He needed evidence of their activities.
He unlocked the door and slipped through into the dark room. Flicking the light switch by the door, he was presented with an empty hospital bed and a range of standard equipment you might find in any NHS ward. The room, like his own, was windowless, but without the mirrored wall. The workbench to the side was clean and uncluttered. Alex opened the drawers and checked the cupboards, but they were empty.
Evidence of a sick bay? Evidence of a post-treatment room? Perhaps. It wasn’t enough.
Alex exited and kept walking. The sound of machinery grew louder and he paused, picking the next room at random, turning the lock and entering.
The same, except this time the bed had sheets on it. They were ruffled, stained in places with dark red and brown. Apart from that, the room was empty. Alex once again checked the cupboards and drawers. Not a single piece of paper. No documentation, nothing to indicate who had been in this room and why.
He peered at the sheets without touching them, aware he was putting himself at risk. A criminal pharma company might be experimenting or shipping toxic or biohazardous materials. If that was blood, it could be infected with Christ knows what.
He backed away and exited the room.
Reaching the end of the corridor, Alex approached the glass doors, which hissed open in front of him. He peered left and right. To the left, two white-coated women hunched over a hospital bed. They were some distance away, so Alex couldn’t see what they were doing, but the bed was occupied, the prone body covered with sheets. A drip hung above the bed, an ECG machine off the side.
Alex stepped back, out of sight, his heart hammering. A patient. An experiment? Was this one of the assets they were moving? He risked another peek. That was evidence right there, but he was dismayed to see a third person enter the corridor from a side room. A largish man in grey coveralls. He grabbed the end of the bed, pulling it along, away from Alex. The bed, the patient and the three persons disappeared through another set of glass doors.
Alex gave them thirty seconds before following. He crept along, conscious of his hard soles tapping on the lino floor, echoing off the walls. His eyes darted to the strip lighting and back to the endless doors – all identical: white, metal-framed with locks on the outside. The atmosphere unsettled him – his neck hairs stood on end as he realised why. During his clinical training he had spent several months in a secure psychiatric facility. Distinctly different from a normal hospital, the wards were quieter and more compartmentalised, with scores of secure rooms with metal doors, all locked from the outside. This place resembled one of those, down to the hardened security personnel and white-coated clinicians.
A psychiatric testing ward, in the middle of an east London industrial estate.
Alex tried another door. The room was identical to the others. Empty. No sheets. He tried another, then another. The next five looked as if they had been recently occupied, with dirty sheets ruffled, some on the floor. It disturbed him to see that three of the five beds had heavy restraints hanging at the sides. Worn-looking brown leather straps, including some for the head and torso. He shivered again. Evidence that this place was being used for live patient research. Without the proper licence and regulations, that was illegal enough to get it shut down.
He kept walking. He stumbled across two more doctors, both looking stressed, hurrying towards what Alex guessed was the exit, where the humming was loudest and the klaxon alarm could be heard.
The clock was ticking on this place; Alex could feel it. As soon as they realised he’d escaped, he had no doubt that the security protocol would kick in and he would be trapped inside.
One more door, he thought, then he’d have to try and find the exit, evidence or not.
He picked the last one on the corridor. The lock clicked open and the door hissed as he pushed it open. A new smell hit his nostrils in this one. Musty, sweaty. A very human smell. An occupied room.
Alex stared at the bed and held his breath as his heart jumped through his chest. A young woman lay there, her head, legs, arms and torso strapped down so she couldn’t move. Her eyes were open, blinking up at the ceiling.
Mia Anastos.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Mia heard the door open. This was it. She didn’t try to strain to see who it was. They were coming for her, and her life was over. They’d said so. Would they put her to sleep or let her experience it all? It would be karma, she guessed, given how many lives she’d taken. Strap the monster up and let it suffer. That wouldn’t be unfair. Nothing was fair in Mia’s world, and she knew what she was.
How much pain would there be?
How many ways were there of killing a human? Mia knew many and knew some were far quicker than others. It depended on your goal. She saw regret in Dr Tau, but his innate arrogance never left him. He still believed he was right, that what they were aiming for was worth it. It was a shame Mia had turned out this way, but it wouldn’t stop them. Would Tau watch to the end?
She heard a gasp. The door closed and footsteps approached the bed. Hard soles, not like the others. Was the woman back? Her Russian companion? Had they changed their minds?
The face leaning over hers was red, flustered and instantly recognisable. The eyes darted in horror and surprise. He whispered to her.
‘Mia,’ he said.
Dr Madison, she thought.
So he was involved. She’d read him wrong. At the hospital she could have sworn he was innocent, that he wanted to help her. Mia was never wrong about such things and the doubt hit her hard. Was he the executioner?
But his eyes confused her yet again. They spoke of empathy and innocence. He looked stressed and anxious, but not like Dr Tau. Dr Madison’s body language was more immediate, hurried. Mia closed her eyes, her thoughts in disarray.
‘Mia,’ he said again, ‘my name is Alex.’
Why tell me his name? she thought. Why should she care, if she had minutes or hours to live? Better to think of other things – her parents, her mum’s smile. What pleasant memories could Mia make surface that would distract her until the end?
