Scorpion [Scorpions 01]

by Michael R. Linaker

  Webster was clinging to the metal fencing, his fingers clutching the heavy mesh as he held himself upright. His face was covered in blood. It was dripping from his chin and spattering the front of his shirt. One eye was virtually closed, the flesh around it swollen and purple. His lower lip had ballooned grotesquely out of shape.

  ‘Jack!’ Chris yelled. She caught hold of his arm as he began to sag.

  Webster tried to focus his good eye on her. ‘Tryst you to miss all the fun,’ he mumbled.

  ‘What’s been going on?’ Chris asked.

  ‘We’ve been set up!’Webster leaned his weight against Chris. ‘Condon had somebody in the crowd. Whoever it was started throwing things. I was watching Condon. He had the gates open and his men on us too damn quick for it to be anything but a pre-arranged attack. He even had a couple of photographers on hand. There wasn’t a thing we could do, Chris - except try and defend ourselves.’

  ‘The police are here too,’ Chris said.

  ‘Great!’Webster’s head shook in anger.

  Uniformed police began to move through the crowd, parting the struggling figures.

  ‘Well, Miss Lane, whatever happened to your peace movement?’

  Chris glanced up and recognized the stern features of Inspector Peter Duncan, a member of the Long Point force. She and Duncan met often through her involvement with the protest group, Chris maintaining that good relations with the police were essential.

  ‘I think we’ve been sabotaged,’ she stated bitterly.

  Duncan had already summoned one of his men across. ‘See that Mr. Webster is looked after.’ He turned to Chris. ‘There’s an ambulance on its way. Now perhaps you and I had better have a little talk.’

  Momentarily deflated by the unexpected turn of events, Chris meekly followed the tall policeman to his waiting car. Duncan opened a rear door of the gleaming Rover 3500, and Chris climbed in. Duncan followed, closing the door as he settled in the comfortable seat beside her.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked in a not unfriendly tone.

  ‘Jack told me someone started making trouble - throwing things. And then the security men came out.’

  ‘Weren’t you there?’

  ‘I was at the start of the demonstration,’ Chris explained. ‘Everything seemed to be running smoothly. Then Les Mason, the local reporter, got himself stung on the hand - a bee or something. Anyway it made him really ill. So I drove him home. I left him at his flat and came back here…’ Chris stared out of the window at the dispersing crowd… her face betrayed her disappointment.

  ‘You’re certain it wasn’t any of your people who started the trouble?’ Duncan asked.

  ‘Look, I know I wasn’t there, Inspector, but I do know the people in the group. They wouldn’t aggravate a situation. I’m sure it was deliberately staged. Jack said there were photographers taking pictures. We’ll be in the dailies tomorrow - labeled as just another bunch of agitators - and that kind of publicity won’t do our cause one little bit of good!’

  ‘I’m inclined to believe you,’ Duncan said. ‘Your group has a good reputation and today’s fiasco doesn’t fit your image. I’ll see what I can find out. But there isn’t much I can do about adverse publicity. If pictures do appear in the nationals the only thing you can do is make a stand against the criticism that will follow. On the local scene, a word of advice. Let things calm down before you stage any more protests. I realize that this is probably what was intended, but it might be better to allow the ripples to settle.’

  Chris nodded. ‘We won’t make any trouble, Inspector. And thank you for listening to my side of the story’

  Duncan opened the car door and let Chris out. She crossed over to a few people from the group and spoke to them. As she turned to make her way across the road towards the Spitfire she caught sight of Vic Condon. He was standing just inside the open gates of the plant. A satisfied smirk played around the corners of his mouth as his eyes met Chris’s.

  ‘You really must be more careful who you allow into your group,’ Condon said dryly. ‘I’m surprised at you.’

  ‘Don’t get too smug, Condon,’ Chris warned. ‘I haven’t finished with this place yet.’

  Condon grinned. ‘You won’t look so lily-white tomorrow.’

  ‘We’ll survive. But you’ve given me something to think about. If you’re prepared to go to all that trouble it makes me ask why? Just what have you got to hide?’

