trevellyan, sir?” he said, looking straight ahead.

  “I would,” I said, glancing at Suzanne to see if she reacted to the way he’d addressed me.

  “In that case, I have a delivery for you,” he said, handing me the bag.