‘Would four be a good guess?’
‘I imagine so.’
‘And there we have it. They’ve locked the Gates of Heaven on us. We’re condemned to living our miserable little lives as best we can in the sure and certain knowledge that it’s to no end whatsoever. We live. We die. We’re worm meat.
‘They’re happy to give us the vote. Why not? We’re too much a minority to upset the political balance. But what they won’t give us is our souls. If we had the whole world, it would count for nothing.’
‘The Church could be wrong.’
‘By the time I’m through,’ said the Panda, ‘the Church will be history.’
The King reddened. ‘You have no jurisdiction over the Church.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong, Fatso. As President, I am Commander-In-Chief of the armed services and while Martial Law is in force I have jurisdiction over everything not covered by Royal Prerogative. You can have the Knave of Hearts, but the Church belongs to me. Or do you intend to change the Constitution?’
It was a question for which the King could find no ready answer. The Constitution had stood unchanged for centuries, inviolable and immutable. It allowed for the formation and dissolution of parliaments, but mandated that the Twin Estates of Royalty and Presidency be abolished by no man.
For the moment, the King could only estimate the full extent of the Panda’s power under Martial Law. He would have to consult with his Privy Council to discover what curbs - if any - he could legitimately place on the Panda.
The need to rid his Kingdom of the President seemed more urgent than ever.
Satisfied that he’d had the last word on the subject, the Panda turned to other matters. ‘I’ve had an unusual request from the Royal Prison Hospital,’ he said, sitting down at his desk. ‘The physicians feel a visit from your valet might be in order.’
The King looked suspicious. ‘The White Rabbit?’
‘The March Hare. It seems that the Knave of Hearts is not responding to treatment as well as he might. He’s somewhat withdrawn and the doctors think a visit from his friend here might snap him out of it.
‘The Knave is now your prisoner, therefore I hand the request on to you to decide upon as you will. If your answer is yes, then I can have one of my staff drive the March Hare over there and bring him back again.’
‘I see no reason to refuse this request,’ said the King. ‘When will they be expecting him?’
‘Any time he can get there. Frankly I’d prefer it if he went now. His presence here is beginning to grate on my nerves.’ The King dismissed the March Hare with a wave of his hand. ‘Report back to work in the morning.’
The March Hare turned towards the door, took a step forward and then stopped. ‘Your Excellency,’ he said, without looking around, ‘I just want you to know that if the Knave dies, I’m going to make you suffer. I don’t know how I’ll do it, but I will.’
The Panda laughed. ‘I really miss the good old days when I had you for a punch bag. Now clear off. Me and the King have things to discuss.’
*
The Royal Prison Hospital rose from the surrounding heathland like the surface of a dead moon. Every aspect of it - the watchtowers and barbed wire, the granite walls with their small, barred windows - seemed designed to intimidate, to warn away all but the most desolate in spirit.
Sitting in the back of an army jeep, the March Hare watched silently as the vehicle carried him inexorably towards the hospital. The building seemed to be waiting for him.
He thought of the dreams he had been having of late, dreams that until now had seemed to hold no significance whatsoever. The images were still clear in his mind. He was adrift on a log raft in the middle of a very calm sea. The water must have been deep, because although it was clear, he could detect no bottom to it. Nor could he discern any sign of life. The sky was empty. Nothing swam by.
Then a great blackness would loom before him. It was something he felt, rather than saw, but he knew it was there and he knew he was drifting towards it. He also knew he could not avoid it.
An emptiness, he thought to himself as the jeep pulled up outside the Prison Hospital. And every time I see it, I’m certain that I’m about to become part of it, cease to have any true existence. Is that what life holds for me? Or was I seeing the Knave’s future, his internment in this granite monstrosity?
There’s no hope left for him, he realised. Between them, the King and the Panda are going to use him and tear him apart. They’re going to destroy every last atom of his being.
‘We’re here,’ announced the driver needlessly. He leaned against the steering wheel and his body language made it very plain that he would not leave the jeep. From here on in, the March Hare was on his own.
