Bedlam

by Keira Michelle Telford

  She hesitates, the slender plastic card primed in her hand. “You know this is a really dumb idea, don’t you? We’re gonna get caught and—”

  Silver snatches the Authenticard off her and uses it on the door, the locking mechanism relenting with a soft pop.

  “Better now?” She passes the card back. “You didn’t do anything, it was all me, and you can tell your delightful mother as much when she asks.” She pushes open the door and steps out into a blast of warm afternoon sunlight.

  “Wait.” Leonie darts in front of her. “Where are you going to go?”

  “The Russian district.”

  Leonie recollects their earlier conversation in her mother’s office. “To see that woman you ran off with?”

  Silver nods. “My girlfriend, yes.”

  Leonie seems reluctant to let her go. “Do you know the way?”

  “Not a clue.”

  Deciding it’s too soon for the thrill of thwarting her mother to come to an end, Leonie joins her in the sunlight. “It’s about a ninety minute walk north from here to Finsbury Park—that’s the southernmost tip of the Russian district, where the boroughs Haringey, Hackney, and Islington all meet at a point.”

  “You’re coming with me?”

  “I wouldn’t want you to get lost,” Leonie teases her. “But I’ll only go as far as the Russian district border. I’m not allowed in that borough by myself. And I think you should lose this”—she waggles a finger at Silver’s scrub top—“it’s too conspicuous.”

  Silver sheds the top without argument, tossing it into the nearest flowerbed, leaving her in the white undershirt, and she spends the next hour and a half being led through the Northside London streets, getting geography and history lessons at intervals.

  Leonie points out prostitution hotspots, the best place for fish and chips, and stops at a newsagent’s in Shoreditch for a bag of jelly beans.

  “Want some?” She offers the bag to Silver.

  “What I want is to move faster.” Silver gives her a push. “Do you have some kind of nutritional deficiency? You’ve stopped for food three times since we left the loony bin.”

  Leonie turns a corner, swinging around what looks like a large metal bollard. “I’m showing you the tastes of my country.”

  “Yeah? Right now there’s only one taste I’m interested in, and it’s found between the legs of a very particular Russian woman, so let’s just keep it moving, okay?”

  The bollard Leonie’s hanging on bears some resemblance to the guard units used as wireless electric fences in Silver’s hometown of Amaranthe, and given that she’s seen one every few hundred yards since leaving Bishopsgate, she’s guessing there must be some purpose to them.

  “What are these?” She taps on its domed top. “They’re everywhere.”

  “It’s a sentinel,” Leonie explains. “It monitors stuff.”

  “What kind of stuff?”

  “Do you wanna talk? Or walk?” Grinning, Leonie sprints down another street, leaving Silver to make chase, quickening the pace for the next few minutes until she makes another stoppage … and another … and another, sharing the odd anecdote about life in the Northside along the way.

  Then, another twenty minutes in, she stops suddenly. The imposing black gates of Finsbury Park come into view as they step onto Seven Sisters Road from Green Lanes Road, and Leonie eyes them warily.

  “Well, this is it.” She stuffs her hands in her pockets. “The Haringey border.”

  Silver frowns at a wobbly purple line spray-painted along the curb, marking the Russian district boundary line. “That’s underwhelming.”

  “Do you know where this woman of yours lives?”

  Silver nods. “White Hart Lane. Tottenham.”

  “All right, then.” Leonie disappears inside a nearby café, reappearing minutes later with a red crayon and a page torn from a child’s coloring book.

  Tools in hand, she then draws a crude map, nothing even remotely to scale.

  “Keep following Green Lanes road north until you get to Turnpike Lane and Westbury Avenue.” She scrawls arrows to indicate the direction of travel. “Take a right here and follow Westbury north till you hit Lordship Lane. Then find the Roundway and keep going north till you see Gospatrick Road—turn there.” She draws a dramatic squiggle. “Follow that all the way to White Hart Lane and bam!” She slaps a big ‘X’ on the page. “Your lover awaits!”

  “How long should this take me?” Silver accepts the map, pulling a face at the disproportionate stick figure intended to represent her.

