Pain

by Adam Southward

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The Grosvenor House Hotel gave a pleasant view across Hyde Park, but the woman at the window leaned her forehead against the glass, letting her eyes lose focus. Her suitcase lay unopened at the end of the bed, her breakfast uneaten on the trolley.

  ‘How did you let it go this far?’ she said. There was brief silence on the other end of the phone. ‘Well?’

  The man’s voice was nervous, as well it should be. Forcing a visit in these circumstances, he knew he was treading on very thin ice. Once broken, he wouldn’t recover.

  ‘We didn’t anticipate it,’ he said.

  ‘You failed to,’ said the woman.

  ‘The expectation was very different.’

  She paused. ‘Tell me something useful.’

  More silence. She knew they were out of their depth. That’s why she was here. Her organisation did not tolerate screw-ups, and remediation would be swift.

  ‘Will it lead to us?’ she said, pushing herself away from the glass, staring down at her feet, frowning at a scuff on her left shoe. Valentino heels, purchased as part of her travelling expenses. She’d be forced to throw them away in a couple of days anyway, but still.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You sound sure. Why am I not convinced?’ She could almost feel the man’s anxiety seeping over the phone line.

  ‘I don’t see how it can. They’re making little progress.’

  ‘Yet. They will. The police are not stupid. Dr Madison is not a fool.’

  She could hear the man’s laboured breathing. ‘We’re watching him. What would you have us do?’

  Her turn to pause. Action at this point could be counterproductive. Her own history in this matter was fresh in her mind. The risk of exposure was high, but she had many means at her disposal to mitigate the damage. Better to watch and wait.

  ‘Be prepared to tidy this up,’ she said. ‘Get the teams in place. Do nothing until I tell you.’

  She hung up before the man had a chance to respond.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  A different entrance. Mia had the presence of mind to do that. Outpatients reception at City Hospital was quieter than the emergency entrance, the patients less urgent, the flow less manic. A waiting room overflowed with people queuing and complaining. Mia caught a whiff from a man nearby; he’d perched on an empty seat, a throbbing pain in his heavily plastered leg. Mia paused for a fraction of a second, enjoying the look on his face and the odour escaping in his sweat. She took a deep breath and hurried on.

  Deeper into the hospital, Mia stopped. An image of Clare’s body flashed into her mind. Mia shut it down quickly, swallowing and breathing. Her head was clearer, although the hunger surged and waned. It faded almost to nothing as she leaned against a cold wall, feeling the plaster on her palms. Closing her eyes, Mia let the relief wash over her. It would be temporary, it always was, but she’d take any respite she could get.

  Her eyes flicked open. It was a busy corridor, but nobody took any notice. Patients were wheeled by porters; visitors paced on mobile phones, reassuring distant loved ones; doctors and nurses hurried to their next location, lost in thought or deep in conversation.

  Mia was invisible again. The way she liked it.

  She paused, willing her mind to focus, listening to the sounds of the people flowing past. Hard shoes, soft shoes, crutches and wheelchairs. Squeaks of rubber and the rattle of metal. Sheets rustled against bodies and keys jangled on chains. She’d been here before; it was in her dreams. And not just any hospital – this one. It was there, somewhere, the recognition. Like a noose around her neck that wouldn’t tighten but wouldn’t let her go either.

  The nearby lift pinged. Mia jumped a little, unsettled, but stood immobile, letting it seep into her. A wheelchair creaked past, pushed by a porter. It entered the lift and the doors closed with a soft hiss. The sounds triggered something.

  Memories.

  She’d been here before. This corridor, or one just like it. This wasn’t a dream, this was real, and Mia was here.

  Her chances of finding anything were slim, but that wouldn’t stop her trying.

  Mia headed for the lift. It pinged its familiar sound. The surgical floor was on level two, and she crammed in with nine other people for the short lurch upwards.

  Head down, she exited, excusing herself past two men who seemed intent on brushing against her as she left. She was used to it. Perhaps in another life it would have bothered her. She’d have stopped and confronted the two men who thought it their right to violate her body and her space. But not today. Not in this life. Mia had a far more dangerous task to occupy her efforts.

