by Lisa Stone
‘Hello, Aunty,’ he whispered, close to her ear. ‘It’s your nephew Bert. We’re going home.’
She tried to turn her head to look at him, but he moved out of her line of vision. She didn’t appear to have a coat but was wearing a thick cardigan. That would have to do.
‘Time to go,’ he said. ‘Can you stand by yourself?’
She shook her head. Stemming his revulsion at having to touch her, he slid one arm under her knees and the other around her back, scooped her up and dumped her into the wheelchair. She was light, there was nothing of her, but, Jesus, that smell. She gave a small startled cry like a strangled cat and her mouth worked as if trying to say something, but nothing came out.
‘Soon have you home,’ he said.
Positioning himself behind the wheelchair, he steered it to the end of the bed, parted the curtains just wide enough for them to get out and was quickly out of the side ward. Down the main corridor, past the nurses’ station. The nurse he’d spoken to was still on the phone. He kept his gaze ahead and focused on the exit.
Suddenly, footsteps sounded behind them. He kept going. They quickened. Then a man’s voice. ‘Stop! Wait!’
Amit’s breath caught in his throat but, he continued to the doors and pressed the button to exit. It was a few moments before the doors opened and in that time the footsteps caught up with him. He felt a tap on his shoulder and froze. Dear God, surely he wouldn’t be caught now. He was nearly out.
‘You left her bag, mate.’
Amit turned and looked at the youth.
‘I’m visiting my mum in the bed opposite and she spotted her bag under her bed.’ He handed Amit the bag.
‘Thank you,’ he said, his voice shaking.
‘You’re welcome. Mum says to give Mrs Jones her best wishes. She’s sorry she didn’t have a chance to say goodbye.’
‘I will,’ Amit called, and the doors closed behind him.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Fists knuckle-white, Amit gripped the handlebars of the wheelchair and pushed it towards the lift. How stupid of him not to have checked under the bed for her bag. A silly mistake like that could have cost him everything, but thankfully it hadn’t. He’d soon be outside, he told himself, and his plans would continue.
The old woman kept trying to turn her head to see who was pushing the wheelchair, but the weakness in her neck muscles from the stroke wouldn’t allow her to.
‘It’s your nephew Bert,’ he told her in his most conciliatory tone, for he didn’t want a scene here in the hospital.
The lift seemed to take ages to arrive, although it was probably no more than a minute or so. A couple came in just behind him and he pushed the wheelchair to the rear wall. He felt their eyes on him as the lift descended, perhaps wondering why the old woman was so agitated and kept craning her neck, trying to see behind her. When the lift stopped, he waited until they were well clear before dragging the wheelchair out.
Head down, away from the CCTV, he felt perspiration trickle down his back as he began towards the exit. Past the security guard, the old woman uttered something, then they were outside.
‘I’m cold,’ she said clearly, and shivered.
‘Soon have you in the warm,’ he replied loudly for the benefit of anyone who’d overheard.
The parking bay where he’d left the car was too close to the main entrance to inject her there. Those going in and out might see, especially if she made a fuss. He positioned the wheelchair by the car and, opening the rear door, carefully lifted her in. Her face was close to his for a few seconds and he smelt her fetid breath as she tried to say something. He quickly deposited her on the seat, fastened her seat belt and closed the door. He breathed in the cool fresh air, mopped his brow, and then stowed the wheelchair in the boot.
As he slid into the driver’s seat, she mumbled something.
‘What?’ he demanded, glancing at her in the rear-view mirror.
Her mouth worked. ‘You’re not Bert.’
‘Really? And you’re sure of that?’ He laughed cruelly and, starting the engine, reversed out of the bay.
‘Not Bert. Where’s Harry?’ she cried.
‘Shut up you silly old bitch!’
Amit accelerated as fast as the one-way system leading out of the hospital would allow.
She kept chuntering, ‘You’re not Bert.’ Perhaps the cold had stimulated her, for she seemed more alert now than she had in hospital. He depressed the central-locking system in case she tried to escape and continued out of the hospital grounds and then into the quiet side street he’d parked in on his previous visit.
