(2013) Looks Could Kill

by David Ellis

  “Whose idea was that?” asked the Director.

  “Mine really,” said Emma.

  “But I agreed,” said Fred, looking shamefaced. “I’m afraid I allowed my partner to persuade me to go to the autumn sales with him. I can assure you it won’t happen again.”

  “Indeed,” said the Director. “Please continue, Dr Jones.”

  “I arrived at the team’s office and learnt that one of our therapists had phoned in sick. So I agreed to see someone referred to us with pancreatic cancer on my own. This turned out to be the person called Bob whom I’d unwittingly asked to do some building work in my house. I didn’t recognise him when I walked into the side room. He had someone with him called Chantelle who was introduced as his wife. Both seemed genuine and I didn’t suspect anything. It was only when I looked into his eyes to start the therapy that I thought I recognised his eyes. The next thing I knew was something being held against my nose and everything went blank after that.”

  “Thank you, Dr Jones. Fred, can you take us through what happened next?”

  “Certainly, Director. It seems the two operatives then managed to get the unconscious Dr Jones into a wheelchair that was already by the side of the bed. The male was wearing medical scrubs under a dressing gown and the female had on a nurse’s uniform. The ward receptionist remembers seeing the three of them leaving the ward at around 9:30 but didn’t regard it as suspicious. It wasn’t until about 12:30 that other members of her team realised that they hadn’t seen her for some time. When Dr Roit checked the side room where the patient had been, she found the dressing gown and coat left behind but no sign of Dr Jones. Dr Lawrence then phoned me on the emergency number I gave him earlier in the week.”

  “And did the GPS device on Dr Jones activate when she left the building with the operatives?” asked the Director.

  “Apparently there is a record of it activating but no-one acted on it until an hour later,” replied Fred.

  “During which time the unfortunate Dr Jones could have had both eyes removed, if that had been the plan,” said the Director, sarcastically.

  “I guess so,” said Fred, shifting uncomfortably in his chair.

  “And I believe that there was then some disagreement on how to proceed once her whereabouts had been established,” said the Director.

  “Er, yes,” replied Fred. “I’m afraid my colleagues were reluctant to take decisive action and so I had to make an executive decision to force entry and break down the door.”

  “Which was clearly the correct decision given the circumstances,” said the Director. “And of course when you did break down the door, you discovered that Dr Jones had defended herself in a most remarkable way. Dr Jones, perhaps you could continue your narrative.”

  “Okay. When I came around, I was blindfolded and had my hands and feet tied to a chair. I could hear two people talking. I realised I had to something to escape. I remembered Dr Kyriakides saying that the structure he found in my retina was like a solid-state laser. I was pretty desperate by this point and somehow that was sufficient for me to use my eyes to burn tiny holes in the blindfold. I then saw a trolley with some phlebotomy equipment on it and a flat screen TV. It was obvious that the man who appeared on the TV was my father-in-law, although I’d never met him before. He didn’t know I could see him. He talked about his scientists investigating my condition and believing they understood the genetics sufficiently to switch it on in normal individuals. He said he needed a blood specimen from me to put it through a gene sequencer and that’s when the man approached me with a vacutainer needle. Momentarily he looked at me and I used my eyes to incapacitate him. Just after that, there was a crash and Fred and his colleagues burst into the room.”

  “Most interesting, Dr Jones,” said the Director. “Mr Bannister, do you have anything to add?”

  “I’d say that “incapacitate” is putting it mildly,” said Fred. “The guy screamed in agony and fell to the floor convulsing.”

  “What’s being done about my father-in-law and the people who kidnapped me?” asked Emma.

  “Well, the two operatives are currently in high security cells in Paddington Green and the Home Secretary is on the phone at the moment to The Secretary of State to get them extradited back to the USA,” replied the Director. “The entire situation is somewhat embarrassing to the US administration as Armstrong Industries are under contract to DARPA, although it’s not clear how tightly specified the work was. It’s our guess that Mr Armstrong Senior saw this as his own special project and was willing to throw at it whatever was needed to get results. And that may still be the case. Nothing has appeared in the media yet about your kidnapping, but we’re putting together a story which should keep the press satisfied for the time being. The PM has been briefed, of course.”

