“Come in,” called a female voice from within.
The man, who had knocked, opened the door, and Joseph was escorted into the room.
An older woman sat behind a desk that was covered with tall piles of cardboard case files. She nodded to the two men, who dragged Joseph to a chair in front of the desk, and forced him to sit. Mrs Phillips smiled at the two men.
“Thank you. You can leave him with me, now.”
“Sorry, Ma’am, we were told not to let him out of our sight,” informed one of the suits.
“Well,” said Mrs Phillips, “we are on the seventh floor. There is only one door. So, if you two men position yourselves just outside, I really don’t think this gentleman will be going anywhere fast.”
The two Americans reluctantly left the room, closing the door heavily behind them. Mrs Phillips peered at Joseph from between two of the cardboard file towers rising from her desk.
“So, Mr Friday, it seems you’ve been making a bit of a nuisance of yourself.”
Joseph simply stared at her.
“Why do you have American security guards?” he asked.
“Oh, that’s because of this Presidential visit to the hospital. They’re CIA.”
“President Harrington is coming here?” Joseph asked.
“Yes,” the woman said, “tomorrow,” she smiled, “I’m Martha Phillips… I work with Sarah.”
Joseph jerked his head up.
“Where is she? No one will tell me where she is.”
“She’s away at the moment,” said Martha.
“Away where?” Joseph insisted.
“That isn’t what’s important at the moment. What is important are your MRI results. I’m afraid, Mr Friday… sorry, may I call you Tom?” Joseph nodded. “… I’m afraid, Tom, that there are some anomalies in the images of your brain.”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, it means that you may be experiencing some form of cognitive distortion… confusion? Tom, have you experienced anything you can’t account for recently?”
Joseph laughed almost uncontrollably.
“You’ve got to be joking! Have I experienced anything?… Have I experienced anything?… It’s all a complete fuck up!”
“Please, Tom, try and remain calm,” Martha said, “I know this is extremely disturbing for you, but you are in safe hands, and we are going to help you. You see, Tom, this is quite common, and I’ve seen it many times. When you take the amount of cocaine you took, over such an extended period, there is a good chance that your brain will react and physically change. It’s those changes that are causing these… experiences. What you must hold on to is the fact that they are not real. I know it all seems totally real, but in your condition you cannot trust anything you see or hear.”
“Does that include you?” Joseph asked.
Martha laughed.
“Well, the condition hasn’t diminished your sense of humour.”
“I wasn’t making a joke.”
Joseph stared dispassionately at the surgeon.
“I guess,” said Martha, “it’s a catch twenty-two situation. Everything you see and hear seems real even if it’s confusing, and you must trust that it is… it really is… a delusion. However, to believe that, you need to believe me, and… I appear in that delusion.”
“Sounds like I’m fucked, then, doctor.”
Martha laughed again, but not unkindly.
“Well, that’s a very colourful way to put it, but not very helpful. Unfortunately, the only way out of this is to latch onto the truth and let that lead you out of the delusion. Now, I’m telling you that I’m the truth, but you have no way to verify that. You might latch onto something else, but if that turns out to be part of the delusion, then it will only take you further into it. It’s a very tricky situation.”
“No kidding!?” said Joseph.
“There are some drugs we can give you that might help, but basically I need to keep talking to you until you trust that I am reality and you choose to follow me.”
There was a knock at the door. Martha called out.
“Not now, please not now!”
The door opened slowly and a head peered around it. Joseph’s stomach flipped a number of times. Standing in the doorway, wearing a white doctor’s coat, was Tilda.
“Ah, there you are, Sarah,” said Martha.
Sarah smiled at Joseph.
“Hi, Tom,” she said.
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Chapter 30
Sarah moved into the room and took the chair next to Joseph.
“How are you?” she asked, and placed her hand on his leg. “We’ve been really worried about you after you jumped out of the MRI scanner and went missing.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“You don’t remember?” asked Sarah.
“Remember what?”
