by K Alexander
Deus ex Machina by K. Alexander
Author's notes:
Thank you so much to my partner, for sacrificing me to two other women for many late nights; to blue, for helping my thoughts along; to bee, for being so enthusiastic about my enthusiasm; to dawn brown, for consistent constructive comments and general good conversation, and to whichever spirit put this strange story, completed, in my dreams. I owe you one.
Thanks also to you, for being willing to read something which was at times alarmingly violent and blatantly unrepentant, and which you never had any guarantee of finishing. Even if you may, right now, be grumbling about storylines not all being tied up to your satisfaction (and I'm completely unapologetic about that - firstly, I don't believe in that kind of synchronicity; secondly, I don't want to wrap it up in a bow - there are still aspects left to think about, which I now leave up to you; and thirdly, I'm such a tease, as rightly pointed out by dawn), I hope that I've done it right and made the journey worth as much to you as the destination.
I loved the ride, and I loved having you with me.
1.
The orderly glances up at the number on the door (9, he needs no reminder) as he makes a note on his clipboard. Then, hanging the clipboard on the hook at the back of the trolley, he steps to the side and crouches to pull a tray from below. It is covered with a white cloth, which he pulls off to reveal an unappetizing meal of bland mashed vegetables, a baked potato and a colorless slab of meat. Standing up, the tray grasped securely in both hands, he approaches the door, but does not stand too close. Through the industrial strength Plexiglas he can see the woman within at the other side of the small room, her slick arms defined in harsh relief as she moves precisely through a series of physical exertions. She does not acknowledge his presence, and with a quick breath (which he hopes is disguised by the thickness of the walls and door between them) he approaches and slides open the hatch three quarters down the solid door. He slides the tray through without a problem and shuts the hatch somewhat louder than he intends to. When he straightens up and glances through the porthole she is still in exactly the same place, but her movements have ceased, and her shaved head is tilted at a somehow menacing angle, as if she is listening to his slight motions and analyzing at which point to attack. Taking one step backwards he puts his hands behind him and presses them up against the comforting solidness of the steel trolley.
"Ryan! Lunch!"
She does not respond to his barked words, but he knows that she hears him. He moves backwards to his position on the trolley, aware of his … he would not call it fear, never that - uneasiness? - and pushes it into motion sharply, very glad to step into the solitary small elevator at the end of the short hallway.
When she hears the faint whir of the elevator she clenches her fists briefly before stretching them wide open and shaking her hands loosely. Her neck is a little tight and she rotates it thoroughly, sure to follow up with a roll of glistening shoulders and a systematic stretch of her muscles. Sufficiently warmed down for the moment she turns sharply and stares at the tray sitting on the small ledge. It is expectedly unappetizing, but she is hungry. She has not eaten in a day. They now take it away after a while. They are close to giving up on her. They assume otherwise, but she prefers to eat what she is given. Her physical workouts exhaust her energy at an alarming rate, and when she does not eat they up her meds and sometimes tranquilize her, roll her out somewhere and stick needles into her to provide the necessary nutrients. She does not mind needles - she's had worse - but the tranquilizers leave her numb and nauseous, which makes it impossible to exercise. Which is intolerable. And so, whenever she can, she eats what they give her. But only whenever she can. She steps forward, her tread precise, and stretches out a hand for the tray. She is about to touch its white polystyrene edge when her fingers halt in mid-air and freeze there, motionless. Her green eyes narrow, the hand retracts rapidly to lift and cup the back of her head fiercely. She presses her head hard into her palm and grimaces, her teeth clenched against whatever it is that has invaded the moment. Her other hand lifts and wraps over her eyes, pressing white-knuckled against the banks of her eyebrows. She does not make a sound for a long time. When she throws her head back her green eyes are filled with infinite ferocity. The snarl builds in the pit of her stomach and rises up through her throat coarsely, bursting from her mouth with the intensity of a predator filled with wrath. She drags her fingers jaggedly over her skull in rage, but luckily, after yesterday's event, there are no fingernails left, and she does not draw any more blood. Her hoarse roaring echoes down the hall and back up again, her door the only place for it to enter. Finally she strikes out in aggression, her fist splitting the tray into pieces and spreading bits of pulverized food against the door. The ledge the tray is resting on cracks faintly. She will be punished for that somehow, she is aware of that. Even only when they tranquilize her to remove her from the room when they come in to fix it. Her snarling ends unexpectedly as she slides to the floor and presses her forehead to it.
"No. Stop it! I'm not listening to this anymore…"
The food is everywhere. It'll be needles for her again. Soon.
------ Doctor Walsch nods thoughtfully and steeples her fingers together. "And the new meds? Any more hallucinations?"
The haggard man opposite her shakes his head. "No, doc, no more dancing worms or talking heads, thank the lord. I'm sleeping better too. Is that just me or … ?"
"Of course. One major benefit of being more relaxed and less anxious is a better night's rest." She shoots that quick crooked smile he sometimes dreams about in his direction before she withdraws the pen clipped to her notebook and writes something in the margin. "I'm very happy to hear this, Gerry. If you keep it up you'll be ready to return to a regular way of life very soon."
