by Colin Wade
22
The doctor was pleased. He already had Bianca and Sam well entrenched in his special drug programme. At the start, they were so spaced out he could pretty much do what he wanted but as he controlled the withdrawal phase with his special concoction of drugs, he put them into induced comas to save all the hassle of the violent rages. He had told all the girls that the scars and bruises they suffered were as a result of restraint after withdrawal rages. This was another one of his blatant lies.
Once they were in the programme they hardly left their beds. His special programme allowed him to keep them pretty much comatose the whole time. The scars and bruises came from the next phase of the programme.
He did bring them round for short periods to give their brains some semblance that they were being treated but really, one of the positive side effects of the coma drugs was the suppression of memories. He wanted them to remember being there but not much else, as after all the clients were relying on them not remembering what had happened to them.
He did occasionally feel guilty about what he was doing but it never lasted for long.
“Guilt is for poor people,” he said out loud as if he felt the need to answer the challenge that his brain was creating from the so-called good part of his soul. He laughed at this thought.
I don’t think there are any good parts left. Straight to hell for me!
The thought reminded him. His online pals would almost certainly have uploaded some more images. They had promised him some much younger ones this time.
23
Rob was busy in the gallery, dealing with the latest batch of art from local artists. This had been one of the foundations of his success, connecting with local artists that needed an outlet for their talent and selling their stuff locally and through the European art dealer collective he was part of. He took a slice of each sale to cover his costs, and make a profit, but the artists did well out of the deal. He had always had a head for business and the gallery was booming.
As he was allowing himself a minute to wallow in his ego, his phone suddenly rang.
“Hello, Rob Simmons speaking.”
“Mr Simmons, are you the next of kin for Anya Novak?”
He was stunned. What sort of question was that!
“I’m sorry, who is this and why are you asking me about Anya?”
“My name is Judy Belbin and I am a nurse at the A&E Department at the Berkshire General Hospital. Anya has been admitted and I am trying to contact her next of kin. Your name was in her phone.”
He could hardly bear to say the next sentence.
“Is she… dead?”
“No, but she is in a coma. She has been in a car accident.”
Rob didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He had always thought that asking about next of kin meant people were dead. He took a moment to compose himself.
“Mr Simmons. Are you still there?”
“Yes, yes, sorry. Just a bit of a shock. I am on my way.”
He quickly ushered out his customers, closed the gallery and got straight in his car.
It took forty excruciating minutes to get through the busy Saturday traffic and find a parking space at the hospital. Rob rushed into A&E like some madman and asked for Anya. She had been moved into an ICU bed on another ward. He rushed up to the next level and found his beautiful Anya, lying unconscious in a bed connected up to all sorts of machines and drips that were keeping her alive. The doctor came and spoke to Rob.
“Mr Simmons, my name is Dr Barkley. I treated your partner when she was admitted. She is alive but has not regained consciousness. She has a head injury, broken ribs and multiple bruises over her body, due to the car accident. She is in a coma and I have to admit it is difficult to say what her prognosis is at the moment. We will have to monitor her over the next few days.”
“Do we know what happened?”
“It appears a member of the public came upon the accident and called an ambulance. They were able to get her out of the car without incident but she was unconscious the whole time.”
“Why won’t she wake up?”
“I am concerned about the head injury. It is almost certainly the cause of her comatose state. We need to monitor her closely and hope that her being in a coma is just the body’s way of healing.”
“You think she is going to die, don’t you? Why are you not being honest with me?”
“Look Mr Simmons, I know you are upset but I can assure you I am not holding anything back. I am concerned about her but we must remain positive. Despite her comatose state, the rest of her vitals are good at the moment.”
“Can she hear us, if we speak to her?”
“Well, as with most coma patients, medical evidence suggests that her brain is still cognisant and can receive sounds, even if the body will not allow a conscious state. I would encourage you to talk to her.”
Rob sat by the side of the bed and held Anya’s hand. He started nattering away, trying not to show the pain in his voice, when all he wanted to do was shout, scream and cry.
As Rob continued to talk to Anya, the machines kept beeping, the drips kept dripping, but Anya didn’t stir, didn’t change position, just lay there small and vulnerable. Rob had been there almost five hours. He hadn’t eaten, gone to the loo, moved from the position by her bed.
“Come on love, I think you should go home, get something to eat and have some rest. We will ring you the minute something changes.”
Rob looked at the friendly face of the ward sister with a mixture of exhaustion and anger.
“I can’t leave her.”
“You won’t be any good to her if you wear yourself out. Please go home and come back tomorrow.”
He reluctantly agreed, kissed Anya on the forehead and walked away, tears welling up.
As he drove home in a daze, his thoughts turned to the gallery.
What the hell am I going to do? I can’t look after Anya and run the business.
