“It’s a scratch, nothing serious.”
“A scratch? Who are you trying to kid? Let me get someone to cover reception and I’ll take you to Casualty myself.”
“Sarah, I need a big favour first.”
Grey filing cabinets were tightly packed against the walls of the tiny office. They perched on swivel chairs behind a wooden desk with a computer and telephone on it. All the lights were off and Sarah banged her fingers into the keyboard.
“I could be sacked for doing this, or worse prosecuted. Oh, if this doctor walks in …”
“She refused to tell me his name, but he came in a month after me.”
Sarah sank further into the chair and the computer did its usual turnover of programs loading up on the screen. She tapped in a password.
“Oh, I don’t believe this, this stupid password doesn’t work. He must have changed it. I’ll have to use my own.”
Brock rubbed his hand over the cut and Sarah peered at him.
“If I’m going to get you into serious trouble, it doesn’t matter. Let’s forget it. It’s a stupid idea. Let’s go.”
“Too late, I’m in. But that cut on your forehead needs urgent medical attention.”
A noise outside the office clinic startled them. Brock peeped through the window, scanning the darkened clinic beyond.
“Sarah, we’ve got company. Get down.”
They both dropped to the ground and Brock adjusted the blind slightly, peering through the window. A doctor in white smocks was hanging over one of the grey filing cabinets, running his fingers through the files. Sarah reached her finger to a button on the monitor, blacking it out. A loud thump of the filing cabinet door being slammed into place pierced the silence and the doctor disappeared.
“That was a close one,” said Sarah.
She put her head in her hands and Brock rubbed his hand on her back, calming her. They resumed positions, her hands shaking and struggling to press the right keys.
“Are you certain this is the hospital you were admitted to?”
“I just spoke to the nurse who looked after me. Of course I’m sure.”
“That’s odd. There is no record of you. Let me access the external mainframe. Your file might have been moved from the local drive.”
She gazed at the computer, eagerly banging her fingers into the keyboard. Several screens later, she typed in Brock’s name again. The screen hung for several seconds and a window popped up.
INFORMATION BLOCKED
“Oh dear, they’re going to know it’s me. But why are they blocking access?”
“So that’s it then.”
“No, it’s not. They shouldn’t be withholding your file. What happens if you came in with a life-threatening emergency? We need to see your medical records. Casualty won’t be able to pull your file up either. Hacking this system is virtually impossible after the security update a few months ago, so that’s out of the question. Come with me downstairs to the basement and we’ll dig up the paper records.”
“I appreciate what you’re doing for me, but I don’t want to get you into trouble. Let’s call it a day. It’s not important anyway.”
“If they’re not following protocol, neither am I. I want that file and I want it now. Follow me.”
Metal cages partitioned area after area throughout the large dimly lit basement. Filing cabinets of brown, grey, and red were strung across the wall and freestanding throughout the entire area. There must have been hundreds. The temperature was cooler down there, and the concrete floor cold on their feet. A reception sign hung over an untidy desk. Behind it sat a neatly dressed man with a thick pair of prominent black glasses perched on his nose.
“Afternoon, Michael. I need to grab a hard copy of a file. Don’t worry about him, he’s a trainee.”
Brock nodded at the man in the thick black glasses.
“Not acquired your uniform yet, lad?”
Brock forced a smile and followed Sarah as she pushed at a thick cage door. She glanced back at the man, throwing a reassuring nod. Faked of course. They both entered the cage, which was full to the brim with grey filing cabinets. There was little room to manoeuvre. Sarah grabbed Brock’s hand, pulling him over to a section marked S and then to a drawer on a filing cabinet that read Steele. She yanked it open, running her fingers through the files.
“Looks like you’ve done this before.”
“If only you knew.”
“I must say, those stairs back there looked manky, not at all hygienic—”
“It’s missing.”
