Shift

by Chris Dolley

  Louise concentrated hard; thinking, hoping, praying that this would be it. One more encouragement and John would be free. A new lampshade-sized cloud of thought hovering above Pendennis's bed.

  But something else happened instead.

  Someone started to laugh and everything went black.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Nick awoke. Someone was shining a light in his eyes. He blinked and turned his head away. Then saw Louise. She was lying in the next bed, a drip attached to her arm. But not the one he'd attached. This one was hanging from a stand high above the bed. And the room was different. It wasn't his apartment. It looked . . . it looked like a hospital? White walls, white ceiling.

  "Do you know where you are?" asked a male voice.

  Nick swung his head around. A doctor stood over him—a man, mid-thirties, no one he recognised—he was holding a pencil light in his hand.

  "Where is this?" asked Nick, trying to sit up. The doctor pushed him back down on the bed. Nick lacked the strength to resist.

  "It's best you take it easy for a while," said the doctor. "You've been out for some time."

  "Where is this?" Nick repeated, his eyes darting around the room. It looked like a hospital room—two beds but . . . where were the windows?

  "You're in hospital," said the doctor. "Do you remember why you're here?"

  "No."

  The doctor clicked his tongue and grimaced. Obviously, not the right answer, thought Nick, his head feeling inordinately dense. Had he been drugged? The last thing he remembered was trying to free John.

  "Your LSUs malfunctioned," said the doctor. "Sending you both into a coma."

  "Louise?" Panic. He threw his head round to look at her. "Is she still in a coma?"

  "She's come out of it. She's resting now. The pair of you have been very lucky. LSUs are not for amateurs."

  "Where exactly are we?" asked Nick.

  "A hospital," repeated the doctor, peering at a display panel on the wall behind Nick's bed and then tapping buttons on his handheld.

  "Which hospital?"

  "This one," said the doctor. "And I apologise for sounding obtuse but I shouldn't be talking to you as it is."

  "Why not?"

  The doctor eyed him suspiciously. "I think you know."

  Nick wanted to scream, "I don't," and pursue the matter but held back. It was a slim chance but what if the hospital staff didn't know who he was? Better to play dumb, thank everyone for their help, and get discharged as soon as possible.

  But what had happened? Could a sudden failure in an LSU drag them out of Upper Heywood and back to their bodies? A Near Death Effect. Survivors talked of something similar, didn't they? The sudden realisation that it wasn't their time, that they were going to live, then the feeling of being dragged back and reconnected with their bodies. But . . .

  But he hadn't felt anything like that. One second he was at Upper Heywood the next he was waking up here.

  And what had gone wrong with the LSU? He'd used them before without a problem. Okay, he'd never separated before but he'd been hooked up to the units for hours at a time. Could someone have sabotaged his unit? John Bruce? Someone working for John Bruce?

  In which case why was he still alive? Had Adam found them in time, recognised the problem and called for an ambulance?

  Questions. His mind was full of them. Was his identity known? The doctor was acting as though it might be. I shouldn't be talking to you as it is. But if he was under arrest wouldn't a police guard be in the room?

  He closed his eyes. He'd separate. It was the obvious thing to do. He'd find out where they were, see if anyone was outside the door guarding the room. Maybe even fly back to the apartment and see if anyone had turned the place over.

  He relaxed, settled back, willed his mind free and . . . nothing happened. He tried again. And again. Still nothing.

  "What medication have you put me on?" he asked, sitting up, trying to find a reason for his failure to separate.

  "He's gone," said Louise. "And I think we should go too."

  Nick agreed and began disconnecting his drip. "How long have you been awake?" he asked.

  "Long enough. What the hell happened back . . ."

  Her question was cut short by the door suddenly opening. Anders Ziegler stood in the doorway. He looked horrified. "What are you doing?" he hissed, running into the room. "Are you mad? You'll set off the alarms."

  Nick and Louise froze. "What alarms?"

  Ziegler ran back to the door and eased it closed. "The monitors are linked to the nurse's station. If you disconnect your heart monitors you'll have a crash team here in ten seconds flat."