  Day Surgery reception was quiet and controlled. No security, just a nurses’ station with three staff, hammering away at their keyboards. A quick glance to the left – stores, restroom and staff break room. To the right, prep and doors through to theatre. Straight ahead, the waiting area and recovery.

  Mia turned right, walking with the assumed confidence of somebody who should be there. She wasn’t challenged. Who’d want to be on a surgical ward unless they had to be? Pharmaceuticals were locked away in any hospital. There was little a normal person could do in such a place.

  But Mia wasn’t normal.

  She walked with purpose. It wasn’t clear in her head, but as she walked past the bays of patients being prepared for surgery, it became so simple.

  You’re looking for the surgeon, Mia. One, two, perhaps many. The people in your dreams and visions. This place was in her head. She hadn’t dreamt all of it. The faces and the situations were too visceral, too real, for it to be a fantasy. They could be anywhere in the world, she reasoned, but equally, they could be in London. They could be here. Right now.

  The double doors to the theatres were closed but not secured. Easy access to and from the ward was more important than preventing intruders. Mia waited for a break in the foot traffic and kicked one of the doors open, stepping through.

  Wary of challenge at any point, she scanned quickly. Five theatres were signposted to the right. She heard voices and the squeak of rubber soles. To the left was another set of double doors with a STAFF ONLY sign above them. Mia pushed through, finding herself in another short corridor, the smooth, blue-painted walls broken by the doors of individual offices, each with a silver nameplate.

  Mia checked the first, twisting the metal handle. It was locked, so she moved on to the next. Locked too. Frustrated, Mia wondered whether to turn back. Of course they’d lock their offices; they probably left personal belongings in here during their shifts.

  The third door, however, was unlocked. Mia turned the handle and the door creaked open. Seeing no light on inside, she slipped into the office, closing the door behind her.

  A spartan desk and worn leather chair. Two bookshelves and a smattering of reference books along with photo frames and an ornament of a wooden horse. The photos were of smiling children – Mia counted four – all posing for the camera.

  She moved to the desk and the closed laptop, opened it up and was presented with a log-in box. Username and password. Mia sighed. She thought about taking the laptop, but she’d still have no chance of seeing what was on it. She had no technical know-how or resources to extract information from a locked PC. She had no friends or colleagues to help her. She was on her own, and the laptop was useless.

  The other wall held a blue cupboard, metal, the kind used for files. Next to it was a wicker wastebasket – empty.

  Mia tugged the handle on the cupboard and it clicked open. It had three shelves. The top held a coffee mug and cafetière, along with three bags of ground coffee beans. Behind the coffee she saw a small bottle of vodka. It seemed that doctors were not immune to the temptations of ordinary folk. A small part of her smiled. The second shelf held more books and journals. The third shelf held a large plastic storage container. Pulling it out, her spirits rose a little when she saw piles of brown folders.

  Patient records, it seemed. Names, addresses, some diagnoses. Mia flicke
d through. Hip replacements, colorectal excisions, prostatectomies, breast excision and inguinal hernias. The files were all thin and light. Beyond the name of the form of surgery undertaken, there was nothing. Mia checked the names, twenty-five in all, but found none she recognised. None of the folders had Mia Anastos written on them.

  Mia placed the tub back on the shelf and closed the cupboard. There was nothing in this room. No hint or reason. Mia let out the breath she’d been holding and stepped back out into the corridor.

  The fourth office was locked.

  The fifth and last on this side of the corridor clicked open. Mia checked behind her and entered the room.

  It was dim, not dark, the blind on the window closed but letting in enough light for her to see her way around. This office was smaller than the last, with a single wooden desk by the window, a row of filing cabinets against one wall and a bookshelf on the other. A long black coat hung from a rack by the door, a briefcase and umbrella lay on the floor beneath.