  “About an hour on foot, so get a wriggle on if you want to see your girl before Elena catches up with you.”

  “Such a pessimist.” Silver shakes her head, tucking the map away. “But thanks.”

  “Don’t thank me.” A little color rises into Leonie’s pasty cheeks, her hands back in her pockets. “This won’t get you anywhere.”

  “We’ll see.” Silver winks and crosses the street, never looking back.

  She follows Leonie’s directions precisely, winding her way through a maze of industrial estates and residential streets until she arrives at White Hart Lane a perfectly respectable fifty-six minutes later … whereupon she spends the next eighteen minutes wandering down a seemingly endless string of houses in search of one particular number.

  Searching.

  And searching.

  Bingo!

  Standing at the end of a row, Silver counts down the numbers, pegging the one that must be Ria’s. A second later, before she has a chance to move, a slim brunette flings open the front door and walks a black bag of trash to the curb. Her long dark hair is braided, the tip swaying at the small of her back. As she was when they first met, she’s wearing a pair of figure-hugging kicksies and a white, off-the-shoulder peasant shirt, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows.

  She’s beautiful.

  She’s perfect.

  She’s exactly as Silver remembers her.

  And she’s oblivious.

  Reeling from a sudden, blinding pain in her forehead, Silver steadies herself against a curbside wall, waiting for it to pass.

  But it doesn’t.

  Her vision blurs and her head swirls. All equilibrium lost, she slumps to the ground, dropping to her knees like a dead weight. Her reaction time slowed, she sees two men coming at her—one from either side—but she hasn’t the ability to fight them off.

  She feels uncoordinated and limp, drooping like a ragdoll when the men take her weight and pull her up from her knees, dragging her toward a long black car. Up close, she recognizes their blue uniforms: they’re Bishopsgate orderlies. And the car’s license plate: BISHOP1.

  Of course. The pain, the disorientation, and the sluggish motor responses reek of Elena’s handiwork, but the thought doesn’t have a chance to sink in.

  “Sonofabitch,” she growls in complaint as she’s unceremoniously thrown headfirst into the back of the car, her forehead hitting cool leather.

  When her eyes adjust to the darkened interior, she finds herself staring into the foot well, a pair of black patent stilettos in front of her. Those black stilettos encase two slender feet, a pair of crossed, stockinged legs leading up to a charcoal gray pencil skirt, the hem of which sits mid-thigh. In the woman’s lap, two delicate hands are clasped, nursing a computer tablet, her freshly manicured nails painted blood red.

  Silver’s eyes trail further up, over a pale blue cotton blouse, a lacy black bra faintly visible beneath. Higher still, and she finds Elena’s displeased eyes glaring down at her. With a cool elegance, the stoic doctor flicks a wayward black curl behind her ear, putting it back in its place, taming it and controlling it—as she intends to do with Silver.

  “Feeling woozy again?” She makes a few adjustments on the tablet, then tucks the device into a pouch in the door beside her. “Have a nap. It’ll pass.”

  Silver struggles to sit, her ass smacked by the car door as one of the orderlies swings it closed behind her. “How did you find me? Did Leo
nie tattle?”

  “She didn’t have to.” Smugness seeps out in Elena’s voice. “Authenticard movement is tracked by the sentinels scattered throughout the city, and she made sure you hit every single one along the way. I’ve been following you since I was informed that you left Bedlam.” She glances at her rebellious inmate, the eye contact fleeting. “Good effort, though. Better luck next time.”

  Silver rolls her head back on the leather seat, chuckling. “I knew she was up to something. You’re not an easy woman to disobey, and cutting me loose from the nuthouse took balls.” She turns toward Elena, squinting to see clearly, her vision still fuzzy. “Do me a favor, though: don’t punish her.” She battles to remain conscious. “I made your daughter help me. She didn’t have a choice.”

  “That’s very gallant of you.” Elena keeps her eyes forward. “Unfortunately, I know my child a little too well.” She pauses to swallow, forcing emotion down, her jaw tensing almost imperceptibly. “She’ll do anything she can to spite me.”

