Perfect Kill

by Helen Fields

  She turned the door handle slowly, as quietly as she could, gritting her teeth. Nothing. Absolutely no sound. The building was tomb-like in its stillness. She checked the room to her right. Completely empty. Then she reversed direction in the corridor, moving fast and quietly along. The next room she checked showed signs of recent inhabitation but no occupier. There was a dinner tray on the floor, barely touched. A put-up bed that had been slept in, but the sheets were long-since cold. And a metal dish with a hypodermic syringe and some cotton wool bearing bloody patches.

  She took her mobile out and messaged Jojo Berger.

  Someone was kept in here. Needle and blood traces. I’m ok. She hit send.

  Exiting that room, she moved across the corridor. There was another door further up, locked, and as silent as the others. Her stomach cramped, and a rush of nausea hit her. Too much adrenaline, she decided, breathing deeper. She’d spooked herself, that was all.

  At the glass pane in the door, she peered through. The bed was unmade but empty, and there was little else to see except the edge of a shoe on its side. She could just make out the toe of what looked like a man’s trainer. Shifting to the other side of the door to get a better view, she looked again.

  ‘Bart,’ she whispered. The shoe was still attached to a foot and a leg. His head had to be right up against the door. The odour hit her before she could decide what to do. Sweet and slightly nutty, ripe and coppery, it was unmistakable when you’d smelled it enough times. She brought up the wire cutters again, this time using them on the door handle, smashing them down hard enough to jar both her shoulders, but she kept going. The prospect of an alarm being raised had become irrelevant. She was there to save lives, and if she was going to save Bart’s this would be her only opportunity. Standing back she kicked the door hard, five times, six, seven, before raining more blows at the lock with the wire cutters. The door began to move in the frame, the handle flying loose and the metal complaining. Ava kicked again and it flew forward, only to bounce back at her.

  ‘Shit,’ she said, grabbing it and stepping forward more carefully, hoping the door hadn’t bounced off Bart’s head.

  His eyes were open. That was the first thing she noticed. On his back, one arm an island in a sea of blood. He was gone, and Ava was as sure as she could be that he’d inflicted the damage on himself.

  ‘Not yet,’ Ava said. ‘No, you don’t.’

  She threw herself to her knees, one palm over the other on his chest, starting to pump, only pausing to pull out her mobile again and dial Berger’s phone. After thirty chest compressions and two breaths, she began talking into the speaker phone.

  ‘I need paramedics,’ she shouted. ‘Now, Jojo. I’ve found Bart Campbell, no pulse, not breathing, severe blood loss. And there’s …’ she looked down at his wrist ‘… something metal sticking out of his wrist. I’m performing CPR. Get someone in here now. Fuck the consequences.’

  ‘Got it,’ Berger said, ending the call.

  Ava continued with the compressions.

  ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Come on, Bart. Don’t give up now.’ More breaths into his mouth and she ripped off her shirt, wrapping it around his wrist and pulling it tight, before elevating it on his stomach as she started pumping his heart again.

  ‘Your mum needs you, Bart. I need to take you home. You’re not dying like this. I won’t let you. Don’t you bloody dare.’

  Callanach had followed his satnav through Coubron and out the other side of town, pulling into a makeshift car park in a field where a gate had been left open. Several other vehicles were already parked there, each with a single person sitting expectantly in the driver’s seat. He’d counted nine cars. That meant nine patients each paying thirty-five thousand euros. In total, the revenue from Skye’s body was going to be in the region of two hundred and seventy thousand pounds. None of it would be repaid as promised, obviously. Not when the recipients became even more ill, just as it dawned on them that they’d taken part in what was an incredibly serious offence. He’d parked and waited for the transport to arrive. It was cruel to allow the others with him in the car park to go any further, but there was no choice. Interrupt proceedings then and they might never find Skye and Bart. He’d had a few seconds to realise he hadn’t even said goodbye to Ava at police HQ before two windowless minivans had pulled in.

