by Sam Nash
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“Shit, shit, shit!” Flynn ended another unsuccessful call. His outburst was audible inside the truck, prompting Yelena to poke her head around the door.
“What is it?” She snarled.
“Supplies of the chelating agent have run dry. Hospitals right across the city are scrabbling for the dwindling stocks. Those that have a few doses left, claim that they have a greater need for their own patients.” Flynn looked to his line manager for advice.
“Did you explain that the Prime Minister herself was sick and in need?” Yelena allowed the door to swing fully open, the giant listened in from his position behind her.
“I didn’t think it prudent to mention that. I thought you needed the narrative here contained.”
“We do, but we also need that medicine.” Yelena huffed a frustrated breath across her lower teeth.
The giant, now in civilian clothes chipped in. “You’d better hurry, the PM is already in an advanced state. Any longer, and organ failure is on the cards.”
“Can we see her? At least let her know what is happening.” Yelena said, her composure slipping further.
“That depends. If you want to keep up the illusion of quarantine, you will need to suit up.”
Mary followed Yelena into another truck where she removed her stilettoes and struggled into an oversized hazard suit. With the threat of infection nullified, she opted for a gap in the zip fastening, allowing free exchange of air, in the place of oxygen tanks. Suited and booted, she waddled into the marquee. Mary observed from the Perspex partition adjacent to the chemical shower cubicles of the decontamination truck.
The Prime Minister was not difficult to spot. Either side of her podded gurney, were two armed security officers, their weapons holstered on the outside of their blue plastic suits. Each man nodded recognition as Yelena drew near. She crouched, wrinkling the suit into noisy ruches, making it impossible to hear what was said.
The frail patient struggled onto her side. Her darkened skin, taut and shiny in the diffused light. Yelena mumbled something inaudible. The PM’s look of incredulity forced Yelena to stagger back.
“What? Get this bloody pod open, now!” The PM shrieked, then groaned, clutching at her abdomen. Yelena stood tall and ranted at the guards. Together, they pushed the Prime Minister to a secluded corner of the marquee, close to where Mary stood, and away from the long lenses of the journalists.
Yelena unclipped the tubular lid, allowing the guards to lift it from the trolley and stack it to one side. With assistance, the PM sat upright, breathing in the unrestricted air. “You are telling me that all this is the result of ingesting unfiltered water?”
“Please, ma’am, lower your voice. We believe that the new filtration system was tampered with. Initial tests show concentrations of the water suppressant, ten times that of regular dilution. I have men tracking down the source of contamination now.”
“Then get us all to St. Thomas’ Hospital. We need urgent treatment.”
Yelena explained the predicament. Break quarantine and reveal the truth behind the affliction and journalists would have a field day. With every hospital and maternity ward in the country battling the effects of the contaminants, cabinet members involved would be liable for prosecution. Mary listened attentively. If only there was a way of leaking the truth without the Intelligence Services swooping in and mopping up the facts. A way of disabling the embedded codes and algorithms that ferret out and destroy unwanted telephone and online transmissions.
“The truth of the matter is, ma’am” Yelena ventured, “that we have been unable to secure any of the drug required to treat the effects of the poison. Stocks are at an unprecedented low across the city.”
The bronze lady twisted to face Mary, exchanging glances that communicated an entire conversation in one look. Mary had no need to read the PM’s mind. It was crystal clear what she was commanding. Despite the enormous trouble and cost expended in restricting the development of gifted individuals, the Prime Minister expected Mary to use her abilities to save the day.
In the same glare, Mary delivered her retort. A single, non-verbal blast of distain. A sneer that summed up the entirety of her dispassion. A look that said, you killed my baby. You are responsible for my grandfather’s death. You can die in agony before I will help you. Locked in an immoveable stare down, Mary and the PM fought in silence.
An influx of pain erupted through the politician’s neural network. Mary sensed it, even though the PM did not react. One by one, her organs were shutting down. She shifted uneasily on her gurney, breaking the connection between them.
“Mary.” The PM said. Her voice weaker than before. “Come closer.”