A door slammed at the far end of the room and Sarah’s entire body jerked back, pushing the drawer shut. Her hand shook, and Brock reached his arm out to comfort her. A man in a black suit, the one Brock had seen earlier in reception, glared through the cage wire as he paced towards them, his name badge bouncing across his chest.
“Would you mind telling me what this man is doing in an unauthorised area? And why aren’t you working behind reception? I’ve warned you about this before.”
Sarah rubbed her chin, stepping towards him, her eyes fixed on the concrete floor. “Morning, Doctor Samuel. I’ve brought my friend in with a serious laceration to the head. A doctor needs to urgently examine him.”
“That doesn’t explain your activities down here, going through confidential records.”
“Where is my file?” Brock asked suddenly.
“What? You don’t have any legal right to it, and you won’t find anyone practising medicine down here either. Follow me and I’ll escort you up.”
“You didn’t answer his question,” said Sarah.
“I’m not legally required to answer that question. Carry on ridiculing me in front of a patient and you’ll be sitting in front of the board. I’d like a serious chat with you in my office pronto. I’ll escort you both upstairs, follow me. And who is covering reception while you are on this little escapade?”
“I’m going nowhere until you tell me why my file is missing.”
Dr Samuel stepped back, waving his hand in the air. “Michael, call for security,” he shouted. “There are a number of reasons why files go missing, but for confidentiality reasons I’m not discussing it any further. If you require a doctor, I suggest you follow me immediately or leave the hospital.”
He pulled the stairwell door open, gesturing for them to step through. Sarah leaned over, whispering in Brock’s ear. “It’s not over. He knows the file should be there. I’m reporting it to management.”
“Forget about the file. That nurse, Hayes, knew more than she was letting on. I’ll find her and speak to her again.”
Sarah stopped short suddenly and pulled Brock to a halt beside her. “Doctor, why are we carrying on up the stairs? Casualty is on the ground floor.”
The doctor slowed his pace. “I wish you wouldn’t contradict everything I do. I’m fully aware where Casualty is. It’s extremely busy today, and due to the nature of his injury someone else is going to examine it.”
Sarah screwed her face and they reluctantly followed. On reaching the fifth floor, the doctor held open one of the white double doors. Sarah stared at him. “Since when do we bring patients up here? Surely they need referring-”
Dr Samuel pointed Brock in the direction of a door to the left of the brightly lit empty corridor. “The doctor’s in that room over there. Sarah, my office now, please.” He led her through to the stairs and the double doors slammed behind them.
Beech doors ran along the corridor on one side, and on the other side was empty ward after empty ward. Everywhere was silent and the entire floor appeared empty. Brock stepped up to the door, tapping on it with his forefinger, and waited. A tall, slim attractive lady with thick dark-blue spectacles appeared, tying back her dark-blonde hair with a light-blue ribbon. She wasn’t wearing the smock or usual kind of doctors’ uniform but a simple grey suit.
She gave an exaggerated smile.
“You must be Brock. I’m Doctor Shanklin. Please come in.”
He stood still for a moment. Everything appeared to be normal as it should, but there was a strange look about her that Brock couldn’t put his finger on.
“Wait a minute, how did you know my name?”
“Doctor Shanklin mentioned you. He just brought you up.”
“I thought you were Doctor Shanklin.”
“Sorry, of course I am. I always get Doctor Samuel’s name mixed up with my own. It’s very similar.”
Brock tilted his head and pursed his lips as he stepped into the small but cosy room, sinking into the grey carpet. He perched himself on one of the two matching chairs beside the small table. Files were spread across it, overshadowed by a beige lamp. Dr Shanklin picked up one of the files and lowered herself into the seat.
“This isn’t standard procedure, I know, but the … the doctor wanted me to have a chat with you. I owe him a favour, so if you don’t mind can we have a chat first?”
Brock leant back into the chair and shrugged. She adjusted her blue spectacles.
“That’s a bad cut on your forehead. What happened?”