‘Thanks, Sergeant,’ said the March Hare. He jumped onto the concrete road and surveyed the front of the hospital. A red door, no bigger than an ordinary domestic one, appeared to be the only entrance. Glancing upwards, he caught sight of a guard standing with his back to him in a watchtower.
‘Through there,’ said the driver, pointing to the red door. ‘Show your i.d. at the desk. I’ll wait for you out here.’
The March Hare went in and found himself inside a small room cluttered with filing cabinets. A white-suited orderly stood leaning against the wall, a cigarette in his hand.
‘Can I help you?’ he asked, eyeing the March Hare in a cool, disinterested manner.
‘I believe I’m expected,’ said the March Hare. ‘I’ve come to visit the Knave of Hearts.’
‘That loony?’ The orderly jerked his thumb in the direction of a green door. ‘Through there and speak to Security. They’ll know what to do with you.’
The door led into a larger room. It was evidently some sort of control centre. A row of desks took up the length of one wall; they were occupied by old men in green uniforms who sat in silence as they watched the television monitors in front of them.
No-one turned as he came in, so he spent a few moments looking over people’s shoulders. Most of the screens showed mundane scenes of the hospital - long corridors, an empty lounge, a dormitory full of sleeping people.
On one screen, a hospital corridor suddenly slipped out of existence and was replaced by a padded cell. It was empty; the patches of blood on the walls and ceiling told their own story. Their abstract shapes were like an atlas, the lost islands and continents of a soul in distress.
With bile rising in his throat, the March Hare turned away and looked to see if there was anyone who could direct him further. He coughed, hoping to attract someone’s attention. The old men stared at their screens.
Giving up, he was about to go through the next door when it opened and a tall, attractive nurse walked in. She moved with a model’s poise, her hips swaying to some delightful inner rhythm, her eyes burning with sexual mischief. A leather gun belt served to emphasise the concise curvature of her waist.
‘You’re here already?’ she said, closing the door behind her.
The March Hare nodded. His eyes drank in the full glory of her blonde hair. She wore it like a crown. ‘I hope I’m not where I shouldn’t be,’ he said, feeling a tightening in his throat. ‘I was told to come through and ask for Security.’
The Nurse placed her hand on his chest, thrust her pelvis forward a few sly, provocative inches. ‘Screw security, Bunny Rabbit. If you’re not living dangerously, you just ain’t living.’
Without parting her lips, she directed a smile at him. It was loaded with erotic potential.
The March Hare backed away, swallowed nervously. ‘Is he all right, Nurse?’
‘Call me Nurse Jane. Is who all right?’
‘The Knave of Hearts.’
‘Of course he is, my precious. You mustn’t worry about him, you know. He wouldn’t be treated better if he was royalty.’
Her attention turned to the television screens, all of which were now displaying the same picture - a man standing in his pyjamas on the roof, his arms akimbo.
‘Oh dear,’ said Nurse Jane. ‘The things some people will do for attention. It looks like he’s going to land in the fish pond, and we’ve only just had it restocked. Some people have no consideration.’
‘Don’t you think,’ said the March Hare, ‘that you ought to try talking him down?’
‘He’ll come down in his own good time.’
No sooner had she spoken, than the patient fulfilled her prophecy. He stood to attention, held his arms above his head, and then dived.
‘Ah,’ said Nurse Jane. ‘I know who that is now. That’s Dibdin. He used to be a high-diver before that business with the chainsaw.’
This girl’s psychotic, thought the March Hare. How can they let someone like this become a nurse? And yet, it makes a certain kind of sense. Most nurses thrive on the compassion and healing that goes on in hospitals; they put up with the suffering because it’s part of their job. But for this one, it’s the reverse. She enjoys suffering, and in a place like this she must get all the job satisfaction anyone could hope for. I bet in her own way she’s a damned good nurse.
‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Nurse Jane, brightly. ‘If I take you through now, I can get on with phoning Dibdin’s relatives to tell them the tragic news. Shouldn’t take too long. He killed all but two of them.’