As he tried to process what to do, the image of Anya lying in that bed kept invading his thoughts. Suddenly, the fog cleared and an idea hit him.
Elisha?
Elisha was one of the local artists who had previously shown an interest in working at the gallery. They had politely declined her offer as the business could only sustain Rob and Anya, but now things had changed. He called her after eating a quick dinner and explained what had happened. She was delighted to help.
24
Clark was sitting eating Chinese out of those groovy square takeout boxes. Chicken in black bean sauce, egg fried rice and some prawn crackers. He was slouched back in his office chair, feet on the desk, watching the feeds from the early evening news.
As he shovelled more and more food in, a headline from BBC South East stopped him in mid shovel.
‘Young lady badly injured in car accident just outside Goring. Police believe another car involved did not stop at the scene. Woman in coma.’
He put down the takeout carton and quickly logged onto the local BBC news website.
‘Car accident on a B-road heading out of Goring. Woman’s car driven off the road and crashed into a tree. Police appealing for witnesses, especially anyone that saw a black car in the area.’
Clark almost saw the Chinese food again far too soon.
This can’t be. Just like the others. Is this Anya Novak?
He sat staring at the screen, not knowing what to do next. He found the number of the Berkshire General Hospital and asked to be put through to admissions.
“Hello, can I help you?”
“Yes, I was wondering whether an Anya Novak was admitted today?”
“Are you a member of the family?”
He had to lie. He knew they wouldn’t confirm if he said he wasn’t family.
“Yes, I am her brother.” He winced at the lie, hoping the tone of his voice would not g
ive him away.
“Yes, I can confirm that Miss Novak was admitted today. She is in ICU. Please phone the ward before visiting.”
Clark hung up and went straight for the drinks cabinet. He didn’t drink as a rule but dusted off an old bottle of whisky and downed two measures, one after another. The taste was horrible and didn’t settle well with the Chinese. He sat down.
What the fuck is going on? This is just like the other four. Someone has tried to wipe out the last one. God, I didn’t really think this was going to happen. Why now?
He sat with his head in his hands. Shaking. The alcohol had not calmed his nerves. He had to shut down for the day, both digitally and emotionally, and work out what the hell to do next.
This has suddenly got frighteningly real.
*
His phone beeped. A text message.
‘You did not get the job done. Anya Novak is still alive. Get it sorted!!!!’
Shit.
25
Rob bolted up the next day, after a troubled sleep. Although it was Sunday and the gallery was closed, Rob met up with Elisha and gave her a whistlestop tour of how to run the gallery, ready for Monday. He then rushed to the hospital to be with Anya.
When Rob arrived at the hospital the police were there, checking with the doctors whether Anya had woken up.
“Mr Simmons, my name is DC Stephanie Bellows. I am investigating the accident your partner was involved in. Is there anything you can tell me?”
“No, I wasn’t there. I only know what the doctors told me.”
“We believe another vehicle was involved but did not stop at the scene. There is a black paint transference mark on the side of your partner’s car.”
“OK. What are you doing about that?”
“Do you own a black car Sir?”
“What? Yes, I do. Are you seriously suggesting that I was somehow involved in this accident?”
“Just routine Sir. Many attempted murders or murders are committed by people known to the victim.”
Rob could not believe what he was hearing but had to stop himself from adding ‘assaulting a police officer’ to the current list of absolute fucked-up things that had happened over the last few days.
“I am really offended but I guess you are doing your job. My car is in the hospital car park and you are very welcome to examine it now.”
Rob had to escort the officers down to his car before he could see Anya. His heart was breaking but he had to get these arseholes off his back.
They examined his car and quickly ruled it out of being part of the accident.
“Thank you, Sir. Your co-operation is appreciated. Our forensic teams are working on trying to identify the car brand that the paint came from. We will let you know when we have more. If you think of anything, you will let us know.”
“Of course.”
Rob left them and rushed back up to the ward. Anya was still there. No change but thankfully no deterioration. He sat by the bed and started nattering away again.
*
Anya was confused. She was hearing voices but couldn’t see anything, except blackness. Was this one of her recurring nightmares? LEX, the restraints, the violence. No, this was different. She could hear Rob’s voice. He was nattering away about the gallery but she couldn’t respond, couldn’t move. What was going on? She was trapped in her body. She willed herself to see but nothing would work. His voice faded and she went back to the dark sleep.
*
Rob returned home to a Chinese takeaway he had bought on the way back and a bottle of white wine. He slumped in the chair, turned the TV on and watched nothing in particular. God the place was empty without Anya.
As his mind wandered around he suddenly realised there was a large pile of post on the side, a victim of the stress and strains of the last few days. Other priorities.
Rob picked the pile up and started to leaf through them. Junk, junk, junk, electric bill, junk, Waitrose vouchers, junk, the latest Matalan catalogue and… Rob stopped and stared at a hand-written envelope addressed to Anya.