  Mia moved around the desk, pushing the fake leather swivel chair to one side. She tapped the keyboard, bringing the monitor to life. She was presented with a log-in box asking for username, password and swipe card. Mia chewed her lip. She moved away from the desk and rummaged through the coat pockets. They were empty apart from an Oyster card – a London travel pass. She dropped it back into the pocket and frowned.

  Heaving the briefcase on to the desk, she checked the locks. Combination, three numbers on each side. Both locked.

  Mia thumped her fist on the case. The anger simmered: a mixture of frustration and despair. What was she doing here?

  The filing cabinets were next. Four in a row, all unlocked, the drawers sliding out with a greased ease. Mia flicked through dozens of brown folders, glancing at the names and numbers at the top of each one. More patient records.

  All Mia had were her dreams of the masked faces who had treated her. They had wheeled her somewhere on a hospital bed, she knew that for certain. And she had the subsequent visions – of being held under a bright light, the tug of her legs and abdomen, the concerned look on the face above her.

  Or was it concern? Mia closed her eyes and thought about the expression, so hard to gauge with half the person’s face covered by a surgical mask. In her dream, the experience was fragmented, flashing in and out of her vision, her consciousness. But in her waking analysis, it went on for hours. Mia had been subjected to treatment – surgery, she suspected.

  And then the darkness.

  If the answers lay anywhere, they must be here. In this hospital, somewhere, was a folder with the name Mia Anastos on the front.

  And in that folder would be written what they did to her.

  She searched through the open cabinets, checking every record. Like a needle in a haystack – Mia was aware of the ridiculous odds, but what other choice did she have? The last drawer slid open to reveal three black A4 folders and a few items on the floor of the tray.

  A loose envelope contained financial statements. Mia frowned. The name Nova AG Pharmaceuticals was stamped at the top. She placed the papers back in the envelope and into the drawer.

  A black book lay at the bottom. Mia picked it up and flicked through the first few pages. An address book, mostly empty. A few names and numbers entered throughout, no more than three or four, as far as Mia could read from her first scan. She sighed and dropped the address book back into the drawer.

  It clanged as it hit the metal, masking the sound of the door opening behind her. Too late, she spun around to find a man in the doorway.

  ‘What are you doing in here?’ He was tall, bald, stocky and red-faced. He wore an expensive-looking suit, no tie. He was staring at the filing cabinet behind Mia.

  ‘I said, what the hell are you doing? Those are confidential.’

  The man advanced into the small room. Mia tensed, her eyes darting to each side, instinctively looking for escape. The man appeared unsure what to do. He paused, opening his mouth to yell before closing it again.

  Their eyes met.

  His eyes widened then narrowed, but Mia saw it. She was practised at reading other people, her unnatural edge heightening her ability. Mia knew what the reaction meant. Autonomic, almost, recognition of a familiar face triggered a response that was impossible to hide in most people.

  The doctor knew who she was.

  Mia pounced. The surgeon was a large man, but Mia was experienced and he stood no chance. She grabbed a pen from the desk and leapt at him, stabbing her right arm in a wide arc so the pen dug deep into his shoulder muscle below the neck.

  The surgeon went down. His first cry was muffled by Mia’s other hand, silenced as she wedged her fist into his mouth. Leaving the pen where it was, embedded three inches into his neck, Mia forced her hand against his windpipe and her knee into his stomach, pushing against his diaphragm.

  He gasped, but the breath wouldn’t come. She pushed the air out of him and his body convulsed. Mia held him for thirty seconds, until he began to drift off. She risked letting go of him for long enough to jump up and kick the door shut, turning the lock from the inside.

  The surgeon started to move slowly, in pain. Blood gushed from his neck. It hadn’t hit an artery, but the wound was deep. It could be fixed, but Mia thought it best to leave it there.

  Taking the roll of tape from her bag, Mia made quick work of securing the man’s feet, arms and mouth. He barely had the strength to struggle, already in shock. Mia tasted the pain and licked her lips, feeling her urges surging from the depths. But she stopped it, summoning all the strength she had, and instead fixed her eyes on his, looking down at him.

  Fetching another pen from the desk, Mia straddled him.