  Nick felt stupid. And then curious. "Why would that worry you? And what are you doing here?"

  "I haven't got much time," said Ziegler. He looked nervous and his face was drawn. "I had to call in a lot of favours to get you moved here as it was."

  "Where's here?" asked Louise. "Upper Heywood?"

  Ziegler nodded. "It was the only place I could think of. It has secure hospital status."

  "Why would we need to be in a secure hospital?" asked Nick, fearing he already knew the answer. The Oxford murders. Karen Hawkins and Vince Culley.

  "You really don't know?" asked Ziegler. He looked surprised. And still very nervous. He kept glancing towards the door as though he expected someone to burst in at any moment.

  "Is it because of Karen?" asked Louise. "We were miles away at the time. We couldn't . . ."

  Ziegler cut her off. "Karen's the least of your problems. Which is why we've got to get our story straight. You say nothing about me or coming here to visit Peter. Understand?"

  Nick was confused. "What's that got to do . . ."

  Ziegler glared at him. "This is not a game," he hissed. "Or a debate. You keep me and Upper Heywood out of everything and I'll do what I can to help."

  He turned to Louise, his eyes pleading. "I can say you're unfit to stand trial. Make up some condition to keep them away. Anything as long as you keep my name out of it. I've destroyed all the records of your visits to Peter. But you've got to help me. You've got to."

  The man was terrified.

  "Keep who away from us?" asked Nick.

  Ziegler stared at him, incredulous. "The Americans, of course."

  "What Americans?" asked Louise.

  "Bruce's Truth Commission."

  "John Bruce?"

  "President Bruce," corrected Ziegler. "He wants you extradited. His Truth Commission have named you as part of the terrorist group who had McKinley and the other political leaders assassinated."

  Nick felt numbed. President Bruce. Truth Commission. Extradition.

  "President Bruce?" asked Louise. "How long were we out?"

  "Twelve months," said Ziegler. "I had you moved here the moment I could. I've done everything to keep you safe. Now you've got to repay the favour. Keep my name out of this. Don't let the Americans know I brought you together."

  Twelve months, thought Nick. Twelve months and now Mr. Hyde's President.

  "Has John attacked China?" asked Louise.

  "Not yet," said Ziegler. "He's too busy purging his own country. Interning and deporting. But the terrorists are still getting through—fifteen senators have been killed so far, three supreme court judges. Which is why Bruce set up his Truth Commission—to fast track justice. And backed the formation of local militia—armed gangs of patriots to hunt out and interrogate subversives in their neighbourhoods. It's trial by mob over there. If we're extradited we'll be dead within a week."

  Ziegler turned to leave. "I've got to run," he said, checking his watch. "Remember, keep quiet. Feign memory loss if you have to. I'll be back as soon as I can."

  "What are we going to do?" asked Louise as soon as the door closed.

  Nick felt shell-shocked. What could they do? They'd had the word 'terrorist' attached to their names. That changed everything: their rights, their ability to question the evidence against them, everything. Even if they could prove their in
nocence who'd want to listen, they were terrorists.

  And it transferred their fate from the judicial arena to the political. They would become bargaining chips—political pawns dependent on the relationship between Downing Street and the White House. You hand over those two terrorists and I'll make sure a British company's at the top of the list when the next round of defence contracts are handed out.

  If John Bruce wanted them, he'd get them.

  Unless they could whip up a media campaign in their favour . . . but what chance was there of that? As terror suspects they'd have no access to the press. And how many friends or colleagues would dare speak out on their behalf? Ziegler was terrified, the scattered body parts found at Nicks' home and college had probably convinced most of Oxford of his guilt. And how many friends would Louise still have a year after being accused of killing Karen?

  They were not so much in the shit as drowning in it.

  Unless . . .

  "Try and separate, Lou. Maybe there's still time if we can get the two John's back together."

  They both tried. Several minutes of concentrated mind-stretching to no avail. Something was holding them back. Drugs, stress, lack of practice.

