Relatively Strange

by Marilyn Messik

  When it kept happening, she was forced to concede, ridiculous as it seemed, that she’d been right, her coffee’d been interfered with, no other explanation. There must, she concluded, be some dodgy goings-on tonight that they wanted going-on behind her back. She was so angry she could spit nails. She, it was, who administered medication to others. The thought she’d been given some sort of a drug herself, violated and offended her on a deeply personal level. She suddenly didn’t give a toss what was transpiring with Fleur, Irenée or any other member of the flipping Forsyte family. She switched off the television, splashed cold water on her face and headed down the war-path, to have it out with whichever so-and-so she came across first, whether it be Miss bloody Merry-go-round or the damn Doctor.

  As luck would have it, it was the damn Doctor and she uttered a strangled scream when he staggered gorily out from behind the door, just as angry as she was. The sedative, albeit a fraction of the intended dose, was still kicking in and she was doing a fair old bit of staggering on her own account and could only focus by closing one eye. To the impartial observer it would all have looked a little odd; the tall thin doctor and the rather more substantial matron, both seeing stars, both trying to maintain their balance and, any port in a storm, eventually clutching each other in an effort to stay upright.

  To Miss Merry, drifting gently upwards through the mists of the unconsciousness to which Ruth had consigned her, it appeared at baffled first glance as if they were dancing. She shut her eyes again briefly, while she digested this. She recalled that the evening’s programme had included a brain operation but was pretty certain there’d been no dancing scheduled. She opened her eyes again cautiously, maybe she’d imagined it but no, there they were, swaying and executing a sort of syncopated two-step. As if this in itself weren’t problematic enough, she couldn’t imagine what she herself was doing sitting on the floor and started to get up, pulling herself hand over hand up the drip stand. This worked to a certain point, whilst she was pulling it towards her and it was anchored firmly against her feet but once she was upright, the equipment did exactly what it was designed to do – roll easily on its little wheels to wherever it was pushed. Miss Merry, still not very steady and therefore holding on tightly, found her only means of support, heading briskly away. She landed painfully back on her knees.

  In the small bathroom, Ruth and Rachael, with Glory seated on the toilet seat between them, were having a silent but heated debate as to the best next step. Rachael was for knocking them all out and be done, Ruth favoured a diversion.

  By now, Matron had given up the ghost for the evening and in a last moment of sense and self-preservation had taken the two necessary steps to the bed and collapsed thereon, absent-mindedly pulling the Doctor down with her. All of a tangle, they looked as if they were auditioning for the next Carry On film and the Doctor, struggling to extricate himself from the situation, found a supine Mrs Millsop wasn’t to be taken lightly. Miss Merry meanwhile had finally regained her feet and although still a mite coltish, was doing her best to help him get out from under. They were both coldly livid, the loss of dignity anathema to each of them.

  They had no idea exactly what was going on, nor how it had been engineered. It was a fair assumption though that Glory Isaacs was involved and they each, for their own reasons, itched to get their hands back on her and get her under the knife. They both had the same thought at the same instant. The door at the front of the building was rarely locked until after midnight – that’s where she’d be headed, although she wouldn’t be getting far, not with the amount of valium pumped into her. With a last, desperate, mutual heave they rolled the unfortunate Mrs Millsop onto her side, not batting an eyelid between them as she slowly rolled off the bed and hit the floor with a bruising thump.

  They didn’t waste time. The Doctor swiftly dampened his handkerchief at the sink and removed the worst of the blood from around his nose, gingerly fingering the swelling, he didn’t think it was broken. Miss Merry, her back modestly turned, quickly straightened her clothing. Then without a backward glance at the unconscious woman on the floor, they headed off to retrieve Glory – two minds with a single thought.

  Having effectively planted that single thought, the Misses Peacock deemed it prudent to get weaving. It wouldn’t be long before the happy couple reached the front of the building and started to think for themselves. They hauled Glory up and stopping only to ensure Mrs Millsop was lying on her side in the recovery position, had a clear airway and was in no danger of anything other than a splitting headache, made their way to a side door of the clinic which was locked, but only briefly. Without Ed’s finesse to hand, they simply blasted it open and as they hurried through, heard faint shrieks of laughter still issuing from the sluice room – at least the evening hadn’t been a wash-out for everyone.

  Chapter Forty

  “And then?” In the darkness of the van’s interior I strained to make out their faces.

  “We went home.” said Miss Peacock, “But you can see why we’re persona non grata at Newcombe, even though that was over five years ago.”

  “Didn’t they come after you?”

  “How could they? We were perfectly within our rights to take Glory.”

  “How did you explain everything?”

  “Phoned the next day. Said my sister and I had been too nervous to take the pills, had consequently slept only briefly then gone to sit with Glory. She’d woken and was so distressed we simply decided to take her home there and then. Of course it was dreadfully impolite of us to do anything without notifying him but … middle of the night … terribly upset … did what seemed best.”

