by A J Waines
A few scraps of conversation floated my way. I could hear the professor’s guttural tones, ‘No…I’m not having this…’ His voice lowered. ‘…there has to be another way.’
‘No – listen, Anton, it can’t be as bad as that…’ came another male voice. This second voice sounded vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place it. There seemed to be just two of them.
I didn’t catch the next part. Then there was arguing. I was trying to tune in to what they were saying, but my mind was side-tracked into figuring out what I’d do if one them shot out suddenly and caught me loitering.
‘…well – re-check the results!’ yelled the professor, suddenly raising his voice.
I spun towards the noticeboard and pretended to read a flyer just as he strode out into the corridor. He came so close to me that the air in his wake sent the hairs prickling on the back of my neck. I dreaded hearing the footsteps stop short and the sound of my name being called, but he seemed to keep moving. I made myself wait until he’d turned the corner before I scuttled back to the stairs. I had no idea whether he’d seen me or not.
Just before I got back to my own office, Debbie came out of nowhere, charging towards me.
‘I’ve just had a phone call,’ she said, out of breath, her face puckered.
‘No – no – please…’ I muttered, begging her not to tell me what I felt for certain was coming.
She winced, gritting her teeth, seemingly not knowing where to start.
‘Is it Conrad Noble?’ I said, snatching her arm.
She shook her head. ‘No – not him,’ she said, her shoulders lifting and falling fast.
I pressed my palms together. ‘Terry Masters?’ I said, putting her out of her misery.
‘I’m afraid so…’ She sighed. ‘You knew…?’
‘It’s following a very nasty pattern,’ I said. ‘What happened?’
Debbie clutched her forehead. ‘He was found in an industrial waste bin in Soho, he’d—’
I didn’t hear the rest of it. I had to race along the corridor and only just made it to the bathroom. I threw up over the sink inside the door. Thankfully there was no one else in there. I slammed open a cubicle door with my foot, lowered the toilet seat and sat on it, my hands holding my head.
Moments later I heard the sound of footsteps and a creaky hinge.
‘Sam? It’s Debbie – you okay?’
‘No – not really,’ I moaned.
She tapped the door and it swung towards me. ‘You have to know this isn’t your fault,’ she said, squatting down in front of me. ‘I spoke to Professor Schneider and he said this happens sometimes. Clusters of people all in one place do this kind of thing from time to time. He said there’s a village in Wales where, in just over a year, seventeen teenagers killed themselves – they blamed it on social networking sites…’
She was doing her best and I was grateful to her for trying.
‘Yeah,’ I said, getting to my feet with a wobble.
I realised my physical reaction had been as much to do with relief that it wasn’t Con they’d found, as the horror of Terry ending his life in a rubbish bin.
‘What a place to die,’ I said. It sounded stupid, as if anywhere was a good place.
‘Do you need to go home?’ she said quietly.
‘No,’ I hissed, splashing water roughly on my face. I was angry and fired up. ‘Was it definitely suicide?’
‘An overdose. That’s what the police said, but I imagine there’ll be a postmortem and so on.’
‘No doubt they’ll want to speak to me again.’
I rested my arms on the sink and stared at my reflection in the mirror. ‘I can’t believe it – another one.’ I scrubbed my face dry with the paper towel and hurled it in the bin.
I’d had enough of this madness. ‘Where’s Leo Hansson?’
Before I reached his office I tried Miranda again. Con still hadn’t shown up. I made no headway on his mobile, either.
‘Dr Hansson is not seeing anyone,’ Lian called out from her desk, as she spotted me bursting through the doors of the Burns and Plastic Surgery Unit.
‘I don’t care. I need to speak to him.’
She rose ready to block my path, but didn’t advance when she saw how determined I was. I stormed past her and flung open Leo’s door. There was no sound or movement and it took me a few seconds to get accustomed to the darkness. Only then did I realise Leo was sitting behind his desk. Without any lights on and the blinds down, he’d become nothing but a sketchy charcoal shadow.