‘Can you walk?’
The strap loosened around her head. The torso strap followed. Relief washed over her as her ankles were unshackled, the blood flowing beneath her skin. Her feet itched with heat.
Why did it matter if she could walk?
‘If I let you go, will you try to hurt me?’
Mia’s eyes snapped open. She turned her head, shifting on the bed to get a better look at Alex Madison.
What she saw wasn’t right. His clothes were messy and creased, his shirt untucked and his trousers grubby, a rip near the bottom near his shoe, which was scuffed and damaged. His face and hair were dirty and sweaty.
Mia peered closer. She sniffed. His right foot ached. Minor but noticeable. But Alex’s real trauma was hidden, mental and suppressed. He suffered inside; she could smell it on his breath. Not the raw pain Mia desired but a deeper, more complicated set of emotions and hurt. This man was troubled, and he was speaking the truth.
‘I won’t hurt you.’ Mia realised she meant it. Her first conclusion held – this man was on her side. Every part of his physical presence screamed it, and his eyes were the final confirmation.
Alex paused before reaching over and undoing the wrist straps. Mia waited for a moment before sitting, swinging her legs across the bed. Alex flinched but held his ground.
‘I’m also a captive,’ he said. ‘I escaped my room.’ He glanced at the walls and the door.
‘I doubt we have long,’ he said, peering at the huge picture of the storm on the wall. Mia jumped off the bed. Her feet were unsteady, shuffling on the floor.
‘Why?’ she said.
‘Why what?’
‘You’re a captive here. Why? Do you suffer from . . .?’
She watched his expression. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I’m not like you. I work with the police.’
Mia froze. Would she be trading one captor for another? If that w
as the choice, which was it to be? The people in this place had made their intentions clear. Death was the likely outcome. What would the police offer? Not death, certainly, but would incarceration be better or worse?
‘You’re arresting me?’
Mia knew she could overpower this man if she needed to. He was physically able and well proportioned. If Mia was so inclined, he’d be quite attractive. But he wasn’t strong or athletic. Not a fighting man.
He shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. He appeared to think about this, frowning, his eyes darting around the room. ‘I don’t think that’s the right thing,’ he said, almost to himself. It puzzled Mia. If he was working for the police, why didn’t he want her arrested?
‘Then what?’
Alex Madison stared at her. ‘I need to get you away from here,’ he said, ‘then I need to think.’
‘Away where?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Do you know this place? How to get out?’
Mia shook her head. ‘I think we’re at 121 Pickard Street,’ she offered. ‘Marshall’s industrial estate in east London.’ She’d memorised the address from the black book.
‘One twenty-one?’ said Alex. ‘I only had the street name. I didn’t see the numbers.’
‘You think we’re still there?’
Alex shrugged. ‘I hope so,’ he said.
Mia watched Alex. He withdrew into himself, pacing the small room, checking the door, even though there was no way of locking or unlocking it from the inside. Should she leave and take her chances? If she could get out of the building, she could go back to her warehouse, hide away until the heat died down, go back to normal . . .
The pain.
There was no normal, was there? The pain. The thought of it caused Mia’s eyelids to flutter. She remembered her experience on the bed. Her sore neck. The nerve pain and the pleasure that followed.
Her heart rate increased. Her body liked what her mind was doing. The thoughts triggering neurons triggering hormones triggering action. A chain reaction, unstoppable once it had started, like lighting some touchpaper. Stand back or get burned – the flash would be the last thing her victim ever saw.
Resist. Every fibre in her body screamed at her to resist. There would be time for pain – glorious, sensual pain – but not now. These precious minutes should be used for action of another kind. Escaping this place must be her priority. Giving in to her desires could wait. It must wait.
She walked to the door and opened it. Alex flinched again, darting behind her as she peered into the corridor.
‘Nobody here,’ she said. The faint alarms she’d heard while lying in the bed were more urgent, clearer and nearer. The corridor smelled fresh compared to the small room. She realised her odour was strong. It wasn’t long since she’d showered, but since then rivers of sweat and tears had flowed.
‘To the right,’ said Alex. ‘Let’s go.’
Exit, and trust this man. Mia’s mind was set, with one important caveat. If she lived to escape, she didn’t intend to hand herself over to the police. Alex Madison might offer to help, but Mia knew she could take better care of herself than any prison.
For now, Alex was an ally. Once they were out, perhaps not.
Mia led the way. Alex seemed to jump at every sound. She sympathised, to a limited extent. He didn’t have her experience of creeping along corridors like this, keeping to the shadows, listening for the telltale sounds of footsteps and breathing in the dark. Mia took several large strides before stopping, pausing, listening to the building. She waited for the sounds to become familiar and rhythmic. The klaxon could be ignored. The machinery too. Diesel engines roared, several individual ones revving at different rates. It was the human sounds she needed to listen for. They were varied, muffled by speakers and distorted by distance.
This part of the building was maze-like, the corridors in a grid. But it was quiet, and Mia saw the signs – it had been deserted. Hospital trolleys were parked against the wall, but scattered, out of line. She saw laptops, powered on, lids half closed. Alex kept pausing, checking the laptop screens, huffing when he didn’t find what he wanted.
