Cecil’s room was small, containing a metal-framed bed, a white chest of drawers and a faux-leather chair. The brown carpet was thin, threadbare at the centre. An old TV was perched at an angle on the chest of drawers, switched on but with the volume muted. The channel was set to twenty-four-hour news. Mia watched the reporter for a moment before turning to the door. She closed it, realised it didn’t lock from the inside, and pushed the heavy chair across the doorway instead.
Cecil remained quiet, even more so when Mia pulled the roll of tape from her bag and sealed his lips together. He tried to speak, a faint groan radiating from his throat.
Bracing herself, Mia wedged one foot under one of the wheels and lifted the arms of the chair as high as she could. Cecil was skin and bone and fell out of the chair easily, hitting the floor in a ball, rolling on to his side. His eyes darted up in shock but Mia was on him in a second, straddling the small body, shifting him on to his back.
‘Cecil,’ she whispered, bringing her face close to his. ‘Look at me, Cecil.’
His eyes welled with tears. The fear was already overwhelming him and he sucked, drawing air through his nose, shaking as Mia rested her face on his. She breathed in the pain, stroking his skin, absorbing the moisture.
She leaned back and set to work with ruthless efficiency. His chest was the source of the pain, so she bunched a fist and pushed it into his solar plexus, jerking it against the bottom of his ribcage.
It hit the spot, causing a convulsion so strong Mia’s body responded with an orgasmic shudder, the pleasure taking her whole body. She gyrated, her hips forcing her weight forward and back, her arm pushing harder into his chest, forcing his breath out, forcing the pain to reach unfathomable heights.
Mia rocked in pure bliss. The suffering of this body in front of her no longer mattered. It was a tool, a necessary cog in Mia’s clockwork existence. She basked in every sensation seeping from what little life the man had left.
He held out for a surprisingly long time. A subtle shift in her pleasure signalled the end, then it stopped abruptly. Glancing down, she saw that Cecil had passed out.
Mia took a few moments to breathe. The after-effects would soon be with her, but she clung to the last remnants of pleasure as her body sweated and shivered.
She stood. Cecil was gone. Nearly dead. She doubted if he’d wake from this and wondered if it mattered if he did.
She always finished off her prey. Self-preservation, as a rule, but also to ensure closure. These bodies – their last moment of pain was hers and hers alone. It wasn’t a trophy; she wasn’t crazy. But it was hers. She needed to ensure these people’s pain stopped for them when it did for her, that their lips were sealed for ever.
It was the only way she could do it. The only way she knew how.
Monsters didn’t need to explain.
This time, as Mia stared at the old man, she knew he’d be dead by the evening. He couldn’t suck enough air into his lungs to keep them functioning. Without knowing why, she left him on the floor and moved the heavy chair, stumbling with the dizziness that had arrived promptly and wouldn’t now leave her for hours.
She left the care home, along the stone path and through the squeaky gate, without meeting the nurse or anyone else. Was she being careless? Was it intentional? Did she want them to find Cecil and give chase? Dead or alive, they’d do it anyway.
Mia walked away. She stopped after a mile or so, resting on a park bench, shivering as she plummeted into the near-darkness.
An hour, maybe more. Mia let her body recover slowly as the terror retreated. What now? She hadn’t achieved what she’d set out to do – she’d been full of the hunt, full of questions, but distracted by her primitive needs.
She needed to keep searching. Follow the scant information she had and find them. What other route could she take? She could leave. Run and hide herself in the maze of roads and buildings. But then what? She could find Dr Madison, hand herself in, allow herself to be shackled and tested, prodded and humiliated. He had said he wanted to help. Could he help? Could anybody help her, such as she was? Dr Madison was honest, he spoke the truth, yet Mia needed to find her own answers. That night in the surgeon’s office had opened up the box she’d had closed since she first woke on the streets. It gave her hope that the answers would be out there. If she found them, if she knew what had happened to herself and her parents, perhaps then she would go to the friendly doctor. Perhaps then she would accept help and whatever came her way. It could be over. She could rest in peace.