  “She loves you.”

  “She loathes me.”

  “She’s hurting,” Silver counters adamantly. “She knows you don’t like spending time at home, and she thinks that’s because you don’t like spending time with her. She doesn’t understand why you find it difficult to be around her father.” Silver tickles her fingers over Elena’s stockinged thigh. “But we do, don’t we?” She tugs the hem of the skirt up a few inches. “I wish you could see that the only crime in what you feel is that you feel the need to suppress it.” She bares the lacy tops of Elena’s stockings, tiptoeing her fingertips over the creamy skin she finds above. “God, do you have any idea how smolderingly sexy you are?”

  “Stop it.” Elena slaps Silver away from her and straightens her skirt. “I made some adjustments to the neurotransmitters in your cerebral cortex and medulla, but it won’t last long. You’re supposed to feel a little drunk, then pass out.” She keeps a hand on Silver’s hip, holding her off. “You should be snoring already.”

  Silver laughs heartily. “It takes a lot to make a drunk drunk, Doc. You should’ve taken a more thorough personal history before meddling with my gray matter.” She swivels on the squeaky leather, lunging forward so that her chin rests on Elena’s shoulder. “Hey, why don’t you have a quick fiddle with your own brain chemistry?” She twirls a lock of the doctor’s neatly curled hair around her finger. “If you get rid of all your uptightness, I bet we could have a lot of fun together.”

  “Be quiet,” Elena barks huskily, keeping an eye on the orderlies in the front of the car, lest their attention should be drawn behind them.

  “Oh, come on, Doc.” Silver slides her hand over Elena’s stomach, gliding up to her breasts. “Don’t you wanna fuck?”

  Elena brushes that opportunistic hand away. “You’re obnoxious.” She forces Silver back onto the other end of the seat. “Why are you acting like this? I didn’t touch your hypothalamus or pituitary. You’ve no reason to be so … prurient.” She folds her arms, closing herself off. “You’re doing this on purpose and I’m not amused.”

  “I’m not pretending.” Silver pouts theatrically. “Why don’t you get your little doodad out and see? This is all you, Doc.”

  Elena closes her eyes, reining in her own arousal, clenching her thighs together so as to trap the telltale perfume of her excitement. Curious to know what’s really going on inside Silver’s head—and to find out whether or not this is simply a ruse designed to make her feel uncomfortable—she reaches for the tablet and pulls up her inmate’s biorhythms.

  It’s not a joke.

  Silver’s an inferno of lust, her libido on fire.

  “Oh, my god …” Elena watches the levels spike as Silver nestles up to her, unabashedly staring down her blouse.

  “I told you so.” Silver nuzzles her.

  Elena tries to rationalize it. Alcohol can magnify emotions, and Silver cast eyes on her lover before her neurotransmitters were manipulated. Could it be this is nothing more than a simple case of transference? With the true object of her desire unavailable, she’s focusing her wants and needs on the next best thing—the nearest substitute.

  Believing that, Elena deposits the tablet back in its pouch. “It’s not me you want.” A significant measure of disappointment manages to escape into her voice. “I just happen to be the only female in proximity.”

  Giggling, Silver teeters precariously to one side. “Keep telling yourself that if it eases your mind.” Her gaze drops again to Elena’s lap. “And speaking of clinging on to bullshit to make yourself feel better, how was therapy today? Did you talk about me?” She places a hand on Elena’s knee and squeezes. “That is why you go to therapy, isn’t it? To confess all your secrets.”

  Elena holds her breath, her body rigid as Silver’s hand runs up her thigh, over her silky stocking, crumpling the skirt. When Silver reaches the top of her stocking and bares the pale skin beyond for the second time, she pins her eyes to the orderlies in the front seats, her breathing resuming in short, shallow draws.

  “That’s it,” Silver praises her for not lashing out this time. “That’s a good girl, Elena.” Her grip strengthens. “Let me touch you.”

  Feeling Silver’s fingers inch between her thighs, Elena watches with dismay as she begins to uncross her legs, her limbs are acting of their own volition, with no cooperation from her brain.