  “And he swallowed that?”

  “Stuck in his throat but what could he say, we were her legal guardians.”

  “But the nurses … Miss Merry?”

  “He thought they’d been drinking, I didn’t mention them and neither did he. As for Miss Merry, he assumed Glory must have hit her.”

  “The door you forced?”

  “Panic, we wanted to get home quickly, panicked when we couldn’t get out. Appalling behaviour… so rude … don’t know what came over us. Profound apologies and a cheque in the post.”

  “Mrs Millsop?”

  “The sack, probably not a bad thing, she’d not have lasted there much longer, she’s much happier where she is now.”

  “Now? You’re still in touch?”

  “You could say. Now I want to talk about tonight.”

  “No, hang on. You can’t just leave it there. I want to know what’s been going on at the Foundation since then – has he found others, before Sam I mean?”

  Glory, who’d been leaving the talking to the others, filled a silence that went on a little longer than it should have.

  “Some. It’s not always easy to keep an eye on things, certainly nobody like Sam. But the focus has changed a bit.”

  “You mentioned that before. How?”

  “We really don’t have time to go into all that now.” Miss Peacock was brisk, “All you have to do tonight is nip in, get Sam and nip out.” Put like that it sounded a doddle, though I had my doubts.

  “You’ll go in at the back of the clinic. Glory will talk you through, so you’ll know exactly where you’re headed. Ed will unlock all doors as you reach them. The tricky bit will be when you reach Sam. Timing’s crucial, we need him as un-sedated as possible, so you’re going in just before his next medication, he’s got to come willingly.”

  “And if he doesn’t want to?”

  “Persuade him.”

  “How?”

  “Oh for goodness sake – rely on your instincts.” Miss P’s confidence in my instincts were stronger than mine. Ruth leaned forward from her seat behind us,

  “You know, we wouldn’t be asking you to do this if you weren’t our best bet.”

  “How dangerous is he?” I asked the question but didn’t need to catch their concern to know the answer – they couldn’t really say. They suspected though and they were all, even
Miss Peacock, a darn sight more nervous than they let on. Hamlet, in the back of the van whined quietly, I was tempted to join him.

  Why didn’t I say, there and then I wanted out? Perhaps the revelations of the last forty-eight hours had totally skewed any vestige of common sense I may have had left. Despite the fact they’d just spun me the most unbelievable story since Goldilocks had the problem with the bears, I was setting out, on their say so, to rescue a child I didn’t know from Adam, who’d already killed once. Was I crazy? Given the choice again would I follow the same path? Actually, I didn’t think there was a choice.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Ed had doused the headlights. There was a full moon, but with a lot of obscuring cloud, it wasn’t doing anything useful in the way of illumination. As we bumped to a stop and he killed the engine too there was only the metallic ticking of its cooling. Quietly we got out, Hamlet unnervingly gravitating to my side, as if he knew we were the only two mugs going in. I tentatively reached into his head, as warm and dog-smelling as ever. In the chill of the night it was oddly comforting.

  “Make a lead.” Ruth murmured and showed me what she meant, a sort of mental chain of interwoven links between my mind and his – typically she’d visualised a shocking shade of pink, still Hamlet seemed happy enough, perhaps he had no colour sense either.

  “Take this.” Miss Peacock handed me a heavy black rubber torch. “You shouldn’t need to use it with Glory guiding, but just in case.”

  “Hey.” Glory poked me in the back, “You’re shielding too well now, stupid, let me in.” I relaxed and lemon sherbet fizzed in, beyond her I could feel the others, familiar now.

  Ed had driven the van onto a grass verge in the concealing shadow of a large oak and as we moved beyond its shelter, there was only the sound of our soft breathing and the occasional skitter of a startled nocturnal creature in the grass. It had rained during the day and although it wasn’t cold, I could feel damp through the soles of my shoes. A dauntingly high brick wall surrounded the back of the building and its grounds, with curled barbed wire running uninvitingly along the top. Where we were standing, there was a large bush of some kind, planted closed to the wall. The trunk of the oak and the bush formed a two-sided small area of shelter, where the others would stay while Hamlet and I did our stuff.

  “Go now.” Ruth murmured in my mind, “We’ll help you over, be with you all the way.” And because there didn’t seem to be any point in hanging about and I was getting more apprehensive by the second, I took a deep breath, felt them lend me their effort and rose. Slowly at first, all the balance-maintaining instincts coming back to me and then I was up and over the wall, taking care as I went, not to get feet caught in the razor-sharp wire. After all, we didn’t want situation normal, all fouled up, before I even started.

  It wasn’t until I arrived on the grass on the far side of the wall, that I belatedly recalled my travelling companion. I needn’t have worried, a second later he came sailing across, ten stone of dignified, if slightly puzzled dog. He landed gently next to me, waited for a moment to check he wasn’t going anywhere else, uttered a small wumph of relief and shook himself thoroughly. I tugged experimentally on our shocking pink lead and he responded instantly, butting my side with his head.