Mia forced herself up. The road was quiet and cars drifted past her. She knew which direction to head in but struggled to move. Her high had been extreme and her subsequent low reflected it. She staggered and struggled not to vomit, the bile sloshing in her stomach, the nerves biting with every step. It was all she could do not to curl into a ball at the side of the road and howl.
Digging deep, Mia found the energy to keep walking. She knew she was being foolish. Even if she found the address, cornered somebody, what could she do to them?
Ask for the answers, Mia. That’s all you want.
Mia trudged, eyes down, not paying attention to the road or the further thinning of traffic as she left the shopping streets. If she had, she might have heard the van earlier. As it was, the soft drone of the engine behind her continued for half a mile or more before she realised.
By the time she noticed, the vehicle had stopped at the kerb and two men had climbed out.
A black Transit van. New and shiny, with a sliding door on the side. Open. The driver moved fast, blocking the path ahead. He was tall and stocky, dressed in black trousers and jumper. Mia spun on her feet to find a second man blocking her retreat. He wore similar clothing, this time in grey and black, and large boots. The men’s faces were stony and alert, far more so than Mia. Her vision jumped and danced. She staggered back and found herself against a wall. Blocked in on all sides, her only exit was the van and the open door.
The driver pulled out a mobile phone and held it up. Mia heard the sound of a picture being taken. They both waited. Mia tensed, readying her legs for a sprint she knew she couldn’t do. Panic gripped her at the edges. The need to escape overwhelmed every other sensation.
Her eyes darted to the driver as his phone pinged. He glanced at the screen then nodded to his colleague, who reached behind his back and drew something from his belt.
Mia’s heart jumped when she saw the long black barrel of a pistol.
‘Wait!’ she said, her voice sticking in her throat. It couldn’t end here. Why here? She’d had no closure, no answers. These men had no right.
But he didn’t wait. He raised his arm, pointed the gun at Mia’s chest and fired. The gun made a dull pop and she felt as though she’d been hit in the chest with a golf ball. She raised her hand and found a feathered dart stuck deep into her skin. She tried to pull it out, but her hands felt powerless and weak. She couldn’t grasp it and it slipped through her fingers.
She floated instantly, her head drifting above her body as the ground came up to meet her. She was vaguely aware of the men approaching as the light flickered out and her eyes closed. She never felt the rest.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
White. All white. Mia’s eyes struggled to focus, the brightness dazzling. She closed her eyes and tried again. Blinking away the tears, she tried to move her head but found it stuck. Pressure on her forehead suggested she was restrained. When she tried to raise her hand she heard the squeak of leather. Her arm moved six inches, no more.
Her panic reflex was subdued, her reactions dumbed, but her mind chugged with the realisation of what had happened.
Drugged.
Captured.
The white ceiling tiles were broken by lights every other tile. Harsh but unavoidable. Mia swallowed, clearing her throat. She tensed her muscles, testing her movements. Her legs were also restrained and the bed rattled. A distant humming broke the silence: an industrial drone vibrating through the bed.
‘S
he’s awake.’ A voice to her left. The sound of a laptop being closed and a drawer being opened. The voice was steady, not calm but in control.
‘Are they ready?’ Another voice, this time from behind her head. Mia tried to arch her neck backwards but her head wouldn’t budge.
‘I think so. I’m not sure.’
‘Then find out.’
Mia held her tongue, but she watched and listened. The occupants of the room shuffled, their footsteps squeaking on the floor. She heard a door open and close, a lock clicking into place and a hiss of air.
She tried to move towards the sound but her whole body was strapped tight. Her eyes flooded with tears. The dizziness circled but seemed to hold off, perhaps because she was lying down. Her bladder needed emptying. She held it, feeling the discomfort in her belly.
