Pain

by Adam Southward

  Mia sucked in more cold air. She increased the pace. It didn’t help. Her nausea increased and her heart tried to push up through her throat. Swallowing hard, she stopped, holding on to a lamp post, drawing several deep breaths.

  A window of normality presented itself, her desire swirling back into the depths. She ducked into a store, grabbed chocolate and Coke, noted her cash supply was dwindling fast. Pausing on the street to shovel the calories into her body, she watched the bodies flowing by.

  An old woman with a stick. A patient, perhaps heading to the hospital, which loomed ahead. She crawled along, her ankles creaking, sending waves of pain up her legs into her back and shoulders. Her eyes were downcast, focused on the pavement, careful to ensure how each footstep was placed. Once down, there might be no getting up again.

  A young woman darted past. A doctor. Mia’s eyes were drawn to her legs. She dragged them towards the woman’s face, which was excited and stressed, the beginnings of sweat beading on her forehead. In a hurry somewhere, perhaps to a meeting with a boyfriend, a girlfriend. Mia wondered what that must be like, to have somebody rushing to meet you, so full of energy they ran and sweated just to see you.

  A group of young men sauntered past, three abreast. The one in the centre was confident, sure of his own standing among his peers, his swagger letting them know he was the alpha. Mia caught a whiff – a complicated mixture of adolescent scents – as they reached her. The boy on the left was shorter than the other two. He was uneasy, his face twisted with concern. What troubled him, Mia would never know. She wanted to reach out and tell him life was painful.

  The boys walked on and Mia sucked in a deep breath, necking the rest of her drink, throwing the can into a bin. She paused, looking left and right. What was her plan? She should use her time wisely. Would satiating her appetite now mean more time later? She doubted it. The regularity of her cravings was shot through. She couldn’t predict if she’d need five fixes this week or a hundred. Perhaps the next month could pass without the need to satisfy herself at all.

  Doubtful.

  But now, in the moment, Mia increased her pace, heading for the hospital entrance. While she had clarity, she’d pursue her goal. Cravings aside, distractions aside, she had an opportunity to make progress.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  London City Hospital. After leaving Grace’s, Alex had driven for an hour or so before finding himself alongside the huge building. He parked in a visitors’ space and sat for twenty minutes, his mind spinning.

  Grace was right and he was wrong. As usual. But his addiction ran far deeper than she knew. It was not something that could be ended with a few trips to one of his colleagues. Treatments for anxiety were wide, varied and usually successful, but dragging somebody off a lifetime benzo habit at the same time was a mammoth task, and that was even without taking into account the risk to his professional reputation if he was discovered. As a psychologist with a benzo addiction, he’d be finished. No more private clients, no more forensics for the police. If he was lucky, he’d get an assistant psych job in a hospital after he’d been clean for a couple of years. Until then his life would be over.

  Alex knew he wasn’t up to it. He wasn’t prepared. He couldn’t do it. Not now.

  He left the car and headed into the hospital with a vague idea of trying to clear his head. He’d screwed his personal life enough this week, but perhaps he could make progress in his professional life.

  The hospital was quieter at this time of the evening. Official visiting time was over and families were starting to leave. Alex had no particular destination in mind, but he wanted to get closer to his subject. Mia had stalked these corridors. She was inextricably linked with this hospital, against her will, and Alex needed to feel it, to breathe the air and smell the chemicals and odours of thousands of people’s lives. He wanted to hear the calls and the shouts, the hisses and the alarms.

  He stood in the centre of the emergency department and closed his eyes, taking a moment, willing his anxiety to settle. Give me a few hours, he thought to himself. Let me think. Let me focus.

  Alex started on the ground floor. After an hour he paused on floor five, finding a row of vending machines. He fished around for loose change, selecting a strong coffee, double sugar. It tasted as predicted but he sipped it anyway, wanting to stay alert. The alternative was to go home and drink, a not entirely undesirable prospect but one he wanted to avoid. He wanted to see how long he could resist.