  For a fleeting second Condon’s face paled, then he composed himself and his usual smugness returned. ‘I’m just doing my job. Protecting the plant from you troublemakers!’

  Chris wandered over to the Spitfire. The group had drifted apart, moving in dispirited ones and twos to their own cars further down the road. The ambulance had arrived and the few injured people, Jack Webster among them, had been whisked inside the vehicle. Chris got in the car and started the engine. She turned it around and set off back towards Long Point.

  She was almost at her own home when she remembered Les Mason. Muttering to herself she took the Spitfire along a couple of side-streets, using her lifelong knowledge of the small town to get her back to Mason’s flat without too much wasted time. Leaving the car at the curb she went inside and started up the stairs.

  The door of the flat next to Mason’s opened and a young woman appeared.

  ‘Hello, Jenny,’ Chris said.

  Jenny Mills, usually cheerful and smiling, tried to appear casual. ‘Les isn’t there,’ she said, unable to conceal the tremble in her voice.

  ‘Where is he?’ Chris asked.

  ‘He’s been taken to the hospital. He’s very sick, Chris.’

  ‘Oh Lord!’ Chris felt her stomach tighten. ‘Did you see him?’

  Jenny seemed to shrink back a little, her eyes darting back and forth across the wall. She didn’t seem to want to look at Chris.

  ‘Please, Jenny, if you know something tell me!’

  ‘I heard this… this screaming. I’ve never heard a sound like it before. It was terrible. I came out here and realized it was coming from Les’s flat. I banged on the door but he didn’t answer. There was just this horrible screaming. Over and over. I tried the door and it opened. At first I didn’t dare go in… but I knew I had to… ‘

  Chris waited, holding back her impatience.

  ‘Les was on the floor in the living-room. He was thrashing about…as if he was in terrible pain… and he was screaming all the time. I didn’t know what to do… then I just grabbed the phone, dialed 999, and yelled for them to send an ambulance and a doctor. There wasn’t anything I could do for Les. He was like a wild thing. All I can remember is that screaming and his arm… ‘

  ‘His arm?’

  ‘It was all swollen… the skin all black… his fingers like big sausages… I thought he’d burned himself at first. Chris, it was awful. I just had to stand there and watch him, listen to him scream.’ Jenny hesitated. ‘The ambulance was pretty quick. There was a doctor from the hospital. The two ambulance men had to hold Les still while they gave him a shot of something. It only calmed him a little. They put him on a stretcher and tied him down so he wouldn’t roll off. And then they took him away.’

  ‘Did the doctor say anything?’ Chris asked.

  Jenny shook her head. ‘I asked him what he thought it was but he wouldn’t say. I don’t think he knew. He just told me to contact them if I started to feel ill.’

  ‘I don’t think you have to worry, Jenny.’

  ‘How can you say that?’

  ‘I was with Les this morning up at the nuclear plant. We were holding a demo. Les came to do one of his bits for the paper. He got stung on the hand by a bee or something, and when he started feeling sick I drove him home. I made him a coffee and he was going to give his own doctor a ring.’

  ‘A bee sting?’ Jenny seemed doubtful. ‘I think there was more to it than that… that black skin… ‘

  ‘Maybe Les is allergic to bee stings. Some people can react quite badly.’ ‘But it was the way it was spr
eading,’ Jenny insisted. ‘Spreading?’ ‘Yes. I caught a glimpse of Les as the ambulance men took him down the stairs.

  The blackness was spreading across his face.’ She shuddered violently. ‘All across his face!’

  CHAPTER THREE

  Greenbank Hospital lay four miles from the town of Long Point. Compared to most hospitals Greenbank could be considered fairly modern. It had been opened in 1965, and two years later an additional wing had been built on. This was the Tropical Diseases Research Unit. Though an autonomous department the research facilities could be utilized by the main hospital if circumstances dictated such measures.

  Chris parked the Spitfire in the visitors’ car park and hurried into the hospital’s reception hall. She crossed to the long desk and caught the attention of one of the receptionists.

  ‘Can I help you?’ the girl asked.