Martha cut in.
“Sarah,” Martha raised her hand, “Tom’s very confused at the moment. It will take some time for him to come to understand what’s been happening.”
“What are you talking about?” shouted Joseph.
Sarah patted his leg and spoke softly.
“Do you remember coming in for the MRI scan?” Sarah asked. Joseph nodded. “And what do you remember after that?”
Joseph looked away towards the window.
“Listen, Tom,” continued Sarah, “during the scan you suddenly jumped up and ran out. Do you remember that? We’ve been looking for you since then.”
“How long have you been looking for me?” asked Joseph.
“Errm…” Sarah looked at her watch, “about six hours.”
“Six hours! Is that all?” said Joseph.
“I think so,” Sarah said re-checking her watch and time calculation.
Joseph got up and gently paced the room. Sarah reacted, but Martha signalled to her to let him have some space.
“Okay,” Joseph said, “I need to get some things straight.”
“What do you want to know?” asked Martha.
“So…” Joseph said positioning himself with his back hard against a wall, “what’s the date today?”
“July twelfth,” answered Martha.
“And the President is coming to England tomorrow?” said Joseph. Sarah and Martha nodded. “… And what about Berlin? Was there a shooting in Berlin?”
“Yes,” said Sarah, “do you remember Preston? The artist that we went to see with Taylor and Mona? Do you remember?”
Joseph looked at her quizzically.
“Yes?” said Joseph.
“Mona went out to Germany to visit him.” Sarah bit her lip. “They were in the café where the shooting happened.”
“What!?” Joseph reacted.
“Preston got killed,” said Sarah.
“What!?” Joseph repeated. “Is Mona all right?”
“Yes, she’s all right,” said Sarah, “but she did get injured.” Joseph looked at her questioningly. “She hurt her leg.”
Joseph stared hard at Sarah. He shook his head vigorously.
“Fuck… fuck… fuck!” Joseph shouted.
The door opened, and one of the Americans’ heads appeared.
“No,” said Martha, and waved her hand calmingly, “we’re fine. It’s fine.”
The door closed. The two women looked at Joseph with compassion and patience. Joseph made his hands into fists.
“So… I am Tom?” he said.
“Yes,” said Sarah, “of course you’re Tom. Who did you think you were?”
Joseph rubbed his face with both hands and closed his eyes.
“I thought… I thought… oh, fuck… I thought I was a… British intelligence agent called Joseph… Joseph Miller.”
The two women smiled.
“Oh, Tom… Sweetheart, you’re back with us now,” said Sarah.
“Oh my god! I’ve been in such a head-fuck. Sarah, you wouldn’t believe the stuff I’ve been going through.” He laughed. “I thought y
ou were a double-agent working for the CIA… and you were my wife!” His face straightened into tense shock. “My god… oh my god!”
“What?” asked Sarah.
“I was going to…” he said.
“You were going to, what?” Sarah probed.
Tom shook his head.
“No, no… nothing…”
“Anyway,” said Martha, “I think that’s enough for now. You’ll need to stay with us for a while. We’ve got a nice bed for you.”
Tom’s face relaxed.
“Unfortunately,” continued Martha, “we don’t have any single rooms. So, you’ll have some bedfellows.” Tom stared at Martha. “What is it!?”
“Nothing,” Tom said.
Martha went to the door and knocked gently. The door opened.
“Okay, gentlemen,” she said to the two Americans, “we’re fine now. We’re going to take him to his room.”
“We need to come with you, Ma’am.”
“No, really, that won’t be necessary,” she said.
“Sorry, Ma’am, we have our orders.”
“Well just stay out of the way, please. I don’t want him stressed.”
Sarah, Martha and Tom left the room and started down the corridor. The two Americans followed a few paces behind. They took a left turn at a sign indicating directions to the Lincoln Ward. A voice called to them from behind. They stopped and turned around. A figure was making progress towards them, but her movement was slowed by a limp in her left leg.