  Six people climbed out, wearing caps and sunglasses. They looked professional but well disguised. One by one, they invited the driver of each car to climb into a van and change. Another staff member took the original clothes and shoes back to the relevant car, using the keys to lock up. Callanach went second to last. There was no conversation other than the basics. Inside the van, they were each asked to take their allocated seat and not talk. He made eye contact with a woman he’d been introduced to at the clinic’s social evening, and another man he thought he recognised from the waiting room, but no one broke the rules and broached a conversation. If the circumstances weren’t oppressive enough to ensure silence, a guard remained with them in the back of the van to ensure compliance. There was no view through the front window, and as they left the field, the sense of fear was palpable.

  Callanach understood the reality of what they were driving towards, but the saddest, most desperate part of it was that he could sense that his companions did too. To admit that, though, meant coming to terms with the most awful of truths. That this was the end. That acceptance of mortality was the inevitable path. There was no conspiracy between drug companies, doctors and governments to keep alternative treatments from public knowledge. The reality was an unfair, random, pointless death before a full life had been lived. It was there on every single face, hidden behind the blankness and control. The knowledge that they were pretending to believe rather than genuinely believing.

  Without a watch he was only guessing, but Callanach estimated they travelled for around twenty minutes before slowing then stopping, slowing then stopping. There were voices, the sound of metal protesting against metal – double electric gates, he decided – then concrete became gravel beneath the tyres and the minivan bumped along for a few more minutes. Wherever they were, it was a substantial distance between the outer perimeter and their final destination. For the police drones to remain unseen, they would have to keep a long way back from the perimeter. Too far, and it was possible the drones would lose sight of the van completely, particularly if there was tree cover or a heavily built-up area.

  The van stopped. The driver and guards climbed out, then the glare of electric lights intruded as the rear doors opened. Callanach made himself wait to take position at the back of the queue, maximising his opportunity to look around. At some point the van had entered a large indoor unloading bay. The massive garage doors rumbled the final metre back to the ground as they were met by yet more guards, this time suited, the juxtaposition of five-star treatment with guns.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ a man announced. The flat accent gave away the fact that French was his second language, although Callanach couldn’t guess his nationality. Not Scottish, in any event. ‘If you’d follow me, we are about to begin. You will each be made comfortable in a viewing gallery together. It is extremely important that you respect one another’s privacy and confidentiality, and therefore do not attempt to speak with one another. When you leave here you will wish to maintain your anonymity, and sharing information will jeopardise that. There will be a brief explanation of security procedures and then we’ll begin.’

  Large interior doors opened, and everything beyond that was bright white, washable plastic, glass or tile. One by one, they went through a medical-grade clean room, washing their hands and faces, then applying antiseptic lotion to any exposed parts of their skin. After that, they entered an office space. On the windows of the abandoned conference rooms Callanach could make out the ghostly outlines of a large leaf, over and over again. At some point a substantial company had occupied the building, with breakout rooms, individual offices, spaces where vending machines must have sat aga
inst the walls. All very normal and corporate, but high security just the same.

  ‘Nearly there,’ the guard told them, as they proceeded towards a set of double doors, with tiered seating beyond.

  Callanach almost missed the safety instructions on a plastic sticker, fixed onto a pane of glass as they walked past. He paused and bent down, pretending to do up the lace of one of the cheap trainers they’d each been given.

  ‘One moment,’ he indicated to the guard holding the doors open, overseeing everyone else getting to their seats.

  Callanach flicked his eyes up cautiously as he slowly retied the knot.