  ‘I’m going to take the tape off your mouth,’ she whispered. Her voice stumbled and wavered, but she held the new pen an inch from his right eye.

  ‘If you scream, I’ll stab this pen through your eye. OK?’

  The surgeon’s eyes widened again, this time in panic. He did his best to nod, wincing and shuddering as the pen already in his neck shifted.

  Mia paused, allowing her heart rate to slow, forcing the desire away again. She wouldn’t be able to hold this for long. She peeled at the tape. It had stuck hard and ripped the skin, pulling bits of stubble with it. The surgeon’s mouth trembled. He licked his lips.

  ‘Wha— what?’ He tried to speak, his mouth swollen with panic.

  ‘You know me,’ said Mia, the revelation shocking her as much as the man on the floor in front of her. He knew her. Was this it? Was this the visit she’d hoped for all this time? Her eyes lit up with hope, but they died again when they met his. His were narrowing, shutting off. Mia knew what he was doing.

  ‘I don’t,’ the man said. ‘Please.’ His eyes were panicked, but the recognition was under control and he was lying, denying this miraculous moment.

  ‘Liar,’ she hissed. Mia leaned in, reaching for the pen embedded in his muscle. She gave it a push, left and right, trying to ignore the pleasure it gave her, trying instead to focus on the pain in his face.

  The surgeon shook and sweated. His eyes closed and Mia forced them open with her fingers.

  ‘If you lie, I will hurt you,’ said Mia. An easy threat from her, although she doubted he knew what she was capable of.

  The surgeon nodded again. It must have hurt, but he did it anyway. His eyes opened wider. What did Mia see? Sorrow? Regret?

  ‘I can’t help you,’ he said, coughing, the back of his throat filling with mucus. ‘I don’t know you. I’ve never seen you before.’

  Mia’s eyes filled with hurt, and she knew he saw it. But he didn’t waver.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he whispered, clamping his lips shut, closing his eyes again, perhaps anticipating what was to come. Or perhaps he hoped that was enough, that she’d leave and his ordeal would be over.

  Unfortunately for him, Mia had no intention of leaving.

  ‘Then this will be unpleasant,’ said Mia, re-taping his mouth, pushing it hard at the
edges against the sweat pouring from his face. She raised the pen, feeling the pain starting to seep from his body. She took a breath.

  ‘When you’re ready to talk,’ she said, ‘blink with your good eye.’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Alex’s head thumped as the Merc hit a pothole, making the wheel jerk to the left. He tried to concentrate on the road, keeping an eye on the satnav, heading for City Hospital.

  It took almost an hour to get across town and Alex’s hangover lifted a little as he raced through the morning traffic. He’d gone to bed early the night before after an apologetic exchange of text messages with Katie. She understood, she said, showing far more maturity than Alex could muster.

  John was OK, said Katie. Kind to her, and Mum seemed happy. Katie assured Alex that John wasn’t even round that often, but Mum had given her ‘the chat’ and explained they were more than friends. ‘Gross’, is how Katie had summarised the situation.

  Otherwise, Katie had long since come to terms with her parents’ break-up. It wasn’t news. She quickly moved on to other things – the holidays, the promise of a trip to the Italian lakes, without John, and the antics of her friends. Life at thirteen was just as busy and complicated as in your forties, Katie assured him. To that Alex could offer only a knowing smile, signing off for the night, promising to see her soon.

  City Hospital loomed ahead. Alex pulled up in a visitor’s space and waited in Outpatients reception as per his instructions. He wasn’t kept waiting for long.

  ‘Dr Madison.’ Detective Laurie appeared through a set of double doors marked STAFF ONLY. Her face opened in a warm smile. As before, she looked immaculate, in a crisp suit, her hair tied tightly back. Alex found himself feeling self-conscious, wondering, in his hung-over state, if he looked as bad as he felt. He returned the smile, shaking hands with her while attempting to smooth his shirt.

  ‘Alex, please,’ he said. ‘It’s great to see you again, Detective.’

  ‘Just Laurie. I ditched my first name in high school and the “detective” bit can get a bit wearing if we’re working this together.’