“But the quarantine…” Yelena began.
“Hang the bloody quarantine, woman. Mary, please.” The PM implored. Mary stepped out from behind the screen and into the marquee. “If you will not do it for me, then please, do it for all the staff who are caught up in this mess. Will you create more of the drug?”
Mary studied the patients arranged in rows inside the tent. Personal assistants, researchers and members of parliament of all ages and faiths, laid low by the Prime Minister’s directive. They did not deserve this fate, any more than her child or grandfather did.
“On one condition. You and your cabinet members will abolish the use of potable water in the covert treatment of the British population and re-write the Mental Health Bill to ensure that it cannot be done in the future.”
Her response, feeble but definitive. “Done. Yelena, get her whatever she needs.”
“How do I know you will keep your word?” Mary growled. A sudden recollection of misplaced trust stirred in her memories.
“If you cannot take the word of a British Prime Minister, whose can you take?”
Mary scoffed. The Prime Minister produced a withering scowl, which transformed into a howl of agonising pain. Yelena rushed to the politician’s side, cradling her shoulders to help ease her into a horizontal position. “Please, Mary. We cannot let these people suffer.”
A young man in a nearby pod spluttered, heaving blood from the irritated oesophageal lining in his throat. Another cried out for pain relief from one of the suited medics at the far end of the tent. The air grew thick with sickly bile.
Despite her misgivings, Mary chose to help them. She turned to Yelena. “I’ll need a sample of the drug and as much sterile distilled water as you can find.”
Yelena pressed her earbud and listed her demands to several agents listening to the transmission. It included a mass signing of the Official Secrets Act for all quarantine, medical and hospital staff involved. Those working in parliament, were already held to account by its terms.
Sirens blared out in a doppler effect, as MI5 and MI6 agents made use of police vehicles to speed the process of gathering Mary’s items, with the command of not to return without a sample of the drug.
Yelena retreated inside the truck, summoning Mary to follow her. “You know, we make a good team. With your abilities and my contacts, the nation will be safe in our hands.”
“You call this safe?” Mary gestured to the patients nearby. “I’d say that the British people were at greater risk from their own government than from any terrorist threat, wouldn’t you?”
Yelena simmered but said nothing, choosing to turn her attention to a sheet of paper handed to her from the giant man by her side.
He said; “I have listed all the diseases that could potentially explain this situation in rank order. The top one being the most likely suspect. It is not a contagious disease but spread through bacteria in airborne moisture. If you decide to use that as your excuse, we can drop the quarantine right now.”
“This is excellent. Unlock the building, allow the unaffected to go home, retain any with symptoms. As soon as Mary has supplied us with the drug, have your medics ready to treat them before we send them to St. Thomas’.”
It was a long, tedious twenty-minute wait for the agents to ret
urn with the drug sample and purified water, during which time the Prime Minister and fellow stricken, visibly worsened. Medics attached portable heart and blood pressure monitors to the nation’s premier and administered anti-nausea medication and a sedative.
With the parliament buildings unlocked, cabinet ministers approached to persuade, bully or threaten the guards in their attempts to gain admission to the marquee. Only the Secretary for Defence made it through. As he drew near to the PM’s gurney, Mary was crouching on the floor with an ampule of the drug tucked into her left palm, her right hand in contact with a large glass bottle of distilled water.
Mary opened her eyes. His cushioned brogues were inches away from her bent knees. A mixture of cigar smoke, gin and halitosis corroded the linings of her nasal cavity. Mary slowly straightened her legs, drawing herself up to chest height. Those pouched jowls framed an unusually large scab, the remnants of a festering boil. He appeared to teeter backwards, righting himself just before his balance could fail him entirely.
Glancing at the deteriorating state of the Prime Minister, he addressed Yelena. “Who authorised this cause of action?”
Stepping forwards Yelena said, “I did, sir. I kept my division manager fully appraised at each stage since the Prime Minister’s sedation…”
“You do not have seniority here, Ms Plender. I shall take the helm now. You are dismissed.”