“Sherry!” whispered Joseph.
He looked at Martha, then Sarah. Both looked shocked. He twisted his head back to the approaching woman and the two suited Americans.
“You bastards!” he screamed.
Joseph shot a hand out to the women on each side of him, knocking them with force into the corridor’s walls, then ran. He could hear the foot-falls of the two Americans in fast pursuit. This time they would not get the chance to catch him up and over-power him. This time he was determined to get away.
Joseph may have been impeded by Tom’s out-of-condition body, but it was still being commanded by Joseph’s razor-sharp mind. Using brain rather than brawn, Joseph found it easy to lose the muscle-bound CIA agents. Once he was sure he had lost them, he made his way to Morrison’s room. He peered through the glass of the double doors. The corridor was empty. He pushed the doors open, and quietly progressed towards the room. He opened the door slowly, and looked in. Sitting around the bed were two people; an old woman, greatly diminished by time, and a middle-aged man in an expensive suit. They looked up at Joseph. Their eyes appeared sad and confused, but beyond that, there was a distinct feeling of intrusion; that Joseph was intruding upon them.
“What do you want?” the middle-aged man said.
His voice was filled with the sadness of vanquished anger. Joseph moved his gaze to the bed. A very old man lay asleep between the sheets. He had an oxygen mask attached to his face, and a spaghetti of tubes descending from drip-stands on both sides of him.
“Sorry!” said Joseph, and backed out of the room.
He checked the plastic number screwed to the outside face of the door; seven-seven-seven. He pushed the door open again, and was faced by the same three people he had seen a moment before.
“What do you want?” the middle-aged man said in total anguish.
“I’m looking for a friend,” said Joseph.
The old woman croaked into life with a near death voice.
“You have the wrong room,” she said, “my husband’s here,” she looked at the man in the bed with deep compassion and longing. “He’s still here,” she took his hand and rubbed the limp digits, “aren’t you my love.”
“My friend was in room seven-seven-seven,” said Joseph. “Isn’t this room seven-seven-seven?”
“Yes,” responded the middle aged man, “so your friend must be somewhere else. Now, please, can you leave us alone… please.”
“I’m sorry,” Joseph said gently, then indicated the man in the bed, “how long has he been in this room?”
The woman started to weep quietly and kissed the old man’s almost lifeless hand.
“About two weeks,” the middle-aged man said. His eyes moistened, then a single tear rolled onto his cheek, “but I don’t think we’ll be here much longer.”
Joseph backed out of the room and closed the door.
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Chapter 31
It appeared that Martha was right; he couldn’t trust anything he saw or heard, but he also seemed indisputably right; he was fucked. The dilemma in front of him, accepting that Martha’s diagnosis was correct was, is he a middle-aged, depressed photographer called Tom with a serious cocaine hangover, or was he an MI6 assassin called Joseph, messed up by some CIA experimental drugs, who was the last hope for a free society? The responsibility of making the right choice between these diametrically different realities was almost more than he could bear. But even if he simply buried his head in the sand, the repercussions of his inaction could be immense. ‘We can ignore reality, but we cannot ignore the consequences of ignoring reality’.
Joseph had reached the end of the corridor. As he put his hand on the double doors, a noise beyond caused him to stop. He looked through the glass. Two suited men were emerging from a room on the landing next to the store room where he had incarcerated the doctor earlier. They chatted animatedly, both sporting strong American accents. One of them locked the cupboard door and pushed it hard before the two disappeared down the stairs.
Joseph slid through the double doors and tried the handle on the cupboard. He put his shoulder to the door and pushed hard. It didn’t budge. He pulled a bunch of assorted keys from his pocket and wondered if the CIA agent from whom he had snatched them during the scuffle on the stairs, had noticed their absence yet. He tried a number of keys in the lock. The third slid in easily and turned silently. Joseph stepped inside. He fumbled for the light switch. A single bulb illuminated the small room. In one corner was a trestle table with a coffee machine bubbling away. Next to the machine was a column of polystyrene cups, a bowl of sugar sachets and a carton of milk. In the opposite corner was a large metal cabinet. Joseph tried it. It wasn’t locked. Inside was a forest of assorted firearms. Joseph selected a Beretta and an extra clip. He placed the clip into his pocket and the gun into his waistband. He then moved his hands to the rifles, and chose a Remington M40A5 with a night vision scope.