  Then …

  Silver succumbs to Elena’s interference.

  She passes out, her face falling into Elena’s lap, causing Elena to gasp with fright, holding both hands up, as if in surrender, afraid to touch her for fear of how that might appear to the vehicle’s other occupants.

  She holds that pose for a few seconds, all movement abated, then she starts to relax. The orderlies are deep in a conversation of their own, paying no attention to the goings on in the back seat, so she attempts a subtle rearrangement.

  In order to tug her skirt back into place—to restore her dignity—she uncrosses her legs and rolls Silver over, reaching beneath her to clutch the hem and maneuver it downward. In doing so, she can’t help but notice that something—either the chill of the outside air, or the mounting sexual heat within the car—has made both of Silver’s nipples stand to attention.

  Her breath catches again. She flits her eyes furtively to the front of the car, checking once more to make sure that no-one’s looking before she creeps a hand up Silver’s torso and tickles a fingertip lightly around one of her deliciously erect nipples, feeling the areola swell at her touch.

  She exhales slowly, suppressing a murmur of delight, then holds her hand flat over Silver’s breast, rubbing her palm on that firm, proud nipple.

  Unbeknownst to her, this sensual contact rouses her inmate. Feeling a distinctly pleasurable tingling in her breast, Silver opens her eyes, startled to find Elena playing with her.

  “What’re you doing there, Doc?” She smirks. “Having fun?”

  Elena recoils like a thief caught in the midst of a robbery, her reaction making Silver laugh.

  “What’s the matter, honey bunch?” She looks up at the suddenly timid doctor. “Can’t help yourself anymore, can you? You want to feel my—”

  Elena clamps a desperate hand over Silver’s mouth, silencing her. To make certain she understands the seriousness of announcing that small lapse of judgment to everyone within earshot, Elena darts her eyes to the men sitting not three feet in front them, then glares daggers at the unruly inmate in her lap.

  Seeing a spark of genuine terror ignite in Elena’s eyes—and recalling the same fright in Ria on several occasions during moments of open flirtation—Silver, regaining some lucidity, nods and peels Elena’s hand away.

  “Okay,” she mouths silently. “I get it.”

  Several minutes pass in silence. Silver makes no attempt to lift herself out of Elena’s lap, and Elena is frozen rigid, too afraid to make any move at all. Pitying the woman’s obvious inner turmoil, Silver reaches for Elena’s hand and offers her some quiet wo
rds of encouragement.

  “It’s no big deal. I don’t mind.”

  She tries to place Elena’s open palm over her breast, but Elena jerks out of her grasp and folds her arms, staring out of the window.

  “I don’t want your sympathy.”

  As the vehicle hits a bump in the road, a single tear rolls down her cheek.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Another week passes. Unable to face Silver since her moment of weakness in the backseat of the motor, Elena puts an end to their private therapy sessions. In an attempt to avoid running into her at other times throughout the day, she forces her to attend virtually every occupational therapy program offered at Bishopsgate, whether she’s suited to it or not.

  By the time the next Wednesday rolls around, something of a routine has developed, and Elena heads out to her weekly afternoon appointment having no idea that Silver’s merely been biding her time, waiting for this narrow window of opportunity.

  Indeed, it’s not until Elena returns to Bishopsgate and rounds the corner to her office that she feels the first twinge of suspicion.

  There’s a fire extinguisher standing upright in the middle of the deserted hallway.

  She falters.

  She can see that her office door is open, the lock broken, the wooden doorjamb splintered from the impact of the makeshift battering ram.

  Edging closer, her arms laden with books and paperwork, she can see the Authenticard locking mechanism dangling by a few wires, the bulk of it shattered.

  She enters with trepidation.

  The top drawer of her filing cabinet—the one holding current patient records A through D—is open, its contents raided. Her desk drawers have been pried open and emptied out, her whips and floggers tossed in the wastebasket.

  All the books have been torn off her shelves, the pages flicked through. Papers are strewn about the floor: articles from medical journals, patient notes, and private family documents. Even her adjoining bathroom has been turned over, the contents of her bathroom cabinet dumped in the basin.