The Aurora Conspiracies- Volume One

by Sam Nash

“Well, yes. Of course, it’s a shame for the old boy, but retirement is his best option now.” He tried hard to look concerned but failed. “Can you take what’s-her-name…um… the one you designated as dedicated technician to the boys in Lab Twenty-Six…?” He angled his face to one side, inquisitorial eyebrows lifted and demanding an answer.

  “Jill.” Mary snarled, turning her attention to the contents of her satchel.

  “Yes, that’s the one. Can you take Jill through the controlled substance protocols? She will be handling all of their requirements from now on.” Plender examined his fingernails, then picked at a loose flap of skin with his teeth.

  “Which budget will she be using?” Mary stopped buckling her bag and snapped a scowl across his pudgy face. Up until then, he was oblivious to her malcontent.

  “I’ve assigned them a separate account. You won’t have any involvement in that Lab at all now, only…um…Jill.” He took a pace backwards, smoothing his lab coat and unconsciously fiddling with his pocket pens.

  “You’ve promoted her?” She could feel her fists tightening, hot acid swelling in her gut.

  “Let’s just say that she will be directly under my line management from now on.”

  “Fine.” The word came out spitting venom. She shocked herself. It was difficult to find any goodness in Cyril Plender. Suspicions were new concept to her, but in light of Professor Haas’s rapid onset heart attack, she found herself quite plausible in her eccentric theories. Conspiracies were more her late father’s obsession.

  Mary recalled sitting in the hospital corridor, pondering the ramifications of the night’s events. She had volunteered to travel in the ambulance carrying Professor Haas to the cardiac unit from the ball, mostly to avoid the aftermath of what she had done. People reacted strangely to her theatrical performance of jump-starting a dying man on the dancefloor. Some onlookers grappled with their phones in an attempt to capture a digital recording of the phenomenon. The whole process lasted only moments and so no one caught the actual event, much to Mary’s relief. Others avoided her and gossiped behind Mary’s back, trying to vocalise a description that captured the essence of a modern day witch.

  It was rather convenient that the Walrus had a heart attack just when he was in the middle of an employment battle with Plender. An ongoing power struggle for the oversight of the entire Biomedical Faculty, which afforded him generous control over project funding and the direction of many peoples’ careers. Mary convinced herself that Cyril Plender was at the root of something malevolent, something far reaching, something vile.

  I need to stop these silly accusations. Plender had no way of making Haas have a heart attack – unless that static shock was more than static. Plender did have something in his hand. That green eyed creepy bloke gave him something metallic or electronic. What is wrong with me? I never used to be this suspicious. Why am I always so ratty all the time? Why is my head splitting again?

  Plender drifted off to gloat to any and all he could find in the vicinity. She swallowed a couple of pain killers with some bottled water, grabbed her cycle helmet and bag and closed the locker door.

  “Glad I caught you,” the technician from Lab Twenty-Six, Jill.

  “Plender told me. Can we go through the protocols tomorrow? I’m just heading out.” Mary massaged her right temple with fingertips in a circular motion but the dull ache persisted.

  “Yes, of course. I was actually hoping you would help me with this fund raiser? It’s for the victims of today’s disaster.” Jill cleared her throat and swiped at her nose with a tissue that she had balled up in her hand.

  “What disaster? I haven’t seen the news today.”

  “Another Earthquake in the same spot in Japan. Eight point two, they said earlier. Only this time, it hit a nuclear power station.” Jill’s face slackened and the corners of her mouth twitched.

  “Oh God, that’s awful. Those poor people.”

  “They have evacuated as many as they could, but … well… radiation burns and…“ Jill drew a breath, steadying her emotions. “The news footage is grisly, so upsetting.”

  “I imagine it is.” The empathy for the disaster victims had already overwhelmed Jill and was threatening to permeate Mary. It diffused across the ether as an escalating smog of grief, enveloping and smothering, poised to render them incapable of clear impartial thought.

  “I have started a collection for one of those Survival Boxes for a family over there, more if we can raise enough.” It was too late for Jill. The charitable fervour consumed her. Mary had to leave or risk equal consummation.

