Slowly and very stiffly, Khaos pulled off the oxygen mask and sat up, rubbing her arms and neck and stretching her back, wincing at her body’s aches from days of laying still. She gazed bemusedly at the wrist on her left arm, examining the tattoo which she had heard being discussed; a small, black design in a sort of circular shape, but she had no recollection of getting it or of its significance. Not that that was unexpected. Her back itched, and when she reached to scratch it, she felt strange bumps under her skin, running in two lines down her shoulder blades. Before she had time to ponder this, the booming voice assaulted her ears once more.
‘Khaos! You must leave this place immediately! Get up at once!’
The voice echoed around her head, like a thunder clap, and she instinctively covered her ears, wishing it was not so loud.
There is not a moment to lose! Stand up’
Where was the voice coming from? She looked around the room but could see no one, and as the voice continued to shout, she realised it was not actually registering in her ears at all, but seemed to be directly in her head.
‘Who are you?’ she whispered, her throat aching from under-use.
‘That’s not important right now. Right now you have to get up and leave this place!’
‘What’s the hurry?’ Khaos muttered as she swung her legs slowly down from the bed to the floor.
‘This is a bad place for you to be. You are being kept prisoner here.’
‘It’s a hospital. They are trying to help me.’ Khaos explained, thinking the voice was mistaken somehow.
‘They are keeping you here. You see that needle in your arm? It’s a pentobarbitone. You are being sedated.’
‘But that’s ridiculous! The doctor and the detective who was just here said they want me to wake up! They wouldn’t deliberately keep me unconscious!’
‘They didn’t do this.’
‘The nurses? But they wouldn’t…’ Then she thought of the nurse who had soothed her and held her hand earlier. Now that she was thinking more clearly about it, it had been a little out of the ordinary. The nurses didn’t normally touch her hands and talk like that.‘How long has this been going on?’
‘You really were comatose until twenty four hours ago. Someone in this hospital does not want you to wake up. So you must leave now, in the night, now that you are awake. Because if the nurse finds you, you will be sedated again. And if the doctor finds you, you will be confined to a real prison cell.’
‘Why? What have I done?’ She remembered what the officer had said, about the fire and the missing man. But she had no recollection of any of that, surely, she hadn’t had anything to do with it? She was innocent, wasn’t she?
‘You have done nothing but make the world a better place. But they won’t see it that way. Now come on, we have to get out of here!’
‘Who are “they?”’
‘Never mind now! Stand up!’ The voice commanded. Khaos tested her weight on her legs, and after leaning on the edge of the bed for support, managed to stand up, though she was still a little bit hunched. She wrenched the needle out of her hand and hobbled to the door. Trying the handle, she found it was unlocked, but as she went to leave, she felt something else ping out of her arm, and realised she had forgotten the heart rate monitor, which was now making a much louder and more persistent bleeping noise.
‘You have set off the alarm! Get out of there now!’
In a panic, she dashed out the door, and found herself in a long, scrubbed corridor lined with doors, probably containing other patients. At one end of the corridor she could see small signs, and a plain white door with a small plaque on it, but both were too far away to be readable. At the other end was a grey painted door with a metal press-down handle and a green exit sign above.
‘The fire exit?’ she asked. But even as she said this, she heard a click, and the plain door at the other end opened. Nurses came rushing out, and after staring at her in surprise for a split second, began charging toward her, shouting to her not to move.
‘Run!’
Khaos skidded to the fire exit barefoot, realising too late as she slammed the bar down and shoved open the door, that she was only wearing a plastic, backless, hospital-issue nightgown. She had no time to worry about that now, she would have to brave the cold night air regardless. She skidded and slid down a winding metal stairwell, light but persistent rain soaking her hair and gown, her poor bare feet thumping on the cold wet steel. In her haste, she slipped and fell forwards down the last few stairs, landing heavily on her hands and knees on the unforgiving tarmac below.