  ‘During fire alarms, proceed immediately to the designated area. Do not go beyond the designated areas. Animal research facilities can be subject to attacks and false alarms with intent to do harm. All employees must follow manager instruction, ensure doors are closed behind …’

  That was all the time Callanach could afford, and all the time he needed. It made sense. In lots of ways, it was genius. Any normal medical facility would have the internal set-up required, but not the security. He’d been to a number of animal testing complexes over the years. They were often subjected to acts of vandalism, attempts to enter to release animals, or bomb hoaxes. With barbed-wire-reinforced fences and boundaries, it would prove time-consuming and difficult for even the police to break into. Standing up, Callanach followed everyone else into the auditorium and took a seat. He looked back up the corridor, at the doors that were swinging shut, and wondered how long it would take for backup to arrive.

  In front of them was a vast glass partition, beyond which was an operating theatre. Had it been decked out in wood rather than chrome, it might have belonged to a Victorian medical school. The theatre was as yet unoccupied, but the guard held another door open and from it emerged a woman in scrubs, surgical mask covering her face.

  ‘Good evening,’ she began in French. ‘In a moment we will bring your donor into the theatre. Please be quiet and respectful. Her family are in another part of the building and have spent the last hour saying their final goodbyes and coming to terms with their loss even as they give you their blessing and hope very much that each of you will benefit from this extraordinary gift. Occasionally families in this situation feel able to spend time with recipients afterwards. I’m afraid today that this young woman’s parents are not able to take that step. You’ll understand that their grief is too raw.’

  There were a number of nods from the audience. Callanach suspected an amount of relief, too. It was no small thing, if you believed what was about to happen, to be given a chance to live through someone else’s death.

  ‘For some of you with strong religious beliefs, we have agreed that a multi-denominational blessing is in order. We will purify the body, and say a prayer for the young woman whose life span has nearly reached its full conclusion. Her natural life, in fact, would have ended some time ago if it were not for life support. We pray, also, for you as you prepare yourselves physically and mentally to go into the treatment phase. If you do not have a religious or spiritual leaning, please respect those who do, and perhaps take those few moments to consider how lucky you are to have this opportunity, and to meditate on what it means to you.’

  She was good, Callanach thought. Completely credible. Stopping just short of patronising in tone. Professional but compassionate. Astoundingly real. Not looking at all like someone who was about to murder a perfectly healthy woman in cold blood.

  ‘A word of warning. I’m sure you’re all aware of this by now, but I am duty bound to reiterate the need for you to keep details of what we do here secret. You all know and understand that the government has conspired with pharmaceutical conglomerates to refuse to license our innovative treatments. What you may not have thought about is the fact that therefore the treatments we offer here are considered – wrongly, we would state – criminal activity.’

  There were a couple of muffled coughs at that, but no objections.

  ‘Therefore, whatever happens after this, do not contact the authorities. Do not give details to other medical practitioners. Our own legal counsel has looked carefully at the law, and you would be charged as conspirators. Obviously that’s something we wish, for your sakes, to avoid.’

  Callanach waited to see if anyone would lose their nerve and attempt to leave. No one did. If you were facing an early death, of course, the threat of legal proceedings was not terribly impactful.

  ‘Lastly this. We will bring in your donor, for you to assure yourself that what we have told you is real. After the ceremony, we will remove her to a surgical-only area, for her organs to be processed. During that period of time, you will be shown to your individual rooms while your treatment is prepared. A staff member will remain with each of you during that time period, and from now on you will not be permitted to go anywhere without a staff member accompanying you. It can be a stressful time, and we need to make sure that both your emotional and physical needs are fully met. Let us begin.’

  She disappeared out of the door. Footsteps echoed beyond, and within sixty seconds additional lights were switched on in the operating theatre. Almost as one, the people watching, waiting to have their lives saved, leaned forward for a closer view. Callanach shifted in his seat. By now, the auditorium should have been full of police, guns pointed in every direction, no door left closed. Instead he was in a room with two armed guards, several innocent but desperately misguided people, and no weapon.