  “Right, yes.” Mary located her purse and handed over a twenty pound note. “Might be an idea to contact the Student Union President to see if there are any larger fund raisers planned.” Stuffing her purse back in the satchel, she edged backwards towards the door.

  “I will, good idea. Thanks. Night then, Mary, see you tomorrow.”

  ***

  The wind picked up as she wheeled her bike through the campus to the Neurosciences building and leaned it against the railings at the top of the disabled access ramp. Noticing her through the windows, Yosef picked up the phone and dialled the extension for her husband’s department.

  “Hello. Mrs Arora, are you well?” Yosef held his hand over the receiver as he greeted her. He was listening to canned music, on hold. Mary felt too tired for pleasantries. She leaned on the reception desk and waited. “Yes, sir. I’ll tell her. Okay. Bye.” He looked up at Mary.

  “Dr Arora has asked me to tell you that he’ll be late home this evening and suggests you get a takeaway on your way home.” His smile undiminished.

  “Was there anything else?” She looked up at Yosef, her cheek squashed by her knuckles. Her elbow clicked against the lacquered wood under the pressure of supporting her propped up head.

  “Do you want me to call him back?”

  “No. Thanks, Yosef.” She turned away, the weight of melancholy compressing her spine. He’s forgotten what day it is again. Parth used to be so thoughtful.

  “See you soon, Mrs Arora. Take care.” Irrepressible cheerfulness, his smile remained plastered on his face.

  “You too.”

  In the distance, Mary watched the newly graduated, returning their hired gowns and mortars, having spent their day in ceremony and celebration. Their fresh faces chapped pink with the cool breeze, their gowns lifted and billowed for the obligatory group photographs. A glorious day for so many students and families. The culmination of years of stress, toil, and financial uncertainty, followed by the excitement of greater things to come.

  Few would look upon the scene with sadness, as Mary did. She mounted her bicycle and rode away, letting the tears streak across her face unimpeded. She cried all the way home to a house devoid of all heartbeats. Even Aristotle had failed to appear at her calling. Putting the kettle on, she ripped a sheet of kitchen towel from its roll and blew her nose.

  It was almost six o’clock. She poured the hot water over the teabag and collected the milk from the fridge. Discovering the mug too full, she emptied some out in the sink. Can’t even make tea properly. Pathetic. It's been nine years. Move on. I can’t… It still hurts. Mary took the phone from its cradle and dialled a number from memory. It rang twice.

  “Grampy?”

  “Hello, sweetie-pie.”

  “Did they arrive in time?”

  “Yes, my love. A beautiful spray of white roses. I put them right between the two headstones.”

  ***

  Red, amber… at last, green. Should have taken the route along the park and avoided the traffic. Did Parth put the dustbin out? Oh well, too late now. I wish that van would just hurry up and overtake. It’s so close he’s gonna clip my back wheel.

  Mary changed gear and peddled faster, dodging static cars queuing in their lanes for the next junction. She sneaked up the passenger side, one foot on the kerb, propelling herself to the front of the line. The offending black van was three vehicles away and she was sure she could make i
t across the junction before it caught up with her. When the lights changed, she set off at a determined speed. As she reached the opposite side of the traffic lights, the van drew level with her back wheel and stayed there. Peering over her shoulder, she wobbled, hit a pot hole in the tarmac and steadied her handlebars to recover her trajectory. Why isn’t he passing me? Such a jerk.

  Ahead, the traffic was grid locked. Some vehicles had pulled up onto the pavement to allow the ambulance and fire brigade through to an accident site. Chilling soundbites of siren wailed, stilling the hearts of parents across the district. Mary stopped and stood at the kerb on tiptoe to view the scene, but a tall four wheeled drive blocked her view.

  The emergency crew began to unload equipment and position themselves around the wreckage. A pang of recollection stabbed her in the chest, inducing a rapid inhalation. The van edged ever closer to her, nudging right up to the rear bumper of the car in front.