  “What happens next?” asked Emma.

  “Well, Dr Jones,” replied the Director, smiling. “We’d actually like you to come and work for us. Your clinical work obviously means a great deal to you, so we could offer you a six month secondment as a start with some clinical sessions included. We would of course at least match your NHS salary. We’re thinking in particular of you spending some time at our Department of Special Research and Investigation. And you’d be working with both Mr Bannister and Dr Kyriakides.”

  “That’s very tempting, but I’m obviously going to be rather out of action for the next few weeks,” said Emma, patting her bump, “and I’d have to discuss this with my Medical Director.”

  “Of course,” said the Director. “There’s absolutely no rush. And in the meantime, there’s the small matter of what you should tell your medical director and your colleagues. In fact, Dr Martin already knows the bare bones of your story, so your request for a secondment shouldn’t come as a surprise. As far as colleagues are concerned, you’ll need to keep stum about what occurred yesterday. It’s obviously difficult to minimise being kidnapped, but perhaps you could say your father-in-law used an orthodox way of meeting you and that Bob and Chantelle got a little carried away with his instructions. And Mr Bannister will step in if the questions get more difficult. Are you planning to take maternity leave, by the way?”

  “Just two weeks, I think,” replied Emma. “My mother-in-law has offered to stay and I’m also lining up a nanny.”

  “Fine, but Mrs Armstrong Senior will need careful consideration. And it might best for us to supply a nanny, as they’re already positively vetted and can double up as security for the baby.”

  “Christ, you don’t think my baby is at risk as well?”

  “I’m afraid she might be, but rest assured that we won’t let our guard down this time,” replied the Director.

  September 2005, two days later

  Emma was back at the antenatal clinic to see her obstetrician, Miss Wang. Her security guys had insisted on coming with her and were in the waiting room. She’d spent the Sunday trying to relax at home, but found the constant presence of her security detail very disconcerting. In the end, she phoned Fred and he came over with Petros and a couple of large pizzas. Seeing the two of them so at ease with each other in her own environment made her realise that she’d enjoy working with them at The Manor, so by the end of the evening, she’d all but decided to accept the offer of the secondment.

  “Come on in, Dr Jones,” called Miss Wang from the doorway to her consulting room.

  Emma gratefully took the chair offered to her and felt more conspicuously pregnant than ever. “Well, I’m as ready as ever, Fiona,” she said.

  “I don’t blame you,” said Miss Wang. “Let’s just do the usual checks and then see where we are.”

  Emma’s blood pressure was 130 over 90, which was the same as three weeks ago, and there was only a trace of protein in her urine. The baby’s heartbeat was healthy and Emma could feel kicking as Miss Wang examined her abdomen.

  “Okay, Emma, everything is looking fine, but the baby’s head has now dropped into your pelvic cavity, so labour is imminent. I think now is the time for you t
o take it easy and just let nature take its way, unless you’d like to be induced, of course.”

  “I’d wondered about that, but having got this far, I’d like to see it through to the end as naturally as possible. To be honest, Fiona, there’s been so much weird stuff happening in my life recently, that I just need to be normal for once. I do have a final meeting with my team at the end of the week, but it’s in the hospital, so I won’t have far to go if I do go into labour.”

  “That sounds reasonable to me and I’ll make sure the labour ward is ready and waiting. Now, Emma, please go home for some R&R before the big event.”

  September 2005, one week later

  Emma arrived at the hospital just before 9:00 a.m., accompanied by Fred, and they made their way to the OAE Pilot office. The security detail remained outside in reception to enjoy the NHS atmosphere. Emma sat down heavily at the table and looked across at Jim, Michael and Janna. She felt a tightening in her abdomen.