Yelena began to argue. Mary took the cue and rushed towards the guarded exit to the tent.
“Not you, Mary Arora. You will stay right here.”
One of the guards blocked her escape. She turned and sauntered back to Yelena, who was still trying to use reason against insobriety. The Defence Minister touched his shoe to the bottle on the floor.
“So, this is your game, is it? To make Mary indispensable? If you think I will let you inject the PM with that, you can think again. Unsanctioned, untested…my God, it could kill her. No, I will not allow it.” He turned towards the PM’s prone body resting on the trolley. As he did, Mary caught the thinnest whisper of a smile on his lips. With a clumsy grip, he slipped his hand beneath the PM’s, making a show of his distress.
Something was off. His concern, too expressed, his gaze too simpering. He spun around on a twist of the heel, steadying his gait against the PM’s temporary bed. “How do we know that Mary was not the mastermind behind this entire tragedy. She did spend an awful lot of time with this terrorist, what’s-his-name… this Alexi fellow. Hell, she could have manipulated his mind – forced him to carry out this vicious attack.”
Yelena interjected. “That is unfair. Mary was the one who alerted us to the terrorist threat. She has been nothing but honest and …”
“Honest, my arse. Bleating to the lowest conspiracy fanatics on the internet, she’s a bloody menace.”
Mary tuned out the harsh sounds and yammering clauses and locked onto his glassy stare. His brainwaves were dizzying. Dulled by the liberal application of juniper flavoured alcohol, his thoughts swayed between bitterness and celebration. Fragments of scenes flitted through his mind. In one instant he saw himself addressing the press pack, standing in front of the door at Number Ten, Downing Street, the next he was bowing to the Queen at Buckingham Palace. The final vision Mary caught, before her abhorrence repelled her from his mind, was the open casket funeral for the woman laid at their side.
In that second, Mary realised his long-term game plan. He would allow nothing to stand in his way to the top. His moment of glory depended upon the PM’s permanent incapacity. She was too strong and popular to defeat in a leadership battle. Her death would afford him the opportunity to prove his devotion to a long admired Prime Minister.
There had been ample time, locked inside Parliament during quarantine, for him to organise his coup. To coerce and lobby supporters to his claim. A judicial application of bribes and promises of prestigious posts on a successful bid to claim the title. All that stood in his way, was the complete recovery of the woman before him.
Yelena stood her ground. “If you are concerned that Mary has tampered with the distilled water, then test it on me first.” She unzipped the hazard suit, wriggling from its clammy sheath before a baring her arm to him. The Defence Secretary had not predicted this turn of events. His sluggish movements and drooping eyelids were reminiscent of a poor sit-com.
Someone touched Mary’s skin. A warm hand gently prised open her fingers and pinched the ampule from her palm. As she glanced over her shoulder, the huge man pursed his lips into a silent shush, then turned his back to the group.
“You need to make a decision, sir, either we treat the PM here and now or we rush her to hospital and hope they have enough of the drug left to administer.” Yelena’s tone, firm and insistent, brought the man back to his senses.
“Well we sure as hell can’t trust whatever Mary has concocted in that bottle. I wouldn’t be surprised if this was her plan all along. Attack us all when we are in the middle of debating a bill that could revolutionise mental health care.”
“The Prime Minister made a promise to Mary, to revoke that bill.” Yelena ventured.
“She did what? Without consulting the cabinet? Impossible. The bill will go ahead – as is… What are you doing man?”
No one noticed the large man in civilian clothes, checking the monitors and intravenous feeds of his patients. No one saw him fill a hypodermic syringe with the contents of the ampule. No one stopped him when he moved between the gurneys and injected the drug into the cannula valve supplying the Prime Minister’s veins.
“What the fuck?” Screamed the Defence Minister. “I’ll have you locked up for this.”
“You can’t. Technically, this is my patient and my decision to make. I have the authority to treat my patients in the best way I see fit. Now get out of my way so that I can arrange transportation to hospital.” The large man summoned several other medics, who had completed the process of removing their plastic suits in the truck. Their orders, to use Mary’s freshly generated drug on the remaining patients.