  Would Dr Tau be back? Would he turn up as if nothing had happened, back to his surgical lists full of patients? Alex thought not, but Laurie and the police seemed unwilling to pursue him. There was something not quite right, but he didn’t want to push. He and Laurie had started off so well and it was her call. He needed to let her do her job.

  The coffee finished, Alex coasted along to the lifts. The corridor was quiet, the lift empty. He watched the buttons light up, listening to the awkward robotic voice announcing floor three.

  The doors opened and Alex shifted back. A young lady entered. She glanced at him but moved to one side. She was pretty, slim and athletic, but her face looked tired, stressed and pasty. Perhaps she’d spent too long on a visitor’s chair. Her shoulders drooped. Perhaps she’d lost somebody. Alex found his gaze on her dirty trainers, then her jeans and floral top.

  He stared at the floor, shifting his feet. They were aching and he stretched them, wincing as one of his tendons cramped in complaint. He sucked his breath in through his teeth, surprised when the woman next to him did the same.

  She didn’t turn, but Alex saw her shoulders tense.

  He stared at her hair – mid-brown, but the roots were starting to show; only just, but enough to reveal a lighter shade underneath.

  Alex stretched his leg again, feeling the pain from the cramp shoot from heel to calf, then disappear. He watched the woman’s body jerk at the same time. As she moved, her left sleeve shifted up to reveal what looked like a makeshift splint, as though she’d hurt her arm and tended to it herself.

  His heart skipped. Just one beat. It couldn’t be. He scanned her again: five foot six, maybe; slight frame; thin enough and in baggy clothes to blend in. Her skin olive, but her complexion hard to place. Mediterranean. Greek, perhaps.

  This woman had a purpose, a desperation about her, a furtive need for being here. Alex saw what he’d been trained to see over the past decades and the realisation hit him.

  She turned. Their eyes met. Hers were dark, piercing, staring through him, but they widened. She read him, seeing his discomfort.

  Before Alex could act, she lunged at him. A flash of her hand brought a knife to his neck. He thrashed out, his left hand hitting the panel. His fingers found a grip on the emergency alarm and he pulled it, causing the lift to shudder to a halt between floors.

  He brought his right arm up and their bodies tensed, her strength incredible, his fear causing his muscles to lock; he was unable to force her away. Time slowed as she allowed him to tire. His arm shook, trembling with the strain before it relented. She pinned him to the wall. He was hers.

  ‘Mia,’ he gasped, conscious the knife was now at his jugular. Her face was inches away, her eyes darting over him. She sniffed, catching his breath. Alex was mesmerised, despite his terror. It was Mia. This was their killer.

  ‘I’m not the police,’ he said. Mia didn’t answer. She continued to hold him, her weight pushing him against the cold metal of the lift. He smelled her musky body odour.

  ‘I know what you’re going through,’ he went on, digging deep to find calm in his voice. Would she kill him? Not unless he was in pain. Or would the knife see to that?

  She sniffed again, tilting her head, her eyes piercing then glazing over. An inner battle playing out. Which way would it go? Alex couldn’t risk a wrong move.

  ‘I know what they did to you,’ he said.

  Her eyes changed, growing wider. Surprise. Alex used it.

  ‘It’s not your fault.’ It was the statement every victim nee
ded to hear. Cliché, perhaps, but necessary and right. But would Mia acknowledge it? Would she know she was a victim? He saw her battle increase, her breathing become tense and irregular. Her eyes focused again and she stared at him for several seconds. Alex found himself locked in her gaze, a barrage of primal emotion emanating from her.

  Her shoulders finally sagged. She’d made her decision, whatever that might be. Hopefully, to let him live. She relaxed her grip and the knife fell away by a few inches, enough for Alex to breathe.

  She stared. Was she waiting for him to continue?

  ‘Are you one of them?’ she said. Her voice was thick and deep. Alex considered his reply. She was not here to make friends with those who’d abused her.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m hunting the people who did this to you.’

  She stepped back a fraction, but her eyes remained on him, narrow, untrusting. Why should she trust him? What could he say to make her believe him?