  "It's no good," said Louise. "I can't move an inch."

  More time passed. They tossed ideas around. Whatever was preventing them from separating had to end soon. There was still hope.

  And there was still despair. The silences between them grew longer. The two of them, lying shackled to beds by wires and tubes, waiting for God knows what—interrogation, torture? Imagining all kinds of futures. Most of them bad.

  Time crawled. There wasn't even a clock or a watch in the room to measure it by. There wasn't even a window to look out of. It could be night outside. It could be raining, snowing, blowing a gale. And it was so quiet. No sound of life outside: no snatches of passing conversation from the corridor, no doors slamming in the distance, no squeak of wheels as a trolley rolled by. The electronic hum of the overhead light was the only sound.

  Which was strange, thought Nick. He hadn't registered the fact before but now he thought about it, he couldn't remember hearing a single sound from outside the room since he'd awoken. The room wasn't sound-proofed was it?

  He looked at the door. An ordinary-looking white-painted wooden door. With about an inch gap between its base and the floor. There was no way it could be sound-proof.

  And yet . . .

  "Have you heard anything from outside since we've been here?" he asked Louise.

  She sat up. "No," she said, turning her head to one side. "Why?"

  "Because it's not right," said Nick. "Asylum's are noisy. We should have heard someone shouting or screaming by now."

  "Maybe they're all drugged. Or it's night."

  He hadn't thought of that. It probably was night. But if so . . . where had Ziegler gone in such a hurry? He was hardly likely to be called to a meeting in the middle of the night.

  And how long had he been gone? It seemed like hours.

  Then he heard it. Footsteps. Someone was walking along the corridor, the sound getting louder. Ziegler?

  Nick sat up, his eyes fixed to the door. The footsteps stopped. The door began to open, a crack at first then wider. Then . . .

  A sharp intake of breath. A diminutive figure in a red uniform stood in the doorway—Pendennis—unchaperoned and smiling.

  Nick tore the monitor patches from his body, pulled back the sheets. Louise was doing the same. Pendennis's smile grew wider, he ambled into the room, walked up to the foot of Louise's bed and leered.

  Louise bounced off her bed onto Nick's, two quick rubbery steps and then she grabbed hold of Nick and bundled him away from his bed and into the far corner of the room, slamming him against the wall.

  Pendennis didn't move. He just stood there, smiling.

  "I only came to ask how you were," he said.

  Nick pushed Louise behind him, clenched his fists, and braced himself. Would Peter be armed? He couldn't see a knife but Peter's right hand was hidden inside a pocket.

  Another man appeared in the doorway—a warder from his uniform. Peter hadn't seen him. Nick waited as the warder slipped silently into the room. Any second now he'd grab Pendennis. Any second . . . why wasn't he doing anything? The warder had stopped a few feet behind Peter. He could have reached out and grabbed the little pervert, locked both his arms and dragged him into the corridor without breaking sweat. He was twice Peter's size.

  But he hadn't. He still wasn't. Was he waiting for something? The right moment, a clear corridor so he could knock Pendennis senseless without anyone seeing him?

  Nick called to him. "What are you waiting for? Take him!"

  The warder didn't move. Neither did Pendennis. He didn't even look round. Maybe he was unaware of the warder behind him, maybe he thought Nick was trying to trick him into turning his back.

  "Get Pendennis out of here!" shouted Nick.

  At last the warder moved. But not towards Pendennis. He strode past the red-clad killer, marched up to Nick and slapped him hard across the face with the back of his hand.

  Pain seared across Nick's right cheek. He'd been too shocked to move. Then the warder spoke, spitting the words into Nick's face.

  "Doctor Pendennis to you."

  Chapter Eighteen

  Louise watched in growing horror. Had the warder gone mad?

  "You," he said, prodding Nick in the chest. "Move! Along the wall to the other corner. And don't try anything unless you really want to piss me off."

  There was hate in his eyes. A blind, belligerent hate that Louise couldn't understand. Was it because he considered Nick a terrorist?