Cutting the engine, he opened the bag he had ready on the passenger seat and took out a leather pouch. He removed a syringe and one of the two phials of anaesthetic. Keeping his hands low behind the seat back so she couldn’t see what he was doing, he drew the solution into the syringe. How much he would need to give her was a guesstimate. He didn’t have access to her medical records as he did with patients who were being operated on. Doses were based on weight, age and medical history. To be on the safe side – he didn’t want her waking halfway through the journey when he might not be able to easily stop to top it up – he’d give her the maximum. That should see her home and into his lab.
Concealing the filled syringe in the palm of his hand, Amit got out of the car and, opening the rear door, slid in beside her. She looked at him with a mixture of confusion and alarm. Checking there was no one passing, he quickly pulled up her sleeve and plunged the needle into her scrawny arm. She screamed and tried to pull away, but she was no match for him. Gripping her arm, he emptied in the rest of the phial. Within seconds, her body relaxed, her eyes closed and her head lolled to one side. Perfect. He smiled.
He reached over to the front seat and returned the syringe to the leather pouch for disposing of later, then propped the old woman upright and adjusted the headrest to support her head. With her eyes closed and her jaw hanging open, she looked like any old woman asleep in the car.
He sat back for a moment and forced himself to breathe normally. He’d done it. He’d actually done it! His bold, audacious plan had been executed successfully. All that planning, attention to detail, together with plain bravado, had paid off. Congratulating himself, he returned to the driver’s seat, started the engine, and headed for home. Life was getting better and better.
Chapter Twenty-Five
‘Sorry I had to dash away from the phone,’ Emily said, as soon as Alisha answered. ‘Robbie was trying to climb up the Christmas tree.’
Alisha chuckled. ‘He’s into everything.’
‘Tell me about it!’
‘Eva misses Robbie,’ Alisha said. ‘She was so disappointed I had to cancel your visit. I tried to explain it was because her father’s conference ended early and he was on his way home, but she wasn’t impressed. Just as well Amit doesn’t have anything to do with Eva or she could drop me in it.’
‘Tell her we’ll get together in the New Year when everything is back to normal. You have a good Christmas.’
‘And you. And, Emily …’ Alisha paused, ‘I really am sorry you never got Tibs back.’
‘I know, you said. That’s kind of you, but we’ve come to terms with it. I guess you saw that update on the local news yesterday.’
‘No. What was that?’
‘You remember the dead animals that were found in Coleshaw Woods and had been drained of blood? The police thought they’d been used in some satanic ritual?’
‘Yes,’ Alisha said hesitantly. ‘You phoned to see if any of them had been microchipped?’
‘That’s right. But they couldn’t tell. They’re now saying they think it was the work of an illegal taxidermist. You know, those people who stuff animals.’
‘Really?’ Alisha’s voice was slight. ‘Why do they think that?’
‘Apparently all the bodies had traces of a preserving fluid in them similar to one used by taxidermists. The RSPCA spokesperson said it’s usually rare animals like tigers th
at are poached and imported illegally to be stuffed. Collectors pay huge sums. But they warned pet owners to keep their pets in at night until they catch the person or persons responsible.’
‘You don’t think that could have happened to Tibs?’ Alisha asked after a moment.
‘I hope not. But the chances are we’ll never know. Anyway, it’s nearly Christmas, so have a good one, and we’ll get together in the New Year.’
‘Yes, thanks, and you.’ Alisha returned the phone to its cradle.
Preserving fluid. That word again. Alisha’s gaze went to the building at the bottom of their garden, Amit’s lab. The mouse she’d found there had been well preserved, and now the animals in Coleshaw Woods had been shown to have preserving fluid in them. With a familiar stab of fear, she reluctantly drew her thoughts to the CCTV recording she’d watched when Amit had thrown animal collars in the bin and had dropped Tibs’. It was the same night he’d left very late carrying the heavy sacks of what looked like rubbish. Was this all connected? Did she really want to know? And that large cylinder-shaped object Amit had taken delivery of the afternoon he’d shut her in the cloakroom, and Emily had captured on her phone. The size and shape of the object under its packaging had seemed familiar, but from where exactly?