Her head was pushed to the left, the strap was loosened and her neck felt light and free. She moved her head, feeling the ache. The room was smaller than she’d thought and resembled a private hospital room, clinical and bare, with artificial light and no windows she could see. To the left was a trolley holding several devices – an ECG and an EEG. A syringe pump and a stand for a drip. None of them seemed to be connected to her.
To her right, her gaze fell on a man. Standing, dressed in a white coat over a shirt and tie. His face was clear and instantly recognisable. It triggered a wave of emotion, flashbacks of sights and sounds. She smelled the bleach and the blood, felt the vibrations of the hospital bed and the bang of the doors against it.
The scar.
Below the man’s right eye, pink and raised, it flashed like the bolt of lightning from her dream. This was him. This was the masked man who had gazed at her while she lay helpless and injured.
‘I . . .’ The words wouldn’t come. She saw the man’s eyes dart past her, to the left and right, then back to her face. He tried to smile but it was a mixture of complex emotions.
‘You know me,’ she said, seeing it as clearly as she’d seen in the last doctor she’d killed. But this time she was shackled and powerless. She couldn’t attack this man; she was at his mercy. Terrified.
The scarred doctor folded his arms, leaning over the bed, studying Mia. His face was stern but not altogether hostile. Mia sensed confusion.
‘You remember me?’ The surgeon spoke perfect English – cultured, British. Mia watched the scar on his cheek. It wasn’t a dream this time. She really was lying on a bed with him staring at her, minus the mask.
‘Yes,’ said Mia again, finding her wits. Her voice was hoarse and she cleared her throat.
‘Can we get some water?’ said the doctor. More footsteps, and another man came into view. Mia didn’t recognise him. He helped support her head and held a tumbler with a straw to Mia’s mouth. She drank the warm water until it was gone, licking her lips.
‘I was captured,’ said Mia. ‘I—’
The scarred doctor ignored her, his eyes avoiding hers, instead looking at other parts of her face and body. He was examining her. Mia’s heart sped up. She watched his eyes and his face. The doctor appeared tired, his clammy skin furrowed and pale. He huffed as he moved, fidgeting with his hands.
‘Bloods?’ he said to his colleague.
His colleague paused. Mia heard a drawing-in of breath. ‘Results just in. They are . . . unexpected.’
‘How so?’
Another pause. ‘Should we discuss in front of the subject?’
The scarred doctor glanced at Mia’s face. He frowned. ‘Put her out then.’
A scratch. More darkness.
It was impossible to judge time. Mia came round, staring at the ceiling of the same room, which appeared to be empty apart from her. The head restraint had been left off, so she strained her neck, glancing around at the sterile white. She could see the door, solid with a small pane of glass woven with metal. Large rubber seals surrounded the frame.
Her bladder felt ready to burst. Whatever their plans for her, it didn’t seem to involve basic comforts, and Mia’s heart jumped again. Was this it? Would her search end with no answers, nothing but this white room? Prison would be no worse than this. Should she have trusted Dr Madison?
A click and a hiss at the door. Mia watched it open and two people enter. A man, large with a bald head. He wore a suit, not a white coat. Next to him was a woman, young and dark-haired with olive skin. Her eyes were full of intrigue. They both watched Mia, keeping their distance from the bed.
The man said something. Heavily accented, another language. Mia thought it might be Russian; the consonants were harsh. The woman responded in similar tongue. She shook her head, speaking in a language Mia didn’t understand before approaching the bed.
She put her hand to Mia’s head and gently smoothed her hair.
Mia watched the woman. Was she friend or foe? She found her voice. ‘My name is Mia,’ she said.
‘I know who you are,’ the woman said.
‘Who are you?’
The woman smiled. Mia detected sorrow in it, a deep maturity suggesting that this young woman had lived and seen things Mia could never understand. She frowned.
‘That, I’m afraid, you cannot know,’ said the woman, ‘but I’m interested. Please . . .’ She leaned over, her fragrance wafting over Mia, a mixture of perfume and her natural odour. She gazed into Mia’s eyes, her face no more than a foot away.