‘Get up! You have to get up!’ the voice boomed in her head. Adrenaline coursed through her veins and she forced herself up and began running, the palms of her hands and her knees throbbing with pain. She turned a corner and found herself in a large car park, empty except for a few unoccupied, dark-windowed cars. Surrounding the park was a tall metal fence, a double gate on one side that had a padlock so large and heavy duty that she could see it from a distance. Through the drizzling rain she could see the lights of nearby buildings in the distance, and on one side of the fence were a few shabby trees attempting to grow in the urban jungle. She knew that the nurses were not far behind her, and could faintly still hear the alarm that she had set off. She had literally seconds to figure out what to do next.
‘Where now?’ she gasped, fighting for breath. Then, at the edge of her vision, she saw a movement in the darkness. Certain her eyes were tricking her, she turned to see what had moved. Something shifted blurrily, in the air, just above the tops of the trees. It was almost like a cloud, but denser, darker. Faster. It almost looked like the night sky itself was moving like the surface of water, and a large piece of it was coming toward her at an alarming speed. It surely couldn’t be real, but no matter how much she blinked and squinted her eyes, it kept coming. At first she could only make out a blur of movement, but when it was merely seconds away from her it took the form of a horse, a black winged horse, charging out of the night. It thumped down on the tarmac, surely too large and too black to be real, and stood just a metre away, staring at her expectantly.
‘Master.’
She was sure she had heard it speak, but in her disorientation it may have just been neighing. She had no time to find out, and no choice but to run toward it, as the doctor’s and nurses’ shouts could be heard very close behind her. As she approached the horse, it seemed to know what was expected of it, for the next thing Khaos knew, it knelt down on its front legs and let her clamber aboard. With a few easy strides it took off, Khaos clutching at clumps of its mane. She clamped her eyes firmly shut and clenched her teeth in abject fear as it lurched up into the moonlight sky.
CHAPTER FOUR
The black horse creature (so strange she did not know what to call it) flew silently through the night, huge wings spread out like two dark blankets. Huddled on the horse’s back, arms around its neck, was an exhausted Khaos, slipping in and out of consciousness in disturbed, restless dreams. Around her shoulders was a large, rough cloak that seemed to be made of some sort of animal skin; thick black fur on one side, and tough leather on the other. It had been slung around the horse’s shoulders, and the horse had told Khaos to wear it. Or at least, it had made a whinnying noise that had sounded very much like that.
They had been flying for a long time in the pitch dark, in complete silence. Khaos was still distressed at the prospect of being aboard a horse which had literally materialised in front of her own eyes, from the air, and she was all too aware that apart from said horse, there was nothing between her and the cold night air whooshing past. Thankfully, she was too tired and disorientated to worry too much about her current situation; she was just glad that she was warm, and for the moment did not have to run anywhere.
She drifted in and out of sleep, sometimes dreaming, sometimes not. Once she was falling, and jerked into consciousness. Then she was underwater, drowning, she could feel herself choking. Again, she woke herself up. Then her head nodded forw
ard and she dreamt again, briefly, of someone stroking her hair, soft hands soothing her, and she was sobbing. ‘It’s alright. God has a plan for you,’ a gentle voice kept reassuring. Then she jolted and was awake again, still on the back of the horse. That time she might have been asleep hours or minutes, it was hard to tell, as there was nothing to see except the horse’s sturdy back, shoulders and neck, flying rhythmically forwards, and the dark, wispy clouds slipping slowly by. This time she forced herself to stay awake, as the sleep she was briefly getting was doing her no good. She thought twice about speaking to the horse, as she was beginning to wonder if it had really spoken at all.It had not said anything in a very long time. But then again, she was sitting on its back flying through the air. What with everything else that had happened to her recently, she decided to take a chance, crazy or no, and ask the horse where they were going. But how do you address a horse? Especially an apparently magical one? She leaned forward, resting her hands on itsmane, to get as close to its ears as possible.
‘Erm… Mr horse?’ she whispered.
‘Master, you are awake?’ That deep, breathy voice again. ‘You should try to rest. You will need it.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘You’ll find out soon enough.’
Apparently this was all the explanation she was getting, as the horse did not elaborate. She tried to take its advice, but it was hard to getcomfortable sitting upright on its back, and she was afraid she would fall off. Moreover, she wondered how long they would be flying for, as it seemed to have been a very long time. She decided to trouble the horse once more.
‘How much further is it?’