  “Look, I’m really sorry that things haven’t quite gone to plan, but events have been a bit out of my hands,” said Emma.

  “We’ve been so concerned about you, Emma. Are you sure you’re alright after the kidnapping, or whatever it was?” asked Janna.

  “I’m fine,” replied Emma. “Nothing much happened really and Fred came to my assistance. It was really just my father-in-law having a strange way of meeting me.”

  “Really?” asked Jim, looking suspicious.

  “Honestly, Dr Lawrence,” interjected Fred. “Mr Armstrong Senior is rather used to getting what he wants and he’d lined up a video link to talk to Dr Jones in a nearby office. Obviously we don’t approve of the subterfuge he used, but no harm came to Dr Jones.”

  “But surely having two people impersonating a patient and his wife and then wheeling Emma out of the ward in a wheelchair is a little more than, er, subterfuge,” said Michael.

  “Dr Moore, I can assure that the incident has been dealt with satisfactorily and couldn’t happen again,” said Fred.

  “It bloody well better not,” muttered Michael under his breath, looking pointedly at Fred whose story sounded entirely concocted.

  “Why can’t you tell us what really happened?” asked Janna.

  “I’m afraid it’s now a matter of national security,” replied Fred.

  “Does that mean MI5 have taken over?” asked Jim.

  “Yes,” replied Fred, with a note of finality in his voice.

  “Let’s move on to the pilot,” said Emma diplomatically. “How have things gone over the past two weeks?”

  “Okay, we had 20 referrals the first week and 25 last week, split equally between oncology and surgery, and all were on high dose analgesia,” replied Janna. Patients and therapists seemed to find the neurobiofeedback pretty intuitive to use. Visual analogue scores showed pain reduction ranging from 30% to 80%. We did have one death, though, which occurred shortly after the treatment ended. The therapist was Vicky, whom we picked up on at the beginning as having particularly high empathic skills. It would be good if you could talk to her later, Emma.”

  “Thanks, Janna, I’ll do that,” replied Emma. “Jim and Michael, do you have anything to add?”

  “It’s all pretty impressive so far,” replied Jim. “To be honest I’m surprised that the results are as good without using functional MRI, but the combination of augmented empathy and neurobiofeedback is certainly much more practical.”

  “I agree,” said Michael. “But let’s finish the month before we open the champagne. It’s a shame that we don’t have Emma here to tackle some of the more resistant cases, although I guess we’d have to remove those from the final analysis.”

  “I’ll do whatever I can, although I’m a bit limited at the moment,” said Emma. “The pilot really does seem to be going as well as we could have hoped for. I suppose the big question is what happens next. Anyway, I’ll have a word with Vicky now if she’s free.”

  Emma found the therapist and took her into the ward’s relatives’ room to talk about the patient who died. She looked upset.

  “Hi, Vicky,” said Emma, “I was really sorry to hear about the patient you were seeing, but perhaps it was for the best. What was the story?”

  “Well, he was in his late 70s and had advanced prostate cancer which had spread to his spine. He’d recently developed weakness in his legs and difficulty with urination. The reason why he was referred was because of pain which morphine wasn’t touching. He came across as very sad and desperate and couldn’t really imagine being without pain. The neurobiofeedback showed clear correlations with peaks in his pain, so it was fairly easy to use visualisation. His pain scores dropped quite dramatically after 30 minutes of treatment, but his reaction to that was surprisingly pessimistic and it was as if he’d decided to give up the struggle. I planned to repeat the treatment a few days later and also to try focusing on his negative cognitions. Janna told me the following day that he died later that morning. I really can’t see that I did anything wrong, but I’m wondering whether he should have been treated for depression.”

  “I can’t see that you did anything wrong either, Vicky,” Emma said. “He reminds me of a patient called Brian who also had advanced prostate cancer. In fact, he was someone I’d seen years before when I first became a consultant. He sticks in my memory because it was clear that he’d given up following the death of his cat and that the only thing in his life was pain. I used my visualisation approach to stop the pain and he seemed to respond incredibly well and then fell asleep. I was told a short time later that he’d just died in his sleep. Thinking about it, it seemed to me that it was really the pain that was keeping him going, and that by removing it, his mind and body was finally able to be at peace.”