‘What are you doing?’ I cried out. I leant forward and switched on his desk lamp. As soon as the space around him was flooded with light, I realised he was holding a picture frame. He propped it on the desk facing away from me, but I knew from my previous visit what it was. A photograph of his dying wife.
‘Leo – I’m sorry to intrude, but—’
‘It’s okay,’ he said graciously. ‘It must be important.’
‘It is,’ I blurted. ‘Another one of my patients has just killed himself. The one I told you about.’
‘No…what happened?’ he said, taking his hand to his forehead.
‘I don’t know the details, but he was found this morning in a waste bin, in Soho.’
‘Oh Lord,’ he said, getting to his feet. In the lamplight the creases in his forehead looked like savage cuts.
‘I don’t know what to do. My patients are killing themselves! And now my boyfriend is—’
He came to the front of his desk and perched against it. ‘I’m as perplexed as you are.’
‘Are you?’ I said. I took a seat without waiting for an offer. ‘We’ve got a dire situation here and I desperately need your help.’ I fought the urge to reach out and grab his hand. ‘I think this is about mind-control, some kind of brainwashing.’
He looked lost for words.
I went on to explain. ‘I think someone has forced these four patients to believe they were involved in scenes from a book.’
I took the paperback out of my bag, but hid it behind my back. I wanted to watch his face. I felt an undoubted attachment to Leo, but with so many unanswered questions darting around in my brain, I wasn’t ruling anyone out.
‘Terror Underground,’ I said. ‘Have you read it?’ I brought the book out into the light to show him the cover, scanning his features for a reaction. He seemed genuinely baffled.
‘I don’t understand…’ he whispered.
‘The experiences of three of my patients: Jane, Jake and Terry exactly replicate sections from this book,’ I said, tapping the cover. ‘I can show you the pages. You can see for yourself.’
He puffed out his cheeks. I flicked through to the appropriate section and held the book out to him. ‘I think they were deliberately led to believe they were involved in this incident and as a result they’re seriously traumatised. Read it.’
I watched him scan the words and turn the page. His perplexed expression didn’t shift. When he didn’t speak, I carried on. ‘I’m convinced they must have been put through some mind-altering experience in the last few weeks.’
His eyes flashed wide. ‘What kind of experience?’
‘I’ve no idea, but it’s something very clever – and deadly.’ He handed back the book looking vacant.
I expected him to tell me I was being ridiculous and order me to calm down, but he didn’t, so I carried on.
‘There’s a link between all four of them,’ I affirmed. ‘They all had injuries and needed treatment in this hospital. Three of them came to see you.’
I banged my fist down on his desk in exasperation.
‘Was there anything unusual about their visits at all? Can you remember? When did you last see them?’
‘You said there were four of them.’
‘Yes – there’s one we haven’t discussed. Con –Conrad Noble – he’s my boyfriend.’
‘Okay…let me check.’
Leo went behind his desk and pulled out a drawer in the filing cabinet, managing to find the files h
e wanted in spite of the limited light. He started rifling through.
‘I saw all of them in the last few weeks – except Terry of course – he was never my patient. We had the usual consultations.’ He tapped the page. ‘None of them required further treatment.’
‘Who could be doing this, Leo? You’ve been at the hospital for years, now. Who might it be?’ He stared at me as if I’d asked him to recite a poem in Russian.
‘But it’s not my field—’ he muttered, looking lost.
‘Is there anyone we can speak to who knows about mind-control?’ I asked urgently. ‘You must know people.’
‘Right. Okay,’ he said, shaking himself into action. ‘I’ll get on to it straight away. Leave it with me.’
‘This is my mobile number,’ I said. ‘Please call me as soon as you find something.’
My jaw clenched. ‘There’s something else.’ I didn’t want to hear myself say the ill-fated words. ‘Con has disappeared.’
‘Disappeared?’