  ‘Where are they?’ she said. ‘Where can I find them?’ Her voice faltered. She was on the edge, Alex could see. The violence was masking grief, hurt and more. She shivered and her hand shook. The knife went to her side, but she kept her weight on Alex. He thought about trying to push her back but knew her size belied her strength. This woman was all muscle and was no doubt practised at using it. He wouldn’t stand a chance.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I know you were in a crash. I know they treated you here. They experimented on you, Mia, with illegal drugs in an illegal procedure. They made you what you are. Created your urges.’

  The hand came back up. The knife teetered, trembling by his throat.

  ‘What do you know about my urges?’ she said, her voice almost a whisper.

  Alex’s suspicions were confirmed. He was right. ‘The pain, Mia. I know you need pain. To feel it and watch it. You can sense it in others. I’m trying to help you.’

  But Mia shook her head. Stepping away from Alex, she leaned over and pressed the emergency button, silencing the alarm. The lift bounced back into action. The voice announced the ground floor.

  ‘What is your name?’ she asked, glancing at the doors as they opened. The corridor was empty. Shouldn’t the security guards come running when somebody hit the alarm?

  ‘Alex. Dr Alex Madison.’ He stared into her eyes, trying not to focus on the knife in her hand which had so recently been at his throat. She could have killed him; or worse, she could have done what she’d done to the others. Alex shivered at the thought but tried to look confident. He needed her to trust him. ‘I can help you,’ he repeated. ‘You won’t get in trouble. You’re sick. They did this to you.’

  She wavered. He saw it. The hand with the knife swayed outwards. She turned her head towards the corridor. Indecision was written all over her face.

  But it wasn’t enough. She shook her head, backing out of the lift. The sorrow in her eyes hollowed and she took a few laboured breaths.

  Then she turned and sprinted towards the exit. Alex remained in the lift. He considered shouting, calling 999 or the hospital reception.

  In the end he just stood there as the doors closed, catching his breath, feeling his heart thudding in his chest.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Alex. He’d said his name was Alex.

  Mia had gone to City Hospital without thinking it through. Her mind was murky and her actions clumsy. She had so little to go on. One last name and address in Dr King’s black book. What if it was a dead end? The name was listed as TK in bold italics, the address somewhere in east London. Quite a trek. What if it didn’t exist? That’s why she’d headed to the hospital, risky though it was. One more search, one more pacing of the corridors and wards. Another chance for her mind to give up the truth.

  The surgeons’ offices were beyond her now – guarded, out of bounds – but she might see a face, inhale a smell, trigger some other memory. She didn’t know what she’d find, but she had to look. And then she’d found him . . . Dr Madison.

  Her desire began to surge. She held it at bay, picking up her feet, dragging them forwards at a greater pace. Putting distance between herself and the hospital was important. Her appearance would need to change again too. Did she have time? Could she afford not to?

  Mia paused near a chemist’s. She checked her pockets and found twenty-five pounds and some loose change. Another packet of hair dye reduced it to twenty. A pair of long-sleeved blue tops at a cheap clothing store reduced it to ten. The floral top disappeared into a wheelie bin but the jeans stayed. She’d change her hair as soon as she got back to the warehouse.

  He’d said he understood. That he could help her. She trusted her instincts, but her mind was a mess.

  A doctor. Mia had sensed several things about the man while she held him against the wall of the lift. His face was open, honest, but he hid many secrets. One of them caused him anguish – a physical craving not unlike hers. She’d smelled it on him, seen it in his eyes, his expression. His breathing was shallow and his jaw muscles clenched a little too tight, not just because of her but also something else, some inner battle. Some inner pain.

  He’d said he could help her, but a doctor would say that. The doctors who’d turned her into this creature had probably thought the same thing.

  But he could be telling the truth. What if? What if Mia had found somebody on her side?