  ‘You had a patient brought in a few hours ago,’ Chris explained. ‘Mason, Les Mason.’

  The girl checked her admission sheet. ‘Are you a relative?’

  ‘No. But I’m the nearest he’s got to one,’ Chris said. ‘Please, I must know how he is.’

  The girl frowned as she read something marked in red on the admission sheet.

  ‘Will you excuse me a moment,’ she said. She left the desk and crossed to the far side of the reception area, picking up a phone and dialing quickly. After a short delay she spoke to someone on the other end of the line.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ she apologized as she returned to Chris. ‘A doctor will be down in a moment. If you’d like to take a seat, Miss.’

  Chris nodded. ‘Thanks. By the way, the name’s Lane. Chris Lane.’

  Moving away from the desk Chris went over to the line of seats against the far wall and sat down. She’d only been there for a couple of minutes when a white-coated figure descended the stairs from the upper floor. He was a tall man, with a rather thin, sunken face. His pale hair was receding badly. He walked to the desk and spoke to the girl who had dealt with Chris. He turned and came towards her.

  ‘Miss Lane? I’m Doctor Renshaw.’

  Chris stood up, almost afraid to ask the inevitable question.

  ‘Can you tell me how Les… I mean Mr. Mason… is?’

  Renshaw frowned. ‘He’s very ill. At the moment we are trying to stabilize his condition. Unfortunately we don’t seem to be having a great deal of success.’

  ‘Is it that serious?’

  ‘I’m afraid it is, Miss Lane. Do you have any idea what stung Mr. Mason?’

  Chris shook her head. ‘All I can tell you is what Les told me, that he’d been stung on the hand. He didn’t know what had done it. Very shortly after he began to feel sick. I took him straight home and saw him settled in bed. He was going to ring his own doctor. I had to leave then. When I returned some time later I learned that he’d been taken to hospital.’

  ‘I’m afraid we’ve been unable to identify the origin of the sting,’ Renshaw said.

  ‘Les seemed to think it was either a bee or a wasp.’

  Renshaw looked doubtful. ‘It can’t be ruled out of course. Victims of such attacks have been known to exhibit extreme symptoms. An individual might just react in the way Mr. Mason has - but it is the swiftness of the reaction that raises doubts.’

  ‘What about a snake bite?’ ‘Again a possibility,’ Renshaw said. ‘The adder has a particularly effective - if you’ll forgive the word - venom, though the chance of such a reptile in this area is remote.’

  ‘Doctor Renshaw, something caused Les’s condition. Something that stung him.’

  A tired smile nickered across Renshaw’s face. ‘We had reached that conclusion ourselves,’ he remarked.

  Chris flushed. ‘I’m sorry, Doctor. I didn’t mean to suggest… ‘

  ‘You’re worried… it’s natural that you should be impatient.’ Renshaw smiled again, this time reassuringly. ‘We’re doing all we can. There is an excellent research department attached to this hospital - Tropical Diseases. They have a section which deals exclusively with toxicology. I’ve already spoken to Doctor Camperly, the department head, and he is going to carry out investigative tests. Once we can determine the cause of Mr. Mason’s symptoms we can affect a cure.’

  Chris nodded automatically. She’d listened to Renshaw, taking in his reassuring words, but inwardly she was not comforted in any way. Renshaw hadn’t given anything away - but Chris was reaching her own conclusions.

  ‘Can I see Les?’ she asked.

  Renshaw cleared his throat. ‘I’m afraid not. Mr. Mason is in an isolation room, and at the moment we can’t allow visitors.’

  ‘Can I keep in touch?’ Chris asked. ‘Find out how he is?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  The girl at the reception desk called Renshaw’s name. He excused himself and crossed to the desk. The girl handed him a telephone. The call was brief. Renshaw replaced the receiver and returned to Chris.

  ‘I’m afraid you will have to excuse me, Miss Lane.’ He smiled apologetically. ‘Always something cropping up.’

  ***

  Renshaw heard the terrible screams as he pushed through the soundproof doors leading into the isolation ward. The agonized sound seemed to fill the empty corridors. The cry of a soul in torment, he thought, pushing open the door to the room where they had put Les Mason.