There was over an hour before Amit would arrive home and Eva was upstairs watching television. Alisha went quickly into the study. It was Amit’s domain now and while it wasn’t locked she’d had no reason to go in it – until now. Crammed full of books, medical journals and research papers, they were everywhere, and not in any order. On the top shelf she spotted her old nursing books, untouched for years and largely out of date. But she didn’t think it was a book she was looking for.
She began going through the magazines, brochures and flyers, advertising seminars, conferences, drug trials and new medicines. Read and then haphazardly thrown onto the piles in the order they’d arrived. She didn’t know exactly what she was looking for – hopefully confirmation that her suspicions were completely unfounded and Amit wasn’t experimenting on animals to find a cure for her condition.
She moved to the filing cabinet and tried the drawers, but they were locked. When had he started locking them? On top of the cabinet was a pile of invoices. She took them down and flicked through, but they were old – goods he’d had delivered over a year ago, including online grocery shopping. She returned them to the top of the cabinet and picked up a miscellaneous pile of journals and glossy leaflets, again they weren’t in any apparent order. A little way in, she found a page torn from a newspaper. An article headed Back From The Dead! She remembered Amit had shown her the article some time ago. She began to read it, the same horror and revulsion filling her now as it had then. A fifteen-year-old boy suffering from an incurable genetic condition was to be frozen in the hope he could be brought back to life at a later date and cured. Amit had wanted her to do the same and had become angry when she’d refused. He’d ridiculed her and sneered when she’d said it was going against the law of God and nature. So why had he bothered to cut out and keep this article? She returned it carefully to the pile.
Next was a glossy brochure with a photograph on the front showing a small group of men and women in white lab coats standing outside a building bearing the name ELECT. Eternal Life Education Cryonics Trust. The caption beneath said they were the team that ran ELECT, a cryonics organization, dedicated to preserving life.
Alisha slowly opened the booklet and stopped, her stomach contracted and her hand trembled. The photograph she was now looking at had been taken inside a laboratory and showed rows of aluminium cylinders. The wording below explained bodies were preserved in these tanks at minus 190°C. She stared in horror. There was no mistake. The cylinder that had been delivered and was now in Amit’s lab was exactly the same size and shape as there.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Mouth gaping open, the old woman was snoring heavily and it was getting on Amit’s nerves. ‘Shut up, will you!’ he shouted as he drove, and turned up the radio to drown out the noise. He was driving steadily in the middle lane of the motorway, just below the speed limit. While he wanted to get to his lab as soon as possible, he certainly didn’t want to draw the attention of a passing patrol car by speeding.
Other than the racket the old woman was making, life was good, he thought, and he was still feeling very pleased with himself. All had gone well in removing her from the hospital, and the mounting excitement he now felt at what lay ahead was orgasmic in its intensity. Not only would he be making medical history but soon he would be one step ahead of ELECT and the other scientists working on cryonics. While freezing animals and bringing them back to life had been accomplished a number of times in laboratories, doing the same with a human would be a first! The old woman didn’t know it, but she too was making an important contribution to medical science – as would Alisha.
He could picture it now, the world’s media gathered outside his lab with their cameras and microphones at the ready. He’d only be able to let a few into his lab – the main broadcasters – for there wasn’t much room. BBC, CNN, Fox News, and the South China Morning Post, he decided. In front of a live audience of millions, he’d raise Alisha from the cylinder of liquid nitrogen, transfuse her blood back into her veins and gradually warm her body until she regained consciousness. Instant fame and acclamation! It was important, he’d decided, to have the world’s media present so there could be no doubt that what he’d accomplished was genuine and recorded. To have used his own video recording could have led to claims of fraud, as it was so easy to manipulate and falsify videos and photographs online. But with a selection of journalists watching, there could be no doubt he had brought someone back to life and created immortality.