Brock wondered where the hell she’d trained as a doctor; she wasn’t exactly a teenager and must have spoken to, let alone treated, hundreds of people. That was it—she appeared nervous and at the same time hadn’t a clue what she was doing.
“I believe it’s called a laceration. What are you after?” said Brock. He glanced, his eyes alighting on the door. It was shut tight and its gap sealed.
She forced a cough. “OK, I’ll cut the bullshit. You’re causing us a big problem. Where is it?”
Brock stared at her as she slid a file across the table and crossed her legs.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She blinked, looking at the lamp as though she were going to use it as a weapon.
“Who are you?” Brock demanded. He glared deeper into her eyes and then sensed movement outside the room. She opened her mouth to speak, but Brock jumped out of the chair, bolting to the door and yanking the handle. As he pulled the door open, the lamp cord scraped along the table. She held it in her hand.
“I wouldn’t walk through the door if I were you. We only require what you stole.”
He yanked the door open, jumping out into the corridor, and she hurtled out behind him. Directly in front of him was a smartly dressed tall man with a scar on the left of his face. Sighrus. And he was pointing a standard-issue Glock at Brock’s head. Two other men in black suits stood on either side, each holding the same standard-issue Glock. The woman mumbled something but Brock couldn’t make it out. His heartbeat thumped in his chest like drums. He stood perfectly still, scanning around the hallway. He was completely blocked in. Sighrus stepped towards him.
“He’s going to make a run for it. Get him!” he shouted.
The men in black aimed their guns towards Brock’s head.
“Where is it?” Sighrus demanded. “We want it back.”
Brock raised a hand, and as he did, he spied a red fire extinguisher near the window. Sighrus was glaring at him, waiting for him to answer. The woman held the lamp tight. Brock stuck his hands in the air.
“Alright, don’t shoot. I’ll tell you where it is.”
Sighrus relaxed, dropping his arm and aiming the gun to the floor. Brock launched himself into the woman and pushed her head-on into Sighrus. She wasn’t expecting it. He sprinted towards the fire extinguisher.
A deafening shot was fired into the air. His body felt fine; maybe it had missed. Another shot fired into the air, the force knocking Brock to the ground as he grabbed the fire extinguisher in front of him. Did the bullet hit? He could feel nothing, but his body was freezing up. He grappled with the fire extinguisher, sprinting with it towards the window, and smashed it against the windowpane with all his force. The hit sent a jolt through his very existence, and glass shattered everywhere.
He threw the extinguisher towards his pursuers and somersaulted through the window. Butterflies pulled at his stomach, tickling harsher than he had ever experienced. He lost his confidence partway down; he would never make it, this was the end. Glancing down to see his fate, all he could see was grey—heaven perhaps. No, he hadn’t landed yet. He remembered the hospital’s canopy over the main entrance. Surely this couldn’t be it?
He smashed into it and tumbled to the ground. He was conscious; he was alive. He pulled himself up and, in agony, made towards Hampstead Heath.
Chapter 11
The overcast sky spat rain into his face as he hustled through dark, damp undergrowth. Trees surrounded him, their leaves crunching under his aching feet. He galloped on and flung himself into a low-lying sycamore branch. Water cascaded across his face and ran down his damp, bloodied shirt. Working his legs harder and harder, he pressed on through the woodland, but eventually it was no good; his body refused to go on, and he collapsed to the ground and into the sludge.
Seconds passed. He picked himself up, leaning against a big oak tree for support. Through the thick trees, the tall man and the blonde woman were running in his direction. Two other black-suited men were eagerly searching through the undergrowth, gaining on him fast. Brock looked up into the oak tree hovering over him. Pulling himself up, he pushed his body to the limits. It hurt him so much that the pain seemed to suddenly shut off as he grabbed branch after branch, hauling himself up high into the tree. Hugging a large branch, he lounged over it like a leopard. The blonde was practically underneath him now and stopped as though she was surveying the landscape. He wiped the mud on his shirt into his face as he peered down at her, well camouflaged.