  A large side door on metal runners, slid open in the van. Within seconds, two muscular men hopped out. One took hold of her handlebars and the other slipped an arm around her waist and clapped a hand over her mouth. Shock stunned her. The man hoisted her from the bicycle and thrust her into the van. Her attacker’s firm grip bruised her cheeks and restricted her chin as she tried to bite his hand. In her peripheral vision, she saw second man ride away on her bicycle. A third man, crouched low at the back, was holding a syringe.

  Terror took hold of her logic. She flailed her limbs about, punching and kicking at them with as much force as the space would allow, but to no avail. The man forced her arm down and raised her sleeve. The needle punctured her bicep and a cool liquid seeped into her tissues. Her world grew darker, till nothing existed but a dreamless sleep.

  ***

  Mary woke in unfamiliar surroundings, groggy and disorientated. Her leg muscles were cramping and she smelled ripe. A cold, clinical room, tiled half way up the walls with a sink unit by one of the two visible doors. Her first inclination was that she was in hospital, till the memory of her abduction came skidding back in her mind. Panic rose in her throat, hot bile and an erratic heartbeat, adrenalin coursing through her circulatory system.

  How long have I been asleep? I’m fully clothed still, thank God. Although who knows what these bastards have in store for me. Her arms were bound at her sides and strapped to the small bed. She tested the strength of the bindings, tugging till her wrists were raw. Raising her shoulders as much as her restraints would allow, she searched the room for any aids to escape. A steel trolley supporting a tray of wrapped syringes and empty vials stood at the side of the room. Mary shuddered. Organ snatchers. She had read reports of drugged people in nightclubs, waking up in cheap hotels with their kidney missing.

  They are going to take my innards, leave me to bleed out then throw me in an incinerator. I bet one of those syringes contains more sedative. They’ll wheel me to an operating theatre strapped to this bed. A camera winked a little red light at her from the corner of the ceiling, as if confirming her hypothesis.

  She heard the noise of a tumbling mechanism as a key turned in a lock and a bolt slammed across in its housing. Her breathing accelerated. She tried to hold herself still, but she was trembling right through to her core. The muscles in her throat went into spasm, absorbing the air-born particles of pungent aftershave. Clenching every muscle in her body, she held her breath as the door swung open. There he stood - her green eyed stalker from the library. He strolled across the room to the foot of the bed.

  “I expect you are wondering why I have brought you here.” He tucked a thumb into the tiny pocket of a fawn waistcoat that retained his expanding waistline. The fine woollen material looked expensive and matched his trousers. It seemed lost without the accompanying jacket.

  “Let me go. Please. Let me go and I won’t report it to the Police. I won’t tell anyone, I promise.” Her voice cracked.

  “Now, now, Mary. Don’t get yourself in a state. Cooperate, and no harm will befall you.” He looked pleased with himself, like he had just landed a record breaking marlin. Befall? Who uses the word, ‘befall’? It reminded her of when Yelena would use an English expression, but not quite get the words right.

  “There’s not much money in the family, if that is what you are after.” Mary’s mental faculties were starting to return to her.

  “Money? No, child. Nothing so petty. My motives are in the highest order of magnitude.”

  She couldn’t place his accent. His English was perfect, a little too perfect but there was a detectable cadence. An inflection in the spaces between the words and a lyrical upward sweep to the tone at the end. Her trembling increased to a noticeable shake. “I will send someone to take care of your comfort, presently. Make yourself at home, Mary. You will be my guest for quite some time.”

  “But my husband…?”

  “Thinks you are dead, child. Mary Arora died in that accident you saw just before we collected you.”

  “No, you can’t… It will crush Parth. Grampy will be devastated. Why are you doing this? What do you want from me?”

  “Rest now. We will talk later.”

  A slight man, dressed in surgical scrubs appeared in the doorway, holding a bundle of white cotton towels and a wash bag. Fear returned. Is he going to give me a bed bath? What are they preparing me for? Is he the surgeon? The two men exchanged a few words that were unintelligible to Mary, but the guttural tones sounded distinctly Russian. Whatever he said, the man in scrubs bobbed his head in an abrupt nod, as though obeying his commanding officer. The wafts of aftershave followed the older man from the room, but took some time to disperse from her senses.