Outnumbered and spitting expletives, the Defence Secretary lunged at Mary. “This is all your fault. If you hadn’t broadcast your abilities to all and sundry, none of this would have happened.” Clamping his pudgy fingers into the flesh of her upper arms, he shook Mary with surprising malevolence. “You think you are untouchable, is that it? Eh? Think that the world has need for a little witch who knows how to manipulate people? You will not see sunshine for the rest of your days. Guards! Arrest her. I want her locked in a secure unit. Make sure it has good old-fashioned bolts and locks. She’s a slippery one.” His former groggy state banished by an influx of hate fuelled adrenalin to his cerebral cortex.
The speed with which she found herself restrained and cuffed, was wholly unexpected. There was barely enough time to consider her reaction, let alone formulate a plan of counter attack. Why hadn’t she seen this possibility floating around in the minister’s mind? How had it eluded her?
As the guards marched Mary from the tent, the minister and Yelena trudged after them. “Please be reasonable, sir.” Yelena begged. “Mary has committed no crime. You are infringing upon her Human Rights.”
“A terrorist has no rights. under section forty-one of the Terrorism Act, a constable may arrest without warrant a person whom he reasonably suspects to be a terrorist. Since she has documented affiliations to a known radical, and had full knowledge of this current atrocity, it is safe to assume that a warrant will be forthcoming to prolong her detention.” That small victory gave him cause to smile. Since his plan was set to fail, Mary should bear the brunt of his wrath.
Ambulances fled the scene carrying the afflicted to treatment centres across the city. Police personnel returned to the pilgrims’ protest. Guards radioed ahead to a prison transportation van. It nudged through the straggling journalists packing up their equipment and crossed the security barrier. Mary found herself trapped inside a single booth, double bolted and locked within the vehicle.
The cuffs chafed
her wrists raw. In her twisted position, chained to van walls, Mary could feel the scratch marks in the bench seat. Ragged tallies scored into the establishment. How many hundreds of prisoners had left an indelible mark with their thumb nails in the plastic coated boards? How many of them had been truly innocent of their accused crimes? How many times had the British judicial system failed to protect the innocent, favouring those who wield the power?
Late afternoon rays streaked through the high window and across the vehicle ceiling. It bounced from the angled corner of the melamine booth above, creating a paler dogleg of radiance. How could she have been so blind? No amount of bargaining or deals could have prevented this eventuality. Her fate was sealed the moment her abilities were brought to light, perhaps even before.
Now that her gifts were public knowledge, every precaution would be taken to prevent her escape. She could not infiltrate every mind of her many captors at once. They would entomb her in the strongest mechanical vault, making every lock impervious to her powers.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
What was to be her life now? A life of solitude and contemplation in a specialised cell or thrown in among the general population of a top security women’s prison? Could she anticipate a fair and public trial? That seemed unlikely, given the speed with which the government slapped a ban on journalists reporting the water crisis. Even if the cabinet agreed to a trial behind closed doors, it was even less likely that they would provide unredacted evidence of her assistance with the Alaskan Affair to prove her innocence. With so little in her favour, what barrister would risk their reputation in her defence?
A pall of gloom infilled and froze her heart like liquid nitrogen; one jolt, and it would fracture into a million shards. What did it matter anyway? Her reasons to live were all extinguished. Snuffed out along with her fantasies of motherhood, her grandfather’s smile and her dreams of a breakthrough epigenetics paper.
Her stomach lurched inside, then equilibrated with the forward motion of the transport vehicle. The beam of sunlight changed position as she felt herself shunted backwards, and then thrown against the side wall of the booth. Something banged against the vertical panels next to her head. Perhaps a helpful guard was guiding their manoeuvres within the tight passage of the service road. Two speed bumps taken carelessly, lifted her from her seat, followed by a jerked turn left. The van had left the grounds at Westminster. That’s funny, Mary thought to herself. I don’t remember seeing any speedbumps.