‘Yes – I’ve had him more or less under house arrest since he started getting flashbacks, but he’s slipped through the net and I can’t find him.’ I stood up, but my legs didn’t feel strong enough to support me. Tears burned behind my eyes. He leapt towards me. There was an awkward moment when he looked like he was going to wrap himself around me, but he gently guided me back into the chair, instead.
‘We’ll find him…we’ll find him.’
‘But, even if we find him, what can we do? We don’t know what we’re up against.’
‘I’ll find out. I’ll call people. Experts. Leave it to me.’
He walked behind my seat and laid his hands on my shoulders sending a wild shiver right to the base of the spine, as if his touch had magical powers. He proceeded to rub his thumbs into the knots in my muscles, finding exactly the right spot, making me gasp.
I sank back. Leo was going to help. It was as though his fingers were pressing reassurances deep into my skin. He’d know what to do. He’d know where to look, who to ask and he’d help me save Con. Everything was going to be all right.
‘I’d better go,’ I said breaking away, acutely conscious of the intimacy between us.
Lian happened to be paying an inordinate amount of attention to the parlour palm just inside her open door, as I passed by. She watched me leave like a hungry cat watches a bird on the garden fence.
Chapter 27
I had two consultations left before I could find the other person I urgently needed to see. I tracked him down, tucked away on his own in a diner-style booth in the canteen. He was slumped in a corner with a newspaper resting in a tent over his head. I slid into the space opposite him.
He lifted the paper up an inch to see who it was and winced at the burst of light. ‘I’m off-duty,’ said Professor Schneider.
‘Are you okay?’
‘Blinding headache. I thought I’d be safer hiding here than in my office. Is it important?’
I asked him what clinical experiments were going on at the hospital. I claimed I was interested in getting funding for a project.
‘Haven’t you got enough on your plate?’ He looked at me out of the corner of his eye as though turning his head would hurt. ‘Haven’t you just lost another one?’
‘Yes – I know. Terry Masters, it’s awful.’ I dropped my head.
‘So you’re bothering me – with research? Now?’
‘I meant…later…for professional development.’
It sounded not only inappropriate, but completely heartless to pursue this, but I had my reasons. Hours earlier, I’d checked in-house records and bulletins detailing research at St Luke’s and there was nothing about brainwashing or false memories. I wanted to ask the elusive professor certain oblique questions and see if I could judge from his reactions whether he was hiding anything.
He straightened up and put the paper down, resigned to engaging with me. ‘Just before you joined us, we had our funding cut, so we’re largely limited to high-profile projects: anaesthetics, HIV, cancer and strokes, mostly. We’re not putting resources into many areas of psychology. The Institute of Psychiatry is the place for that.’
‘Are there any psychological or neurology research programmes on the go, here?’
He shook his head. ‘Sadly not.’
‘Would someone like me be able to set something up?’
‘What have you got in mind?’ His eyes settled on mine, unnerving me.
I looked away. ‘I’m not sure yet. But, if I wanted to, could I get access to all the high-tech equipment?’
He yawned. ‘Not without winning an external award or getting financial backing from a university.’
‘Even if I set up a project myself? As long as it’s all signed for, can anyone here hire lab equipment?’
He snorted and for one horrible moment I thought he was going to pat me on the head. ‘You can’t just start lining up volunteers and run a hundred volts through them to see what happens. You’d need an authorised proposal, assured funding and supervision in place, before you ever set foot inside a lab. Every aspect needs to be accounted for – all the drug formulas, the technical equipment, the samples that go for testing – down to the very last test-tube – we run a tight ship here, you know.’ He loosened his belt a notch. ‘Let me have your proposal,’ he said, ‘then we’ll see.’
What I really wanted to ask was what the professor had been doing wheeling EEG equipment into his office, but I couldn’t find an indirect way to ask.
I thanked him in a faltering fashion and left him in peace.
On my way back to my unit, I tried Con’s numbers again, but got nowhere.
As I approached the main office, I spotted Debbie standing just inside and drew her away from the others.