He glanced in the rear-view mirror at the old woman. Her head was lolling to one side and she was looking a bit pale. Unfortunately he couldn’t monitor her vital signs as he could in the operating room. He turned down the music until he could hear her snoring, more lightly now, then turned it up again. ‘Not too far now,’ he said, more for his own benefit than hers.
Yes, he was feeling very pleased with himself and was sure he’d covered every eventuality, even his own demise. If he suddenly dropped dead or was run over before he’d woken Alisha, his work wouldn’t go to waste. He’d recorded an ICE message on his phone: In Case of Emergency. ELECT were to be contacted and he’d included their phone number. They knew what to do. He’d given them instructions in a sealed envelope – his last wishes – when he’d signed up and paid to become a member and have his body preserved. It wasn’t unusual, most of their members had last wishes. ELECT also knew he’d left everything to them in his will. Yes, he’d covered every eventuality.
Amit glanced again in the rear-view mirror. The old woman was now slumped forward so her chin was resting on her chest. Drat. That wasn’t good. She could reduce her airflow in that position. With her neck muscles already weak from the stroke, she might cut off her trachea completely. He turned down the music and shouted, ‘Sit up, you silly bitch!’ Patients retained some hearing and could follow simple instructions under anaesthetic. ‘Sit up!’ he shouted again, then stamped on the brake as the red lights of the car in front came on. ‘Mrs Jones! Get your fucking head up!’
She didn’t, nor did she stir or give any sign she’d heard him. Fuck! He couldn’t leave her like that. There was another half an hour to home. He’d have to pull onto the hard shoulder and prop up her head. But, on second thoughts, it would probably be best to lie her flat on the back seat for the rest of the journey so her airway could more easily stay open.
He indicated left, waited for a gap in the traffic, then pulled to the inside lane and onto the hard shoulder. Coming to a halt, he switched on the hazard warning lights and opened his door. The rush of traffic was deafening as cars, vans and lorries zoomed by in a relentless procession of fumes and wind rush. He knew that stopping on the hard shoulder was the most dangerous place on a motorway, so he needed to be quick.
&n
bsp; A few strides took him round the back of the car and he opened the offside rear door. He released her seat belt, caught her before she fell forward and laid her flat on the seat, slightly bending her knees so she fitted in. If he anchored her with all three seat belts, she shouldn’t roll off if he suddenly had to break. Reaching right over to the seat belt that was furthest away, he extended it to its full length and wrapped it under her arms and around her chest. She’d stopped snoring now, which was a relief. He fastened the buckle, moved to the next belt and, pulling it out, wrapped it around her middle. He paused, his gaze going to her chest, and waited. Nothing happened. He waited again. Her chest wasn’t moving, or if it was it was very slight. He put his cheek to her mouth but couldn’t feel her breath. Oh shit! This couldn’t be happening. He grabbed her wrist and felt for a pulse. Nothing. Panic took hold. In the hospital he had oxygen and a defibrillator, but now there was just him.
‘You stupid, stupid cow!’ he yelled and slapped her face hard. Her head jolted. ‘Calm down,’ he told himself. ‘You need to do CPR.’
Stemming his revulsion, he placed his mouth over hers, gave two rescue breaths and gagged. Then, straddling her torso, he interlocked his fingers and used the heel of his hand to begin chest compressions. Press, release, press, release. It was years since he’d had to do this. There was no need in the theatre. Two compressions a second, so one hundred and twenty a minute, then two more rescue breaths and continue the compressions. He worked frantically, pressing down, releasing, down, releasing, putting all his weight behind it. Desperately forcing the blood around her body, willing her back to life by kick-starting the heart. He heard her ribs crack as he worked. He knew it could happen giving CPR, especially to the old whose bones were brittle. He paused and searched for a pulse. Nothing. Two more recuse breaths and he continued the compressions, more forcefully and desperate now.
‘You silly fucking cow! Breathe!’ he shouted and struck her chest. Blood oozed from the corner of her mouth. He stared at her in horror, wiped the sweat from his forehead, then roughly pulled up her eyelids. As he feared, the pupils were fixed and dilated. She was dead! There was no bringing her back. The silly bitch had died. It had all been for nothing.