‘It is far. But you only notice the time passing because you are still thinking like a mortal. Don’t worry, that will change.’ This response only served to confuse her more.Wwhat did it mean, “think like a mortal?” What would change? Was she was not mortal? She really wanted to ask more but the horse really didn’t mince his words. She almost wished the booming voice was back in her head to explainthings to her, despite the headaches it gave her. But it remained silent, as if dormant. Idly, she touched the smalltattoo on her wrist again, tracing the strange little design with her fingertips. Her eyes began to droop again, and she drifted off once more, into a troubled, exhausted slumber.
Detective Inspector Heel sat at her desk, one hand supporting her head, deep in thought. Behind her was a whiteboard papered with dozens of photographs, newspaper clippings and hand written notes, arrows and dotted lines connecting them like a poorly repaired fishing net. The photographs were a mixture of gruesome images of death; one woman, four men, so badly burned you could just about make out their gender by what was left of their hair and clothes, or what was left of them. So many images, all from different angles,;each separate piece of evidence photographed, from sooty hand prints to damaged pieces of furniture, a footprint (bare.) Next to the gruesome images were mug shots of apparently normal people. It was like the most extreme before and after photographs ever.
Just below the whiteboard was a small shelf, partially obscured by a newspaper clipping hanging down, but if you had a keen eye for police decoration, you would recognise the framed silver medal with the red, blue and grey ribbon as the Queen’s Police Medal. Next to it in the frame was a newspaper clipping, ‘Police stitch up the Stitcher’ written boldly at the top, and in smaller bold, beneath, ‘D I Heel awarded QPR for gallantry.’ In the photograph, Heel held up her medal, her red hair neatly styled for the picture, not in a messy ponytail like it was now. Although it was a recent photograph, something in her smile made her seem younger, more easy going than she was now.
Heel’s desk was covered in paper, open files with the contents spread everywhere; more photographs, newspaper clippings, books of law, her computer was somewhere amongst the jumble. But in her hands were two pieces of paper that totally engrossed her. One was an email printout; a report with a picture at the bottom, the other was a close-up photograph of a tattoo. She looked from one to the other repeatedly. The picture on the print-out was a woodcut of a sleeping figure, three cups sitting untouched by the figure’s side. Two ambiguous hands reached down from above, offering another cup. It was clear the figure was supposed to be asleep, but to Heel it looked more as though he or she was indifferent to the surroundings.
W this picture as a guide, suddenly the symbols depicted in the tattoo had some meaning. At first they were seven meaningless squiggles, but on closer inspection… three ‘u’ shapes, at the bottom, two hands, and another ‘u’ shape at the top, with some imagination, they could be cups… and in the middle circled by the other images, a face. It was clear. In fact, the more Detective Heel stared at it, the more obvious it became. In fact, it even bore the same expression of indifference…Detective Heel looked at the text above the woodcut. ‘Four of cups’ it read. The image was a tarot card. The report went on to explain that “this particular card represented the deadly sin Sloth: feelings of apathy and indifference, leading to inwardness and withdrawal from the world. Almost as if the person depicted in the card would rather sleep their life away than reach out and take the opportunities or ‘gifts’ life has to offer. Detective Heel looked off into the distance for a moment, mulling over this information, considering its relevance. On one hand, it was just a tattoo, and to the untrained eye it meant nothing, merely an unusual little image. Millions of people had tattoos, with no further meaning to them except that they liked the design. You couldn’t really identify someone, generally, by their choice of tattoo. She thought of the Stitcher. The West London Stitcher was the last criminal Detective Heel had put away. A psychopath, with a fondness for stitching his victim’s mouths shut after he had violently raped and murdered them. Yet he had, she remembered, a daffy duck tattoo on his forearm. What relevance did that have to his character or his crimes?This strange tattoo was a depiction of apathy, of sloth. Was it a coincidence that the wearer of this tattoo was in a coma? Then something else occurred to the detective. The victims… they were all addicts, weren’t they? You could say that they were apathetic in their outlook on life, spending all their time and energy getting high? Letting their real lives pass them by, letting their bodies waste away, while they slept heroin dreams… even Patrick Begby, the missing dealer, was rumoured to be a junkie himself.‘This tattoo could be some sort of mark of a cult or something,’ Heel muttered to herself. Sloth. The deadly sins. They were part of the Christian faith, weren’t they? There was sloth, envy, pride… she couldn’t remember the others. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw someone familiar in the corridor, passing by her office.‘Chief? That you?’ She called out.The figure turned and popped his head round her door. Chief Superintendent Maldon, her superior. A time-hardened policeman who had put away more criminals than there were wrinkles on his kind but craggy face. Some of her colleagues said he had a sharp tongue, but he had never shown this side to Heel. He had always been quite soft on her, in a fatherly sort of way. It might have been because he was an old guy with good manners. Or it might have been because he was a little afraid of Heel himself.