He shifts forward and perches nervously on the edge of the faded pink wingback chair. "Does that… do you think it would it be possible for me to see Eloise and the kids?"
She raises her eyebrows and taps the top of the pen against the page. "Physically, yes. But Gerry, we've spoken about this. It's not a matter of medication and control, as much as you would like it to be. This involves lawyers and regulations, and Eloise's emotions, too. You can't discount them, Gerry; she's been through an awful state of affairs due to you. These types of situations take years to resolve."
The man smiles wryly, revealing bizarrely even teeth. "Do you have any meds in that cabinet of yours to improve patience?"
"Nope." She flashes that crooked smile again. "If only it were that easy. I'd be a millionaire and there would never be war. Unfortunately that's a trait you're going to have to develop on your own."
"You crush me, doc." He shakes his head solemnly. "And here I believed that you could do anything."
"Mostly." She clips the pen back onto the notebook and rises, pressing her glasses higher onto her nose with a neatly manicured index finger. When he also rises and extends a hand hesitantly she grasps it firmly and presses once before releasing it. "Next week, Gerry. And remember to do the breathing exercises. I know that you think they're impractical, but you do need to give it a chance."
"All right. If you trust them then who am I to argue." He shrugs and reaches for the doorknob. "Next week, doc."
"Goodbye, Gerry."
"Bye." He doesn't open the door fully, but slips around the edge before pushing it closed behind him. With a slight smile Doctor Walsch makes one or two more notes before she tosses the pen on the small desk and steps out of the office herself. Cecily Dawson is perched erectly on her padded computer chair, her brown eyes fixed on her monitor with a fierce scowl as she types noisily. Whenever she strikes the space bar ferociously with her thumb Doctor Walsch winces in sympathy.
"Cecily."
"Don't frown so. You'll end up with furrows in your forehead."
"Frowning provides a great deal more gratification than a smooth forehead ever will." Still scowling, Cecily pauses with her sharply angled eyebrows raised, her fingers poised above the keys. Doctor Walsch sees the thumb right over the spacebar, lifted ominously, and suppresses the urge to wince. "If you want me to file Mr. Cook's notes you should put them down."
Shaking her head Doctor Walsch places the notebook precisely on the corner of the teak desk. "You're much too quick for me. Gerry says he believes I can do anything - he's in the right office, but the wrong company."
Cecily appears to agree without saying anything or in fact moving a muscle. She commences typing, starting with the predictable whack of her thumb against the space bar. "I do believe that Doctor Clarke is downstairs in the canteen."
"Good. Thank you." Doctor Walsch reaches for her glasses and slip them off, polishing them with the corner of her shirt by sheer force of habit before she slips them into the breast pocket of her coat. "I really should give you a raise, Cecily."
"Yes, doctor."
"If only I didn't have to keep buying new keyboards." As if on cue doctor Walsch's sentence is punctuated by the smack of Cecily's thumb against the spacebar.
"Yes, doctor." The same sentence - amazing how inflection can change the implication. Grinning to herself the doctor leaves the reception area and walks down the corridor, greeting colleagues briefly as she passes them by. She presses the elevator button once and glances up at the numbers lighting up over the door. Currently the elevator is on the fifth floor. With a sigh doctor Walsch hopes for the best, and is denied it when the elevator doors open on her floor to reveal Nesbitt, the plastic surgeon from five. His bright blue eyes spark when he sees her, and he straightens up unconsciously.
"Well, if it isn't the divine doctor Walsch."
"Nesbitt." She nods curtly at him and steps into the elevator, turning her back on him quite pointedly.
Reaching up he tucks a strand of black hair behind his ear and grins, though it is merely for his own benefit. "Going down for a cup of coffee? How about I buy you one." It is less of a question than a statement, and she grinds her teeth together in mute irritation before turning her head slightly into his direction.
"No, thank you. I'm meeting somebody."
"Oh." He whistles speculatively between his narrow lips. "Professional or personal?"
"None of your business, Jack." Her tone of voice is unexpectedly acid, and even he cannot fail to notice this time. Pursing his lips he appears wounded for a moment.
"Really, doctor Walsch. Won't you ever put that little incident behind you? I did apologize, after all."
"And you didn't mean a word of it." Secretly she blesses the elevator as it opens to reveal the glass-encased security booths and the entrance to the canteen. "If you bother me I'll have one of the guards remove you. Enjoy your day." With that she leaves the elevator, aware that he remains where he is. He is not affected by her comment, but is rather appreciating the view she walks away. She knows this, but there is little she can do. When she passes the glass cubicle she lifts her hand to the massive Indian man who is studying one of the numerous small security screens before him. He lifts his hand in greeting without glancing up. Reaching into her coat pocket with her left hand she withdraws her white access card and swipes it across the sensor, stepping through the turnstile as soon as the muted click sounds. When she rounds the corner she immediately sees Doctor Clarke at a table at the back, oblivious to the charming water feature visible behind him through the tinted glass as he studies a sheet of densely printed paper. She is almost next to him before he looks up and grins, his blond eyebrows jumping.