  “Thanks, Emma,” said Vicky. “I think you’re right. I guess that’s something that we’ll all need to be a bit more aware of.”

  Emma became aware of something rather different: another, more insistent tightening in her abdomen and thought it wouldn’t be long now.

  September 2005, eighteen hours later

  Emma could think of a hundred places that she’d prefer to be in more than a labour ward, but her labour was definitely underway and she didn’t have much of a choice in the matter. She looked around the delivery room, noticing how staff were going about their business like some well-oiled machine and displaying none of the churning anxiety she felt inside her. Just at that moment, there was a knock on the door and a breathless but cheerful-looking man put his head around the door and asked whether he could come in.

  “Thanks god you’re here, Fred,” Emma said. “I really needed to see a friendly face.”

  Fred bounded in, his hair flopping over his eyes, and took Emma’s hands in his.

  “Thank god I’m in time. I thought I’d miss all the action,” he said.

  “So this is your handsome husband,” said Emma’s midwife.

  “Sadly not,” said Emma, “He’s already spoken for. But he’s certainly my very best friend at the moment.” Her smile turned into a grimace. “Gosh, that’s a strong one.” Emma grasped the Entonox mask and took some deep breaths.

  “Let’s have a look and see how you’re doing,” said the midwife. She bent down and examined Emma’s cervix. “Yes, Emma, you’re fully dilated and I can see the head.”

  On this cue, all the staff in the room put on glasses. These had clearer lenses than typical sunglasses and had been designed to block 200 nanometres and below. Fred had declined to wear glasses. Miss Wang came into the room already wearing glasses.

  “Hi, Emma,” she said, “better sooner than later.”

  “Hello, Fiona… ooh… Christ, that was another painful one.”

  “Okay, Emma, I want you to take some deep breaths… that’s it… now when you have your next contraction I want you to push as hard as you can… that’s really good… now take some more deep breaths… good, good, you’re doing really well… now with this contraction push as hard as you can.”

  With that final push
, Emma’s baby emerged into the midwife’s hands. The baby’s mouth was briefly suctioned. The midwife covered her with a blanket and placed her on Emma’s abdomen. Seconds later, the baby uttered her first cry in the outside world. The umbilical cord was clamped and cut and the neonatal team retreated, glasses off, their job done. Emma smiled at Fred.

  “She’s beautiful, Emma,” Miss Wang said. “She’s the spitting image of you.”

  Emma looked down at her baby and gazed into her green and blue eyes. Emma felt a wave of primitive emotions emanating from her tiny daughter with hunger in the number one spot. She gently put her baby’s mouth to her breast and she started sucking greedily.

  “Any ideas for a name?” asked the midwife.

  “I think I’ll call her Daniela,” replied Emma.

  “But no christening or baptism, I take it,” said Fred.

  “Definitely not, but I’ll get her some glasses anyway,” replied Emma.

  October 2005, two weeks later

  Emma’s first day back at work after giving birth to Daniela felt strange. On the one hand, she felt guilty for leaving her baby in the capable hands of her mother-in-law with support from the MI5 nanny; but on the other hand, the appearance of her still rotund abdomen gave everyone the impression that she was still awaiting admission to the labour ward. In addition, her security detail had instructions to follow her wherever she went, which was virtually impossible when she was seeing patients and needed to preserve dignity and confidentiality. But at least they used their own car.

  Emma arrived home after 6:00 p.m. and parked just outside her house. She noticed that her security detail had had to park further down the road. She walked up the steps to the front door, carrying bags of shopping in both hands, and peered into the depths of her shoulder bag for her keys. She suddenly became aware that she wasn’t alone and felt something sharp pointing into the middle of her back.