‘How would I find out about any off-the-record research programmes at St Luke’s?’
She looked blank. ‘Sorry, Sam, I’ve got no idea. Is it about these awful deaths?’
I nodded and lowered my voice. ‘Do you know if Professor Schneider might be involved in any behind-the-scenes research at all?’
She shook her head. ‘No idea…’
I showed her the Dexter Beaumont novel and asked if it rang any bells. More head shaking.
‘You could ask in neurology,’ she suggested.
I didn’t tell her I’d already thought of that. The problem was I had no business there and didn’t know how to poke around surreptitiously. No one was going to admit to anything up front.
The police turned up shortly afterwards to grill me about Terry.
On my way home, I found myself noticing subliminal messages everywhere. On billboards, the sides of buses and taxis, in flashing coloured lights on the walls of buildings. I was becoming totally obsessed.
Miranda turned up at my flat, looking sheepish, shortly after I got back.
‘Any sign of Con?’ she asked.
‘No. Nothing.’
She made us both coffee and sat cross-legged at my feet, in front of the sofa.
‘I’m sorry I let you down.’
I let the words hang in the air.
‘Are you staying for supper?’ I asked, more as a straight question than an invitation. ‘It won’t be much.’
‘If you’ll have me.’ She looked sunken-eyed and her skin was puffy.
We looked at each other and I felt a bleak weariness descend on me.
‘Another patient died.’ I dropped my head. ‘It was another suicide.’
She snatched a sharp breath, but didn’t say anything. I tried to keep the tremor out of my voice. ‘The third one in as many weeks.’ I got to my feet, stepping over her. ‘I feel so helpless and I’m terrified about Con. I don’t know where to look...’
She followed me out to the kitchen. ‘Could he have gone to see Justin?’
‘I’ve already phoned Con’s ex-wife, but she hasn’t heard from him.’ I flung my head back. ‘It’s so irresponsible. He knew how worried I was about him. He knew how serious this had become.’
> ‘Perhaps he needed breathing space.’
‘Obviously,’ I growled. ‘Nice bloody timing, Con.’
‘What about his sister? Have you tried her?’
‘Fiona hasn’t heard from him since his motorbike accident.’
‘Any other siblings?’ she asked.
‘No, that’s it.’ I glanced at my watch. ‘All this hanging about, I can’t bear it.’
She put her arms around me and, for once, I let my arms fold around her waist and held her tightly in return. It felt both wonderful and strange.
‘I’m sorry I snapped, before,’ I said, resting my hand on her shoulder. ‘And I’m sorry I’ve been so pre-occupied.’ I looked into her face. ‘Are you okay? You’ve seemed jumpy and out of sorts lately.’
She took a step back and leant against the oven. ‘My paintings have brought up a lot of stuff…’
‘From the past?’
She laughed. ‘You could say that.’
‘Want to talk about it?’
‘No – you’ve got enough on your mind.’
I stroked her arm. ‘I’ve still got time for you.’
She looked down.
I gripped her arm. ‘You can talk to me, you know. I am here for you.’ I knew it didn’t sound entirely convincing. I wanted to be there for her, but any attempts to foster the bond between us had got completely sidelined amidst the current situation.
She wriggled free. ‘It’s okay. I’ll go back to Balham after we’ve eaten. Con could show up at any minute and at least I can make sure you know straight away.’
I nodded.
‘I left him a huge sign in capital letters on the fridge, by the way, telling him to ring you when he got back.’
‘Thank you.’
Neither of us wanted much to eat, so I opened a can of beans to have with toast. As I poured them into a pan she asked a question.
‘How do you remember me as a kid?’
‘What do you mean?’ Miranda’s questions were often off the wall.
‘Do you ever remember me being normal when we were growing up? Not mentally screwed up?’
I wiped my fingers on the tea-towel. ‘I remember you always wanted to do things your way and bend the rules. A bit of a fire-cracker…’ I looked up with a smile.