‘Can you tell me?’ she said. ‘What do you feel? What do you sense?’
Mia was confused. She studied the woman’s face. She had no pain, no discomfort. Her face was closed and her eyes held many secrets, an agenda she would never share with Mia. Mia shook her head. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
The woman’s eyes narrowed. ‘I think you do,’ she said. ‘Look harder.’
Mia watched and read the woman’s body language as best she could. The woman was furtive and her expressions controlled. She was as practised at hiding her emotions as Mia was at reading them. In the absence of pain, Mia could see very little. Why did it matter?
The woman straightened up, reaching into her pocket. She pulled out a small folding knife. Mia tensed, her fists balling. She couldn’t move.
‘What about now?’ said the woman, extending the knife and sticking the point into her own fingertip. She grimaced as she held the knife there for a second. Blood dripped on to the floor. The man passed her a tissue.
Mia barely registered his movements. Her focus was on the pain.
The finger throbbed, sending a shock wave of pain up the woman’s arm. It registered with a pulse and sent a myriad of reactions through her body. Mia responded automatically, tensing her shoulders and drawing in huge, deep breaths. The sluggish fog at the back of her mind departed as a rush of pleasure hit her. She smiled, enjoying the morsel thrown to her. Her mouth filled with saliva and she swallowed, desperate for more.
But the woman’s expression changed. She turned to the man and they exchanged a few words in their language. He shook his head. They seemed to disagree. The woman shrugged before turning back to Mia. She looked sad. Her pain was dissipating and Mia felt it being torn away from her. This woman was teasing her, testing her.
‘They want to start treatment,’ the man said, this time in English.
The woman tilted her head. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘but not yet.’
They both turned and headed for the door.
‘Wait,’ said Mia. ‘You can’t . . .’
The door closed and hissed, a lock clicking into place. Mia was alone.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Alex waved his patient out of the door of his office and paused next to the water cooler. He could have done with something stronger but resisted. It was eleven a.m. He’d already had one Xanax and two cups of coffee – a non-addict might have concluded that the caffeine cancelled out the Xanax, but Alex knew better. The Xanax quelled the rising anxiety always present first thing on waking. The coffee came later, when the anxiety had subsided and he needed a stimulant. Alex had had many years of practice at this, and hi
s body chemistry management was down to a fine art.
Except, of course, lately he’d needed more and was mixing it with way too much alcohol. Mikey was right. Grace was right. Alex was slipping, on the edge of a precipice, the bottom of which he knew very well from his countless patients over the years.
He’d just closed the door on somebody who could easily be him. Generalised anxiety progressing to crippling panic attacks and agoraphobia to the point where it stopped him functioning. The patient who’d just left had lost his job and was fast en route to losing his family. It could so easily be Alex.
He drained a cup of ice-cold water. Forty-eight hours since he’d seen Mia Anastos in the lift at City Hospital. The flurry of activity following his description had faded. The CCTV was poor and the witnesses were unreliable. Mia had left the hospital and disappeared like she always did, blending in with a city of close to ten million people with ease. The police were frustrated and Laurie seemed distant, distracted by other cases and the demands of her superiors.
He’d thought about Laurie a lot. He already missed their daily encounters, her sarcasm and obvious buried troubles. He wondered when they might go out for that drink, but didn’t want to push it. Keen was attractive, obsessive was not.
What he couldn’t stop were the feelings that Laurie set off. Even if he could manage to date her without screwing it up, he couldn’t fathom how he’d deal with Grace and Katie. He knew it was his problem, not theirs. Grace had already moved on, but he knew she still had feelings for him. If he moved on too, then it would be final, an admission that it was OK for both of them. It would make Grace think he was ready, that he’d given up on her.
The thoughts spiralled and he couldn’t concentrate. Without thinking, he picked up the phone.
‘Alex.’ Grace’s usually warm voice sounded strained. She hadn’t forgotten his last visit. He had hoped it would blow over. Wishful thinking.
Pain Page 20