  The small man pushed the steel trolley towards the bed. He slipped on a pair of latex gloves and removed a syringe from its sterile wrappings. As he drew near to her, she stretched her restraints to their limits, leaning further away from him.

  “Blood. No hurts. I good.”

  She was not reassured, but had little power to stop him from drawing several full phials from her veins. Upon finishing, he pushed the trolley through the doorway, delivering it into the hands of a guard. She heard the bolt clanking across, a sound that would haunt her for a long time to come. The gaoler’s taunt. She would listen and track its movements. One day her gaoler’s complacency would mark the start of her route to freedom.

  He returned to her side, loosened the restraints and assisted her up from the bed. Her back creaked and clicked as she straightened it. The man picked up the washbag and towels and handed them to her.

  “Wash.” He walked to the second door and opened it, revealing a utilitarian shower room. He smiled again, and gestured for her to enter the bathroom. Mary folded her arms across her chest in defiance and jutted her hip out to one side. She hoped she looked more confident than she felt. He shrugged, then tapped lightly on the bolted door. The guard entered with a tray of hospital food; liquid mash potato, an anaemic looking veggie burger, boiled cabbage and a bottle of water. Setting the tray down on the bed, they left her alone with the blinking light of the camera and her tumultuous thoughts.

  Despite the futility in the action, she rushed to the door and rattled the handle. It refused to budge. She darted into the shower room – no window. She checked in the vanity unit beneath the sink – empty. Her satchel hung from the bedframe. She snatched it up and searched through its pockets for her mobile phone. She had left it on the dining table at home. Sinking down onto the bed, she wept; tears for her husband, tears for helplessness, tears for her future.

  Puffy eyed and dehydrated, an agonising pain like a pick axe driving into her skull just above her right ear, warned her to prepare for an intense migraine attack. She raised her head from the pillow, blinking against the flashing zig zag lines in her vision, to locate her handbag.

  Mary felt her way around the satchel’s contents, unzipped a smaller bag inside and found a plastic sheath that protected her medication. Sliding the tablet under her tongue she let it dissolve in the moisture, immune to its ac
rid taste, and let the drug absorb into her bloodstream. She struggled to the bathroom to urinate, noting that there was no lock on the door. The irony was not lost on her. Tears surged again, pouring from her eyes with no accompanying sound or effort, fuelled by a cavernous ache welling up inside her abdomen.

  Moving the tray of congealing food to the floor, she climbed onto the bed and buried her face in the pillow. Think, Mary. She told herself, partly to regain control and partly to rationalise all that had happened. If they were going to hurt me, they would have done that already. I am still wearing the same clothes, so there appears to be no sexual intent, thank Christ. But don’t rule that out. You hear of women being abducted and sold to foreign millionaires. That can’t be the case here, I’m too old and married to be worth anything. They are trying to feed me so they don’t want me to die, but they claim to have faked my death. You can’t feed preoperative patients in case they choke on regurgitated food under anaesthetic. If they are after my organs, they won’t be taking them today.

  He said that they don’t want money, so what the hell do they want? Hang on, I still have my satchel. Parth knows I never go anywhere without it. Unless they gave my fake dead body a copy of it. They could have done that. What would anyone want with me? I’m nothing special. I’m… ‘Docile as a kitten’. The words were bullets finding their target with military precision. The phrase rattled around her subconscious, till the medication took effect and Mary drifted into an exhausted fright filled slumber.

  Chapter Eight

  Mary awoke to find her arms rebound to the bed and attached to an intravenous drip. Desolate to discover that the events of the night before had not been a dream, she wrestled against the wrist cuffs with renewed vigour. Her scalp prickled with the remnants of her headache. Cologne filled her nostrils. He was sitting on a plastic chair near the foot of the bed.

  Looking up at the bloated bag of liquid hanging from the metal stand, she struggled to free herself.

  “It is a saline and glucose feed. You would not eat. You would not drink. You induced a migraine with your stupidity. Cooperate and we will remove the restraints.” He sat passively, arms folded in his lap.