As he followed Nurse Jane into the corridor, the March Hare noted that her gun holster was not merely decoration. It held a snub-nosed revolver with a thick barrel that left no doubt as to its lethalness.
Finding the swaying of Nurse Jane’s hips distracting, he caught up with her and walked by her side. ‘What was that room?’ he asked. ‘What was going on in there?’
‘Occupational therapy,’ she replied, matter-of-factly. ‘We try to give our senior citizens the idea that they have some sort of control over what goes on in this place.’
‘Does it work?’
‘Who cares? It keeps the old codgers quiet.’
At the end of the corridor, they turned right, into a long passage lined with doors. The click of the Nurse’s high heels echoed between the whitewashed walls like a swarm of invisible bugs.
‘Room 343,’ she announced, stopping outside a door with that number on it. She removed a key from her pocket and leaned forward to unlock the door. As she did so, the back of her skirt rode up to reveal that magic borderline between stocking and flesh. The March Hare felt his temperature rise.
If this woman wanted to eat me alive, he told himself, I’d serve myself up with caviar.
She stood up, straightened the hem of her skirt. He was certain she knew the effect she was having on him; her every move was worked out in advance like a gambit in some kind of sensual chess game. Femme fatale was too weak a word to describe her. She was the sexual equivalent of a full-scale massacre.
Placing herself in the doorway, Nurse Jane beckoned for the March Hare to come through.
He had to squeeze past, pressing his body against her in an intimacy that both appealed and appalled.
‘My, my,’ she said with a knowing smile. ‘We are a big boy, aren’t we?’
Chapter 12
Die Young, Stay Pretty
Room 343 was white upon white. It opened up on the March Hare like a surgical incision, revealing the true nature of the hospital; it was without heart, without soul.
A closed-circuit television camera intruded from the ceiling and swiveled slowly back and forth as if to stir the thick, humid air. Behind him, Nurse Jane pushed the door closed with a jerk of her hips. The groaning of its hinges was answered by a distant scream from down the corridor.
The March Hare shut the cry from his mind. He ignored the camera, refused to dwell on the possibility that he was being watched by old men undergoing shock therapy.
There were two beds in the room. One was occupied by a thin youth rendered immobile by a combination of chains and straight-jacket. His eyes were closed and the trembling of his lips suggested that he might be saying a prayer.
In the other bed lay the Knave of Hearts. His head was partially obscured by a bandage, but his mouth and one eye were still visible. A length of twine looped about his head, pulling his jaws firmly together.
‘Don’t you go exciting him,’ Nurse Jane cautioned, smoothing down the front of her blouse.
‘Or you’ll upset his meta-whatsit. I would, however, appreciate it if you could get him to utter just a few words. It’s not natural, the way he lies there refusing to talk to anyone. In fact, I’m losing patience with his childish behaviour and I really don’t intend to put up with it for very much longer.’
‘Perhaps he can’t talk,’ said the March Hare. ‘Maybe that string he’s got wrapped around his head stops him.’
‘Oh, that’s it, Bunny Rabbit. You go right ahead and take his side. I’ve a good mind to take away his damned string and let him try to heal his jaw on his own. A couple of fractures and the little wimp thinks the world owes him an apology. Honestly! Men are such big babies!’
The March Hare sat down on the chair next to the Knave’s bed. With Nurse Jane looking on, he felt self-conscious - if not downright intimidated. He smiled weakly at the Knave, rubbed his paws together and searched his mind for something to say.
The Knave tried to sit up, but Nurse Jane came over and pushed him back down.
‘I’ve told you before about that,’ she snapped, waving a well-manicured finger like a malediction. ‘Someone spent a great deal of time stitching up your abdomen, and I don’t think they’ll be very pleased if you undo their handiwork. Now just lie down and behave yourself.
‘I’m off to powder my nose and see what those old codgers in the Therapy Unit are up to. I’ll be back in five minutes and I don’t want to find you out of your bed or sitting up. Is that understood?’