  Thirty minutes of fast walking and Mia reduced the pace. Sirens were ever present in central London. She never knew which were for her. Perhaps all of them. Perhaps none. She reached for a hood to tuck over her head, realised it wasn’t there and hunched over instead, traipsing one of the many familiar paths back towards safety.

  Dr Alex Madison. She repeated the name over and over. He wouldn’t be hard to find. Nobody was. A quick search on a library computer or in an Internet café. She could have stayed and talked to him. She had the upper hand, the knife, the strength. He was of reasonable build, but his muscles were honed for sitting at a desk – she could tell by the arch of his back and pelvis. She could have kept him in check while she questioned him.

  But then what? There was only one way a prolonged encounter would have ended. She’d done the right thing, the sensible thing. She’d think about it, mull it over.

  She’d visit the last address in the book. If it came to nothing, perhaps she’d pay Alex Madison a call.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The police sketch artist held up the picture and Alex nodded.

  The artist looked as though he wanted more. He was a huge man with thick fingers, more like a boxer than an artist. He held the small stub of pencil delicately, adding a little more shading to the eyebrows.

  ‘Yes,’ said Alex, not convinced it was accurate. The nose was too big and the cheeks too prominent. The woman in the lift, Mia Anastos, was prettier – chiselled and petite. He found himself nodding, however, reluctant to correct the picture. A part of him suddenly didn’t want the police to find Mia, not in their way. He thought he knew why but needed more time to mull it over.

  ‘You’re lucky,’ said Laurie, putting two coffees on the table. She sat next to him in the small conference room, stirring three sugars into the dark liquid while the artist packed up his kit and left. ‘We’ll get it circulated,’ she said. She smiled, waiting until the door had closed before speaking again. ‘So now we know what our monster looks like,’ she went on, sipping the coffee, waving her hand in front of her mouth to cool it.

  Alex watched her. She was under stress. He could read all the signs, not least of which was her apparent exhaustion. Her face, normally a mask of youthful glow, was pale and oily. The bags under her eyes were growing by the day. He wondered how much sleep she was getting.

  ‘She’s not a monster,’ he found himself saying. He picked up his own cup and studied the rim. Laurie remained silent and he glanced up, saw her watching him.

  ‘Mia Anastos has tortured, mutilated and murdered at least six people,’ said Laurie, her eyes wary, narrowing. ‘She is a monster, Alex. How could
you think otherwise?’

  Alex put his cup on the table, twisting it around in his hands. How could he explain this? Laurie was right, in a rudimentary fashion. To an outside observer, Mia was doing exactly what monsters did.

  Except there was a reason. And the reason was important. It separated her from the category the police and the justice system would no doubt put her into. Victor Lazar, the serial killer, had been described as a monster. In Alex’s eyes, he was an experiment.

  ‘She’s sick,’ he said.

  ‘You’re telling me,’ said Laurie.

  ‘She’s a product,’ continued Alex. ‘Before her drug treatment, before what they did to her, Mia was an ordinary citizen—’

  ‘She’s here illegally.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter.’

  ‘It doesn’t? Oh well, that’s good. I must have misheard the commissioner when she said an illegal immigrant murdering British citizens was a bad thing.’

  Alex paused, counting his breaths. He knew why Laurie was angry and frustrated. She had her job to do, but he had his. Stopping Mia wasn’t in question, but what they’d do with her when they’d done so suddenly was. ‘She’s an addict. We’ve never experienced anything like this before. She needs our help.’

  ‘That’s your theory,’ said Laurie, blurting it out. She looked as though she regretted it, her eyes darting down, but she didn’t take it back. ‘Alex, your contribution is valued. It is. But this woman is already a violent monster in the minds of all the people here trying to catch her, except perhaps in yours. We must catch her, put her on trial, lock her up and make sure she never does this again. You’ll be vital for the psych assessment as part of the case building. That’s what we’re paying you for. That’s what the justice system is supposed to do.’

  ‘What about the people who did this to her?’ said Alex. He was defensive, his voice raised. ‘Besides, locking up addicts, even normal ones, is the worst thing you can do, you all know that.’