Mia raced through another set of doors and stopped. This corridor was different from the others. On the left, the wall was white and unbroken, stretching towards a marked fire exit. On the right, however, was a glass observation window running the full length. A single door was positioned halfway along.
Mia put her hands against the glass and stared into what looked like a hospital ward. There were four beds in the ward, two of them empty. The third and fourth in the row were occupied. Between the beds stood a woman in a white coat. She was staring at a tablet, swiping at the screen.
The red lights in the ceiling continued to flash. Mia determined that they switched on at the same time as the klaxon sounded and ignored them. The alarm was sounding, but not for them. The building was frantic for some other reason.
She walked closer to the occupied beds, running her hands along the glass, tracing it with her fingers. The doctor was facing the other way.
‘The fire exit,’ said Alex, behind her. ‘Let’s go.’
Mia was about to turn when she saw the face of one of the patients. A young man with bushy blond hair and an ashen face turned his head towards the glass. He was in pain.
Mia sagged against the glass, leaning her forehead into it with a dull thump. She felt the sensation – her own pain, a quick shock through her head.
The man in the bed gulped and opened his mouth to speak. Mia saw his eyes and watched his body convulse with a full body wave of agony. His face contorted and his head snapped back on to the bed.
Mia’s knees wobbled as the tingling crept up her legs. She needed to see him, to get closer. She needed to touch him and caress him, push him and find the source of the pain. It was pure and wonderful.
‘Mia.’ Alex’s voice broke her reverie, but it was short-lived.
‘They’re in pain,’ she said, unable to keep her smile in check. ‘Him, over there. He needs . . . I need him. Let me see him.’
‘Mia.’ Alex placed his hand on her shoulder and she snapped around, grabbing his fingers. They crunched under her grip and he yelped. His pain shot up his wrists before he wriggled free. He backed away, putting his hands out in front of him. She hadn’t hurt him badly. She didn’t want to.
Mia knew she was sinking. She stared at Alex and shook her head. This was wrong, all wrong, but she couldn’t help it. The waves hit her and the surge of desire engulfed every limb. She turned to the door and kicked it open.
The doctor spun around on her feet. Her eyes widened in fear and darted to the wall. Mia saw a red alarm button above every bed. The doctor lunged for one but Mia was faster. She leapt at the woman, planting her fist into her chin with all her weight. The female doctor collapsed against an ECG machine, sending it clattering on to the floor. A hospital trolley overturned to her left, scattering scalpels and other steel implements. Out cold, the doctor remained prone on the tiled floor. Mia watched her for a second then crouched to pick up one of the scalpels. She held it tight, blade outwards. If the doctor woke, it would be her life. Better to stay down and stay asleep.
The patient angled his head towards her. Their eyes met and she saw understanding and acceptance. This man was dying. His pain was symptomatic of a deeper trauma. Mia pulled away the sheets and saw that the man’s chest had recently been opened and stitched back up again. A cruel fold of skin ran from his neck to his solar plexus. His entire ribcage had been cracked open and his torso damaged beyond repair.
‘What did they do to you?’ she whispered, watching his breathing. His lungs struggled; the left one seemed to have collapsed. His gut was distended and his skin clammy. Sepsis was setting in. Easily remedied in a facility like this, but they’d chosen not to. Why?
Mia’s hand hovered above his abdomen. His pain attacked her senses, like the finest meal placed in front of a starving mouth. She inhaled, twirling the flavour around her tongue, filling
her lungs with his agony.
‘Mia, please.’
Alex Madison had entered the glass room behind her. Distracted, Mia hadn’t seen him approach. She spun around, her arm hitting the bed as she did so. The scalpel in her hand jabbed inwards to her thigh and the sharp blade passed through her gown, digging deep into her skin.
She looked down. Pulling the scalpel out of her leg, she watched the blood darken the fabric. A small cut and clean, yet it created an alien sensation. A sensation rippling up her leg, causing her to shiver.
Pain. Small – a flutter, no more. But pain.
Mia looked at the scalpel. Its fine blade was clean, a few drops of blood blemishing the steel. She lifted it up, her mind whirring, spinning out of control. The man next to her groaned. His chest heaved as mucus became dislodged and caused his lungs to attempt to clear themselves.
Mia felt his pain, then she felt her own.
She pushed the blade back into her leg, below the other cut. A sharp scratch followed by a thundering ache. Her eyes watered at the pain and her jaw clenched.
Her pleasure centre went into overdrive.
Mia twisted the scalpel. The pain was intense, excruciating. She cried out, staggering back towards the wall. The blood gushed on to her hand over the handle of the knife as the rush of pleasure screamed through her nerve endings. Her body tingled and her vision sharpened, the colours deepening in contrast. Her ears popped and a rush of sounds hit them; she could hear her own heartbeat and that of the patient in the bed. His laboured breathing was like a howling wind, her own like the hurricane that followed.
Mia stabbed again. She pulled the knife out and moved it to her torso. The lower gut hurt – it always hurt in others. Mia needed to see how much it hurt on her own body.
Pain Page 25