She straightened the bed clothes and moved towards the door. ‘Don’t leave the room while I’m gone,’ she told the March Hare. ‘The guards shoot first, ask questions later.’
The March Hare nodded dumbly, watched as Nurse Jane let herself out. The door closed. He could hear a key inserted in the lock and knew he could not leave even if he wanted to.
‘I hate that woman,’ said the Knave, speaking through clenched teeth and swollen lips. ‘She keeps giving me enemas.’
‘I thought you liked enemas.’
‘There are enemas and there are enemas. And right now I could do without that sort of thing. The bastards have already ruined my rectum as it is.’
‘The hospital?’
‘The Secret Police.’ The Knave rolled delicately on his side. ‘She’s got a nice arse though.’
‘Nurse Jane, you mean? She certainly has.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought you’d notice.’
‘I couldn’t help but notice. I’m not sure whether that woman’s going to give me nightmares or erotic fantasies.’
‘You don’t have erotic fantasies. The only things you ever dream about are lettuce and carrots. Or do you perhaps secretly yearn for some cute little bunny girl?’
The March hare suppressed a wave of annoyance. He did not like being stereotyped, told what he did and did not dream about, think about or yearn for. Had the Knave been healthy, had he been out of bed and standing before him with his fishnet stockings, a well-groomed kiss curl and his patent leather stiletto shoes, the March Hare would have come back with a blistering retort. Instead, he shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’m afraid I couldn’t bring you any fruit or sweets,’ he said. ‘It’s against regulations.’
‘That’s all right. I can only eat soup anyway. And even then I seldom manage to keep it down.’
‘I went to see the Panda,’ said the March Hare. ‘I’m working for the King now and he took me along to see him. That’s where I’ve just come from.’
‘The Panda? Is he mad?’ asked the Knave. ‘Do his eyes spin crazily? Does he foam at the mouth and tear out his fur in great chunks? I can see him now - gaunt and tortured, tormented by a thousand voices screaming in his head.’
‘He appeared normal and hea
lthy,’ said the March Hare. ‘He’s no worse than when I went to school with him. I really don’t think he’s crazy at all.’
‘Then why is he helping Peregrine Smith?’
‘Smith’s helping him.’
‘They’ve murdered the gerbils with alien technology. Who do you think’s going to be next? He has to be stopped. Someone has to destroy TARTS and end this thing!’
‘You’re not making sense,’ said the March Hare, suddenly remembering the camera above his head. ‘Perhaps we should change the subject.’
‘Good idea. My jaw aches to buggery and I have more important things to talk about. Like that letter for instance. The one on my locker.’ The Knave pointed a bandaged hand at a neatly folded sheet of A4. ‘I dictated it to Nurse Jane, but she says I’m not allowed to send it, even though it’s addressed to my own left testicle. They had to cut it off, you know.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Don’t be. I still have the other one. It was electricity that did it. 1200 volts through my scrotum. ‘You can read it, if you like. The letter, I mean. There’s not much point reading my left testicle.’
The March Hare took the piece of paper and carefully unfolded it. Nurse Jane’s handwriting was bold and confident, as intense and lurid as a neon sign.
My dear Left Testicle,
How are you keeping? I am sorry that we have been parted in such a cruel and sudden manner, but life is like that. It’s an endless series of meetings and departures. I am sure that you will soon make lots of friends in your new home.
I’ve made the doctor promise to change your pickle at least twice a week. He assures me that he will use nothing but the highest possible grade of embalming fluid. Some organs have to make do with vinegar, so you can see just how lucky you are.
Your friend, Mr. R. Testicle, sends you his best wishes and has asked me to tell you that he misses you very much.
If everything works out as I think it will, then you could well be reunited in a matter of days.
I have applied to what’s left of the State Welfare Department for a Social Worker to visit you every now and then - just to make sure that you’re adapting ok to your new environment. It may even be possible to get you adopted. I hear that many a brave soldier has returned from the trenches missing vital organs, and it warms my heart immeasurably to think that you - my one and only left testicle - might one day bring hope and happiness to a fellow human being.
A Plague of Hearts Page 12