  We were standing, Hamlet and I, next to an unevenly paved pathway, running around the entire outer border of the broad lawns which spread out into the dark, either side of me. To the right was a central path, hedged on either side. It looked as if it followed a winding route, leading up to the modern extension at the back of the building, where the clinic was housed. It was very dark but,

  “Don’t use the torch,” hissed Glory in my head.

  “Can’t see.” I grumbled.

  “Don’t need to, just start walking.” The distance was deceptive, the building further away than it seemed. Sight blunted, other senses were sharpened, filling my nose with the sweetly rotten scent of wet vegetation and my ears with the rustling of the hedges either side of me as they groaned and rattled against a brisk breeze. As cloud ebbed and flowed around and across the April moon, shadows and shapes kept starting out at me. I was making Hamlet twitchy too, he was pressing his massive self close to me, uttering soft little whines and making it hard to keep my balance, let alone my nerve. We were hardly the most intrepid pair.

  “Concentrate.” Glory again, “Follow the path.” But I stopped. Heart thumping. There was some very loud, very frenzied barking, getting closer by the minute. From the darkness ahead of us, moving fast, charged two extremely large dogs. Hamlet and I froze as one.

  “Stand still, they won’t hurt you.” I was tempted to remind Miss Peacock that people commenting from behind six foot brick walls, could afford to be optimistic. One dog was a full-grown German Shepherd, the other, dear God, a Doberman. They’d both skidded to a stop in front of us, stiff-legged, hackles raised, heads down and there was a lot of deep-throated rumbling going on. Two sets of muzzles were curled back over two truly impressive sets of teeth. My faith in Miss Peacock’s smeared on dog-deterrent was being sorely tried and Hamlet, who was pressed so close he was almost on my other side, was shaking so hard I could feel us both vibrating – or maybe that was just me.

  “For Pete’s sake, girl, what’re you waiting for? Oh I’ll do it.” Miss Peacock rapped out a command and the Hounds of the Baskervilles immediately stopped growling and looked sheepish. They both sat down abruptly and the Doberman put his head to one side in a winsome manner. Hamlet relaxed a fraction and uttered what might have been the beginnings of a growl, I gave him a nudge both physical and mental – this was no time for bravado, I wasn’t sure we were out of the woods yet.

  “You’re fine.” Glory was impatient, “Rachael’s got them, look they’re a couple of pussycats.” I eyed them warily, where I came from, pussycats didn’t stand quite so tall and certainly didn’t bark so loud. I took a tentative step forward. Both dogs got to their feet. I stopped. They sat down again.

  “Go on,” Glory and Miss Peacock, in impatient unison. I shifted a nervous foot, the dogs rose. I moved forward and they fell into step behind me. I had to exercise all my self-control – and there wasn’t much left at that stage – to avoid breaking into a trot followed by a shrieking hell for leather run.

  “Listen to me,” old peppermint-Pru in my head, sharply, “Pull yourself together, they won’t hurt you, I won’t let them, although you’re perfectly capable of holding them back yourself. Anyway they’ve accepted you as leader of the pack, now get on with it.”

  I didn’t have a lot of option, I could hardly stand there all night, so we set off again, all four of us in cosily close formation, the newest members of the party panting at my heels like a couple of asthmatic steam engines. Every now and then, one of them would give a little woof, as if to remind me they were still there – like I could forget. Hamlet, in the meantime, had developed a distinct, my-best-friend’s-the-leader-of-the-pack swagger and even felt emboldened enough to move a couple of inches away from me. I felt like Barbara Woodhouse on location.

  “When you get to the end, turn right” Glory instructed, “Good, now a little way along that wall you’ll find there’s a door. Yes, there.” The upper half of the door was glass paneled and opaqued by thin wire mesh and as I approached, I heard the click of the lock being opened, good old Ed. When I tentatively turned the handle, it opened easily and no alarm went off. Laurel and Hardy at my heels whuffed uneasily.

  “They’re not allowed inside,” Miss Peacock informed me. Them and me both, I reflected and wondered if the sentence was less for breaking and entering if, technically, you hadn’t done your own lock-picking.

  “Get on with it.” Glory or Miss P again, wasn’t sure which, they were starting to sound the same.

  I shut the door quietly on my pedigree chums who both bore identical wounded expressions – no sooner do you find a pack leader than she ups and offs – and Hamlet and I found ourselves in a green-linoleumed, cream-walled corridor with closed, half-glas
sed, numbered doors at regular intervals to the left and right of us.

  “Left.” directed Glory and I swerved obediently. Everything was as quiet as it should be at that time of night, although I could hear low voices from one room as I passed and there was the constant underlying thrumming of the fluorescent, overhead lighting.

  “This corridor turns to the right and then there’s a flight of stairs, take those and then … ” she stopped as a tall, thickset man came round the corner, “Uh oh!”