  Another warder arrived. Louise's hopes soared . . . and then collapsed. He too looked to Pendennis, awaiting instructions.

  "Restrain the girl," said Pendennis.

  "No!" Louise was not going to be restrained. She ran at Pendennis, lunging forward, preparing to claw at his face with her hands. If she could just . . .

  A warder's hand grabbed her by the left elbow, swung her around, almost off her feet, away from Pendennis and back towards the wall. She slammed into it—hard—cushioning some of the impact with her right hand, trying to push away but the warder grabbed a fistful of hair on the back of her head and sent her forehead crashing against the wall.

  Dazed, her legs buckled. She was vaguely aware of another fight to her right. Nick and the other warder. Then she was grabbed, her arms gathered up and locked behind her. She was swung round, turned to face the centre of the room where Pendennis waited, unruffled and amused.

  Her head hurt, her eyes watered and her arms felt like they were being tugged out of their sockets. She felt weak and vulnerable, a feeling exacerbated by the hospital gown. Why couldn't she have been wearing clothes! She could feel the warder press up against her. The gown open at the back. Her imagination on fire.

  Nick was on the floor now. She tried not to look, tried to blot out the grunts and shouts and sickening crunches as kick after kick went into the squirming body on the ground. Why wouldn't they stop? Why wouldn't any of them stop?

  "I think that's enough pre-op, Bobby," said Pendennis, picking at his fingernails. "Put him on the bed."

  Bobby dragged Nick along the floor, hoisted him up and flung him onto the bed, then leaned down and pulled out a series of webbing straps attached to the frame and threw them over Nick's body. Pendennis walked over to the other side and did the same, connecting the straps together and pulling them tight. Nick didn't struggle once. Louise wasn't even sure if he was conscious.

  Once finished, Pendennis sauntered towards Louise.

  "Make sure you watch all of this, Lulu. May I call you Lulu? Louise seems so formal."

  He smiled at her, so smug, so sickening. She could have killed him. She strained forward, tried to break the lock the warder had on her arms, but was immediately tugged back. Peter reached out a hand and lightly brushed her cheek.

  "Such pretty skin. Seems almost a pity . . ."

/>   Louise tried to spit. She wanted to cover that sick bastard from ear to ear but fear had dried her mouth. Peter stepped backwards.

  "I like a girl with spirit. Don't you, Tony?"

  Louise leaned back against Tony and kicked out with her legs. She caught Pendennis a glancing blow on the hips. He darted backwards out of range and shook his head.

  "That will not do at all, Lulu," he said and nodded to Tony.

  Louise acted first. She brought her heels back against Tony's shins. If only she hadn't been barefoot! If she'd had boots she could have scraped them down his shins, done some damage. She threw her head forward then jerked it back, hoping to connect with Tony's face, hoping to hit something. But finding nothing.

  Her arms came free as her captor switched holds. She struggled and twisted but an arm locked across her throat constricting her windpipe. She tried to break the hold, she pulled at the arm, dug in her nails, reached up, flailing wildly with her fingers in search of an eye, something vulnerable she could grab at or poke. She began to choke, difficult to breathe, the room spinning, feeling weak . . .

  "That's enough," said Pendennis. "We don't want her to miss the show."

  The pressure on her throat eased. She gulped in a lungful of air. Coughed. And once more lost the use of her arms as her captor reverted to his previous hold.

  Pendennis cracked his knuckles and moved towards the bed. "Time to begin," he said.

  Nick must have come to. "What are you doing?" he asked.

  "Preparing you for surgery, of course," said Peter, standing in the aisle between the two beds, rolling back his sleeves. "Surely a doctor like yourself should know all about things like that?"

  Louise watched in horror. Was Pendennis going to kill them? Chop them up into little pieces like he'd done to all those other people? She tried to break free. She pushed with her legs, rocked, did everything she could to throw her captor off balance.

  Nothing worked. The warder whispered in her ear. "One more stunt like that and the gown comes off . . . slowly."

  "Ready, Lulu?" said Pendennis, his bare forearms raised like a surgeon after scrubbing up.