As he turned to leave, he noticed a clipboard on one of the four chairs lining the back wall. Joseph picked it up. It appeared to be a plan of the hospital’s ground floor. It showed a backdoor to the lobby with an arrow pointing inwards and the word, ‘Cashier’, written in pencil. A further pencil-line snaked around the back of the lobby and ended at an internal door. Under the serpentine line was written ’12:30’. Joseph opened the door carefully and checked the landing, then made his way up the stairs towards the roof. He found a store room on the top floor that was full of dusty equipment, and found a spot at the back where he could hide himself. He sat down and placed the rifle across his legs.
He had spent the last thirteen years taking out the trash to keep society clean. This was no different. It was simply a bigger trashcan. A quote of Edmund Burke’s floated into his addled brain. He remembered it from university. It was one of the most profoundly simple things he had ever heard, yet it still motivated him when he was at his most doubting. ‘All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing’.
He was under no illusion that this was probably going to be a suicide mission, and prayed that there were others out there that would take his lead as the rats came out of the woodwork. But this moment might not come again, and he was the only one left to do it. Joseph was now in no doubt that it had to be done.
A large rat tentatively meandered towards him in a self-assured frontal approach. The two garbage-disposers eyed each other with tense respect. Joseph carefully picked up his rifle. The rat
backed up a little, but seemed genuinely intrigued by the action. Joseph then slumped and closed his eyes, but kept them open enough to monitor the progress of the inquisitive rodent. The rat took its time, but eventually couldn’t resist an investigation. It stepped into the safe ground between them, that it had so carefully preserved for so long, and moved closer to Joseph. In a lightening move, Joseph slammed the butt of the rifle onto the rat, crushing it out of existence with a forlorn crunch. He picked the animal up by the tail. It hung centimetres from his face, swinging lifelessly. Joseph placed it carefully into his pocket.
At three o’clock the next morning, Joseph emerged from his hiding place, leaving the Remington hidden under some exercise mats. He made his way down the staircase to the ground floor. All the lights in the hospital were dimmed to a half-glow in deference to the early hour of the day. The shadowy atmosphere helped him move around with less chance of detection, but it also affected him emotionally; it was calming and quietening, in the opposite way that bright fairground or casino illuminations excite and energise.
He walked across the near empty lobby unnoticed. On the far side he found the entry point that Harrington would use, as indicated on the plan. He pushed the door open and peered into the darkness. The door opened onto a service road at the back of the hospital. Lining the side of the road, both to the left and right, were commercial skips overflowing with large, black rubbish bags.
Joseph closed the door and set the stopwatch function on his watch, then walked at a presidential pace along the route he had seen indicated, to the internal door at the other end of the lobby. Ninety seconds. He would have ninety seconds to pull the trigger.
He looked around. The lobby was open, airy and two stories high. A ring of offices ran around the space at the second floor level forming a gallery that looked down on the reception area below. Although all the lights were dimmed, one row of offices was in total darkness. He climbed the stairs to the gallery, and made his way along the walkway, then slipped out of the half-light into the blackness he had seen from below. None of the office doors were locked, and as he checked each in turn, it became evident that this unlit array was not in use. Joseph judged by the thickness of the dust, which covered the contents of these workspaces in undisturbed sheets, that they had been unused and unloved for a considerable time. However, each office was packed full of large, black plastic bags, and these had no dust on them at all. Joseph was intrigued and pulled one of the bags open to see what mysterious contents lay within. He discovered that it was simply paper; reams and reams of waste paper.
If The Bed Falls In Page 25