  The first thing he saw was the writhing, pain-racked figure strapped down on the bed. The Ward Sister and a couple of nurses were clustered round the bed looking on helplessly. Renshaw knew how they felt. He was beginning to experience the same frustrations.

  As Renshaw entered the room the Sister glanced up. She moved away from the screaming man and went to Renshaw.

  ‘What happened, Sister?’

  ‘He seemed to have quietened down. For a few minutes he became lethargic, then he started to foam at the mouth and he went into a series of spasms. The screaming started soon after.’

  ‘Obviously the sedative isn’t working,’ Renshaw said, moving to the side of the bed.

  He stared down at the contorted figure of Les Mason, and wondered just what they could do to help the man. The preliminary investigations had revealed nothing of value - and Renshaw, realizing he was out of his depth, had called on the research department for assistance. He’d done it reluctantly. Renshaw did not get on very well with Andrew Camperly, the man in charge of the department. Camperly was a glory-seeker, opinionated, and too much of a gambler for Renshaw’s conservative outlook. But Camperly had the facilities of his department at his beck and call, so Renshaw - in the interests of his patient - swallowed his pride and asked for help.

  ‘Do you want me to give him another injection?’ the Sister asked.

  As if on cue Les Mason stopped screaming. His violent writhings ceased and he became unnaturally inert. He lay staring up at the ceiling, eyes bulging, white and round against the blackened flesh of his face. His thickened lips, peeled back from his teeth, were speckled with frothy saliva.

  ‘We may not need it,’ Renshaw said. He checked Mason’s pulse; it was extremely agitated.

  ‘His temperature is still high,’ the Sister said. She handed Renshaw the chart from the end of the bed. ‘Doctor, I’ve never seen symptoms like these before.’

  Renshaw gave her back the chart. ‘Don’t worry, Sister,’ he said. ‘Neither have I.’

  The door opened and two white-coated figures stepped into the room.

  ‘Doctor Camperly,’ Renshaw acknowledged.

  Andrew Camperly, tall, fair-haired, a handsome man in his early forties, nodded brusquely. He crossed the room with long strides and joined Renshaw beside the bed. He looked at Les Mason’s inert form, then glanced at Renshaw.

  ‘The patient is twenty-seven years old,’ Renshaw said. ‘He was admitted a few hours ago. All we know is that he is the victim of some kind of sting. The only wound is a puncture on the left hand, at the base of the thumb. Since his admittance he’s had two extreme bouts of what I can only describe as violent spasms. The at
tacks affect the whole body, and judging by his screams there must be a great deal of pain.’

  ‘Have you had the saliva analyzed?’ Camperly asked.

  Renshaw shook his head. ‘There hasn’t been time. Saliva only began to show a short time ago.’

  ‘Well, we’d better have a specimen.’ Camperly flicked his hand at the Sister. ‘See to that, Sister.’

  The Sister nodded stiffly.

  ‘While we’re about it we’ll get blood tests under way.’ Camperly glanced at the younger man who had come into the room with him. ‘Brady, take the required samples, then get back to the lab and run the usual tests. I want a complete breakdown as soon as possible.’

  Allan Brady, the youngest member of Camperly’s research unit, moved to the side of the bed. He placed the steel tray he was carrying on the trolley beside the bed. Taking a syringe he picked up a sealed pack containing a sterile needle. Breaking the pack he fixed the needle to the syringe. One of the nurses swabbed the darkened flesh of Les Mason’s right arm, just below the elbow joint. Allan probed gently with his finger until he located the large vein. With practiced ease he inserted the long needle and eased back the plunger to draw out the required amount of blood. He withdrew the needle, turned to the trolley, and drained the blood from the syringe into two glass phials. The phials were then stoppered and the labels filled in with the appropriate details.

  While Allan had been taking his blood samples, the Sister had collected a specimen of saliva. It was deposited in a sterile container, then placed in the steel tray alongside the blood phials. Allan picked up the tray and made for the door.

  ‘As soon as the report is ready, Allan, I want it on my desk!’ Camperly said sharply.