  The doors at the back of the operating theatre swung open dramatically. An orderly pushed in a gurney upon which, beneath a green surgical sheet, lay the unmoving body of Skye Kelso. Another woman pushed in a drip, and on the other side a man in scrubs was setting up a vital signs monitor.

  Finally, a third woman entered carrying a candle, which she lit as she stood at Skye’s head. Skye herself was wired into a variety of machinery. The drip was feeding into her arm. She had a mask over her face. There were electrical pads covering what showed of her upper chest. In truth, she looked dead already. Callanach took stock. If he made for the door now to let officers in, either he’d be shot in an instant or everyone involved would get away. It wasn’t until he heard the voice from behind the mask of the woman with the candle that he realised he was looking at Lucille Blaise, the administrator from the clinic. Her hair was hidden by a surgical hat, and not an inch of her body showed save for her eyes – devoid of makeup – but the voice was clear. She lit the candle and myrrh-scented smoke wafted around Skye’s body, the odour leaking into the auditorium through the air-conditioning vents.

  ‘We purify and commend this brave young woman. Let us acknowledge the tragedy of her passing, as we accept and give thanks for the gift it has given us. Let us continue our work in the knowledge that more lives can and will be saved this way. We should now each take a moment to be silent and grateful.’

  The police weren’t coming. The ceremony was over. Callanach could see other so-called staff members amassing in the corridor beyond the auditorium, ready to take them to their rooms and deliver their medically prepared meal of human organs. There was no way out in that direction. He felt under the seat for any metal spike or heavy object he could use. Nothing.

  In the operating theatre, Lucille Blaise extinguished the candle, and with dignified slowness turned to those around her. Callanach slipped forward in his seat, tensed to move. The machines were removed from Skye’s body, the drip detached, electrical pads peeled away, her mask taken off, although staff were careful to shield the body at that point. He guessed it would have been obvious that there was no substance to the illusion if there had been no tube in Skye’s throat. The vital signs monitor flatlined, and the surgeon who had issued the criminal liability threat took Skye’s pulse, flashed a light in her eyes and gave a nod to her team. Skye was out of time.

  Callanach stood up, walking briskly towards the nearest guard who frowned at him, put one hand up in a ‘stop right there’ gesture then raised his gun. Callanach leapt the remaining distance
between them, left arm pushing outwards to direct the gunfire away from the stunned spectators, right arm drawn back, ready to punch. He connected with the guard’s jaw as the first bullet flew, hitting only the rear wall, but by then the second guard had woken up. He was the other side of those watching, yelling instructions to them to get down to give him a clear shot. Callanach let himself roll, pulling the guard on top of him, wrapping an arm around his neck and taking control of the weapon.

  In the operating theatre, the staff were making a rapid getaway, rushing the gurney through the rear door. The people waiting for their life-saving treatments were screaming, trying to run for cover as the second guard returned fire. Callanach hauled the first guard up as a shield, aiming at the enormous glass window and letting loose with the automatic rifle. The first few bullets created splintered cobweb patterns across the partition, and then it was raining glass. Callanach pushed his face into the back of the guard’s neck, shutting his eyes tight, hoping that everyone had the sense to get down and stay down.

  The guard began to crumple in his arms, screaming before he hit the ground. Callanach threw himself to the ground at the base of the bottom row of seats and waited for the shooting to stop. Somewhere further up the auditorium a woman was shouting for help. He took the gun from the guard’s increasingly slack grip, and vaulted the low wall between the auditorium and the operating theatre, his hand registering the pain of the glass shards that were still in place, catching a glimpse of the carnage behind him. The second guard had chosen self-preservation over loyalty to his employers and was pushing past the confused and terrified patients to get out into the corridor. The guard Callanach had used as a shield was bleeding out on the staircase and two other people were down – either because of their already weakened state, the glass or the bullets – but there wasn’t time to help them now. He shoved through the double doors, looking left and right along the corridor to figure out where Skye had been taken. He chose left for no better reason than gut instinct and began to run.