‘You alright Heel?’‘Chief, what are the seven deadly sins?’‘Uh, let’s see,’ He scratched his stubbly chin thoughtfully. ‘Sleepy, Dopey, Bashful…. Grumpy?’ He smiled comically, a twinkle in his eye.‘Envy, Sloth, Pride, Lust, Angst, Gluttony, Greed?’ said another voice behind the Chief. It turned out to be Constable Donahue, Heel’s assistant on this case. A younger, overly-keen officer with a permanent expression of concern on his large face.‘You watch too many American thrillers, Donahue,’ the chief chuckled, ducking back into the corridor. RELIGION. The word appeared in Heel’s head in capital letters. Was this some sort of religious killing spree? Murder in the name of some sort of holy justice? She could not count how many times she had come across or heard about killers convinced that they were doing the work of a god of some sort. And it would make sense, in some twisted way, to kill off people who wasted their lives anyway.So what relevance did the nameless comatose girl have?
It was no coincidence that this tattoo was on her arm. She must know something at least. Heel knew , in her bones, that the girlwas more than just a witness. Those burns she had been admitted with, that had mysteriously disappeared, they must have been faked, it was the only explanation. Still, there were pieces missing. She needed more information, more clues. She needed to talk to that girl.‘Heel, got something interesting there?’ said a voice from beside her desk that broke through her concentration. She looked up, realizing Constable Donahue was still in the office, standing by her desk andwatching her.‘If, by ‘interesting’ you mean ‘mind boggling’, then yes,’ she said dismissively, putting the two pieces of paper back in her in tray. ‘Prepare for your mind to be further boggled, then.’ ‘What have you got for me?’ she eyed a numbered evidence pouch in his hand. ‘This just got back from the lab,’ began Constable Donahue. ‘Test results say it contains protein, calcium, various minerals…’‘Is this the dust sample from Begby’s house?’ asked Detective Heel, taking the white, powdery sample and eying it carefully.‘Sure is. And, well, I, uh, I don’t know how to tell you this…’‘What? What is it?’‘Well, it sounds crazy, but, have you ever heard of, uh, atomic vaporization?’ he said hesitantly.Heel’s freckled brow furrowed. ‘Vaporization? What, you mean…’‘Yes, when someone or something has literally been reduced to dust?’‘That surely isn’t possible…’‘According to the lab guys, if someone is fried at an intense heat, they can be so badly burnt that their whole body, every cell, disintegrates into dust particles.’‘In science fiction films, maybe.’‘According to the lab guys, it can happen in extreme circumstances.’‘So what are they saying this stuff is, then?’‘Well, we’ve run this stuff through the DNA bank, and…’ the Constable gulped, as if struggling to put into words what he was trying to say. ‘Well, we have reason, and considerable evidence to believe, that, well, Patrick Begby may not be missing after all.’‘What are you saying?’ realisation suddenly dawned. ‘This is him?!’ She held up the bag in disbelief.‘It’s a perfect match against Begby’s DNA. And this stuff is all over his living room; every surface was coated with it.’They were interrupted, suddenly, by Detectives Heel’s phone ringing. In a daze at this sudden new information, she picked it up hesitantly.‘Detective Heel speaking.’ She tried to sound pleasant and normal, but it was a struggle. She was silent then, listening for several minutes, when her face suddenly changed from mild confusion to utter disbelief. ‘What do you mean, she’s gone?! Where did she go?’
Khaos Page 2