“Sir, he’s gone,” she shouted. “I don’t know which direction he toddled off into. He could be anywhere.”
The other three stepped into Brock’s focus, peering through the trees, and Sighrus stepped up to her.
“Damn. Don’t worry, he’s not going to get far. Where is that helicopter anyway?”
“Regent’s Park, sir. That’s what came over the radio a minute ago.”
“It should be here! What the hell is it doing in Regent’s Park?”
“It’s not too far away, sir. We have an ETA of seven minutes.”
Sighrus yanked out his gun and Brock jerked back slightly. Sweat ran across his muddy forehead and he wiped his hand across it. He could feel the heat under his arms; the helicopter’s infrared would pick him up for sure. He was done for.
Sighrus aimed the gun at a grey squirrel eagerly clutching to a tree. He pulled the trigger and the bullet fired into it. It fell from the tree, blood oozing from its head. Sighrus popped the gun back into his pocket, snarling. “Oh, what a mess. He’s leaving us no option but to shoot him dead.”
“No problem!” shouted one of the men in black suits.
Brock noticed the men two wearing the black suits were very young, like lads. Probably little experience and too gun-happy for his liking. The blonde girl appeared very young too, more of a babyface. Likely a trainee of some sort. Whoever those people were, and whatever Brock was supposed to have done, he had a serious problem on his hands. His heart raced at the notion of the helicopter approaching the heath at any moment. The infrared would certainly pick him up dangling over the tree above them. He needed to move fast, although he knew he was trapped.
He monitored their blurry figures below, anticipating their moves, longing to slide down the tree and find a bridge to hide his warm body from the infrared. Unrealistic … he hated bridges and they set something off inside him. The figures remained still, chatting amongst themselves. Their voices became muffled, and he struggled to make them out. Then the figures blurred until they blended into the background and everything went black.
The rustling in the undergrowth became louder, and Brock’s eyes flew open, focusing down into the darkness at two
foxes attacking one another. Moments later, one of the foxes darted into the dark undergrowth and out of sight; the other grabbed the grey squirrel with his mouth.
Brock was still sprawled over the dark oak tree branch, his head resting comfortably on its bark. He must have blacked out, and for a moment he couldn’t remember why he was here. The fighting foxes had pulled him out of an unusual dream and he slumped further over the branch, bringing back to mind the picture of an old woman he didn’t recognise screaming at him to get out of the box. It was a reoccurring dream, and one that deeply disturbed him.
The mud on his face cracked and he slid down the tree. Darkness covered the landscape as he limped on through the thick, wet grass. A sharp sting penetrated his leg and he rubbed it with his hand. He was thirsty and he grabbed at a branch, pushing his mouth towards the leaves, suckling water from it. Coming to a clearing, something crossed his mind. He was so wrapped up in the events that had folded yesterday, he had forgotten entirely about Sarah.
Was she OK? Was she safe?
He leaned across the tree and spots of rain splashed his face. As a fugitive, he would immediately head to his apartment, grab what he required, and do one. He was truly on the run and saw no other option. Hurrying over a steep grassland, he ran his trembling hand over the side of his spinning head. He paused at a signboard at the top of the hill. The moon glimmered over it. He’d reached Parliament Hill, one of the highest points in the city. Two church spires and a tall transmitter sat in the distance. A lit-up, iconic view of London sat in front of him, Camden staring at him in the distance. A plane rumbled in the dark grey sky and he started to trot down the other side of the hill. Something crashed into him. It was a German Shepherd, throwing his wet muddy paws onto Brock’s chest. In the near distance, a man dressed in a blue tracksuit was sprinting after him. He had a prominent ponytail brushed to the side. Rain poured down and the man shouted at the dog, beckoning him over.
“I’m sorry about my dog. He’s a little excited.”
Brock Steele Sphere Page 6