"Claire. Coffee?"
"Hmm." She leans down and plants a friendly kiss on his ginger-stubble cheek. "No, I'm giving it up." When his eyes shift past her and he bites the inside of his lip intently she knows what he is looking at. "Yeah. I had the dubious fortune of being in the elevator with him for much too long."
His hazel eyes jump back to her. "And you still want to give up coffee? I'd ask for quadruple-caf if I were you."
"They don't make such a thing, Art." She smacks his shoulder lightly. "Yet. But you're right. I can't think of giving up my favorite crutch at such a time." When she goes to the counter to get a cup he smiles to himself.
"Always the same intention, always the same result."
"Excuse me?"
"Nothing." He pulls the chair to his left away from the table and pats it. "Sit."
Following his instruction she slides the chair closer to the table neatly and opens the plastic lid of her cup, careful not to spill any liquid. "What are you looking at, Art?"
"File from Fairwater." He pushes at the paper with one desultory finger. "I wish I could sort this one out or get rid of it."
"Still the one who speaks to God?"
"Yes." With a shake of his head he picks up his own cup and takes a sip, wrinkling his freckled nose at the coolness of the contents. "Uck. Though, technically, you're wrong. She doesn't speak to Him - He speaks to her."
"Either way I don't envy you." With a glance at the open file she lifts her cup to her mouth and attempts a sip, jerking back as her lip burns. "Damn."
"They make it with boiling water here." He waggles his expressive eyebrows once. "I should've followed your example. Said no. I'm at my wits' end, Claire. It's infuriating. And all of the red tape doesn't help, either. I can understand the measures they take, but it makes things immensely difficult."
Placing the cup on the table she reaches over and touches the back of his large hand lightly with her fingers. "Arthur, why don't you just resign from the case? You wouldn't be the first - what's it been, four years? Five?"
"Seven." There is a moment of silence and he sighs. "I don't know, Claire. I just don't know. There's something about the whole situation that bothers me. It stinks, and I can't tell what of." He leans towards her and props his long forearms on the table. "What would it take to get you to consult on this, Claire?" She begins to shake her head and he seems to anticipate it, reaching over to place his hand on her arm. "Don't say no yet. Just hear me out. I… " he thinks, begins again, "I… " and then throws his hands up in defeat. "Hell. No. I don't have a thing. No enticements, no tempting facts, just a grown man begging like a little girl." When she smiles he raises his eyebrows pathetically. "Come on, Claire, don't make me do something even more dismal. Please."
Though she is smiling at his antics he knows it is not a sign of flagging will. "I'm not interested. If I were… "
"You'd have taken it when they offered. I know." He laces his hands together. "I want your input on it, Claire, and not because you're the best I know, but because I trust your judgment."
She sips from her coffee cup, her blue eyes scrutinizing him warmly over the white rim. When she is finished she pushes it to one side and places her hands palms down on the table in front of her. "But you know my opinion, Art. She's homicidal. The hallucinations are only a manifestation of her subconscious inclinations. I'm not interested in working with that."
"That's your personal opinion." For once he sounds a little piqued. "I'm looking for a professional one. You haven't spoken to her."
"Has she exposed anything at all to you that would point to a different ruling?" He does not answer, but she does not need him to. "She hasn't, has she? Because she doesn't actually speak to you. How could I give any sort of consultation when she doesn't speak, Art?" She shakes her head. "The woman's a killing machine. That she has God talking to her seems a minor issue to me, compared to that."
Though Art smiles he is shaking his head too. "She is a highly trained soldier, Claire. There is a difference. You don't become a captain in the Navy SEALS by being a slavering maniac."
"She certainly got that decoration of hers for behaving like one."
"She got the Medal of Honor for leading an entire platoon of rebels away from
her troops and ambushing them by herself, Claire. Whatever the woman's mental state has turned to, that is something to respect. And in any case… " he screws the empty sugar packet into a small wad and throws it at her, "I'm not getting into this argument with you again. You just love to wind me up."
"That I do." She picks up the wad of paper and throws it back, her aim poor. "Why do you want me to consult, Art? You know how I feel about the case."
"Well." Sitting back in his chair he seems suddenly hesitant. "It's not her mental state I want you to examine, Claire. After seven very difficult years I don't think there's anything to be done for that. What I want is… " He sits forward and shoots a nervous glance over her shoulder, drawing a puzzled frown from her. "Claire, I think they may be doing things to her in there that they shouldn't be."
Her scowl deepens. "Like what? What are you saying, Art?"
"I'm not sure." He taps one finger on the table between them. "She has needle tracks. Now I know that when she doesn't eat, they obviously put her on an IV after a while. But there's often more than one puncture wound." He bites his lip. "Look, I know it sounds very James Bond, I'm fully aware of that, and I could be having a moment of complete fantasy. But what if there's something I'm not seeing and I give up when I shouldn't? I don't like the idea of that, Claire. Signing off somebody to an eternally murky life. I suppose that what I'm asking you to do is merely to go there and see whether everything seems legitimate. If you can do that for me, you'd put my mind at rest and make considerably easier any decision that I might have to reach in the near future."