What the hell is this? It looks like the same handwriting from that previous letter.
He stared at it for a few minutes, not knowing what to do. Eventually, he decided the only thing he could do was open it. After all, Anya was in no state to read it.
He ripped open the envelope and stared at the words in disbelief. It was this Clark Kent character again, but this time he was writing with details of what had happened to Anya and the other girls who had been treated at the clinic, and they seemed to tie in with what she had been telling him.
Rob was stunned. Was this man for real?
He read it over and over again.
God, so much of this fits with what Anya told me, but he is implying that these other girls were murdered in car acc…
He couldn’t finish the sentence. Car accidents.
The police said they thought someone else was involved.
Rob’s heart started to race and his stomach was in knots. He stood up and started pacing the room.
What is going on?
He wanted to cry, scream and shout but he had to get his head together.
The Loughborough Clinic. The car accidents. The drug abuse. Oxford Uni. This can’t be a coincidence.
He read the letter again and again, hoping that somehow this would all make sense. He needed Anya. He needed her to explain.
After what seemed like the fiftieth time of reading it, he suddenly focused on what the penultimate paragraph was saying.
Who is Dr Normandy and what is he being paid for?
He picked up his tablet and found the website of the Loughborough Clinic, within the website of the company running it. Fairport Medical. He navigated to the main information page.
‘Dr Felix Normandy, CEO.’
Rob was confused.
Anya was treated by someone called Dr French but they claimed yesterday they had never employed a Dr French. How is that possible?
He just couldn’t process it all. Who was Dr French? Who was this strange man Clark Kent and why was he looking out for Anya? Was this some vicious arsehole just playing sick mind games?
Rob sank the rest of the bottle and before he knew it fell into an alcohol-fuelled sleep. The letter fell out of his hand, landing unceremoniously on the carpet, next to the empty wine bottle.
Now Rob was the one who was going to have the nightmares.
26
The doctor examined Sam and Bianca’s latest blood tests.
“Good, good. You should both be ready in about five weeks.”
The girls didn’t answer. They were comatose. Again. Courtesy of the doctor’s magical drug cocktail. He goaded them.
“Oh, you poor sweet, innocent girls. How perfect you are.”
He texted his contact.
‘The girls are progressing well. They should be ready in about five weeks. Please can you arrange for the usual packages to be sent to me, marked strictly confidential.’
*
His phone beeped. He read the text message.
‘Excellent.’
He texted the boss.
‘All systems go. Doctor says 5 weeks. I will meet the clients.’
The boss texted back straight away.
‘Good. Let’s meet at my club. I would like to be there. Sort it for tomorrow night about 8 p.m. We also need to chat about the other situation.’
He got straight onto the clients. He knew they were both personal friends of the boss. There was no margin for error. He was under no illusion that the boss would have any hesitation in taking him out if he sniffed any disloyalty or cock-ups. He spoke out loud to the empty room, feeling the need to justify his loyalty. Almost as though his every move was being filmed and he was having to play to the camera.
“Don’t worry Boss.
You can trust me. After all, you are paying me enough not to make mistakes.”
*
His phone rang and, as soon as he answered, the caller launched straight in. Pissed off and aggressive.
“What is the situation with Anya Novak?”
“I have been into the hospital a couple of times to see if there is any way I could access her room but the ward is pretty much locked down. I think it is too risky to try to get to her in the hospital. If she wakes up, my best bet is to hit her again when she is out in public.”
“I am not happy leaving these loose ends. You had better pray she doesn’t wake up, but if she does you need to make sure you do the job properly next time. Don’t try to access her in the hospital. I agree it is too risky and I can’t afford for you to make more mistakes.”
The phone was promptly hung up and he cursed to himself. He had never made a mistake but his dad was not prepared to cut him any slack with the Anya situation. Just because he was one of the most powerful men in the country, it didn’t stop him being an asshole.
Once he had dealt with Anya he was gone. His so-called family could sod off. He would make sure he was the other side of the world before the shit hit the fan.
27
Rob woke up the next morning. Still on the sofa with a thumping headache. He tried to reorientate himself. Where was he? Where was Anya?
His brain soon caught up and the deep pain in the pit of his stomach reminded him.
He looked at his watch.
Shit. Eight-thirty.
He was supposed to be meeting Elisha at the gallery at nine.
He willed his stiff, hungover body to get off the sofa. He saw the letter lying on the floor. He picked it up and placed it on the table.
Sorry Mr Kent, I can’t deal with you at the moment.
He jumped in the shower, dressed quickly, sunk a glass of orange juice and ate two pieces of toast faster than was probably healthy.
The gallery was only ten minutes away and he was only about five minutes late. Elisha was waiting outside.
