by Tim Heath
They both sat eating their breakfast, the one man watching James, while James himself was more aware of who was or wasn't in the café noticing him.
7
Present Day
Lorna had felt terrible within herself all morning. She'd stonewalled her patient when all he was doing was trying to talk to her and help. Besides, the connection would be stronger if she opened up, and most importantly of all, she needed someone with whom to talk.
John was finishing breakfast when she came over closer to him and pulled up a chair next to the bed. She took the tray away from him, a bowl and cup stacked neatly in the middle. There was something very organised and orderly about John. She liked it.
“Look,” she started to say, not sure of the words she should best use to describe what had happened, “James died recently. My husband died...” and she broke off, though there were no tears at that moment. They would come soon enough, she knew.
John closed his eyes as if reliving all the things he'd said and asked about, feeling like a fool now for prying on what was this widow's hurting heart.
“I'm so sorry to hear that,” he said, eyes opened again looking for her eyes. She caught his glance but couldn't keep it.
“There was an accident. James got trapped somewhere he really shouldn't have been. He was there helping people. He's a doctor, but I think I told you that already.” She had, but he wasn't going to comment. Instead, he sat there quietly. Now it was his turn to do the listening, to be the listener. She'd been so helpful with everything that was happening to him, though all that, for the moment, was far from his mind.
“He'd made me breakfast before work on the day he died. It's my final memory of James.” She said his name so gently, as if handling a baby, as she trailed off, before coming back into the room, and the conversation. Talking was doing her some good. She felt some of the weight inside shifting. Maybe some healing would come by sharing her hurts with someone and, at that moment in her now strange world; John was the closest person to her.
“We were happy, really. Something was bothering James at work, I think. But we were happy, and we enjoyed each others company. I just had no idea that that morning would be the last time I saw him alive.” She paused, already at risk of saying too much. There was still a lot at stake, and she wouldn't be allowed to jeopardise it all, aware that this conversation was no doubt being listened to intently and every word and phrase analysed. She had no way of knowing how close they were. Would there be a knock at the door and a bunch of angry suits? Would the army come and arrest her for some hideous crime about which she knew nothing? The fear of the unknown kept her boxed in. She didn't want to knowingly overstep the mark.
“We'd had some great times together, some great trips. Central America had been a highlight, as well as cruising around the Caribbean in our own boat.”
John saw life in her eyes, a sparkle, which hadn't been there since he'd first seen her. All too quickly it faded, as he guessed the reality of her loss hit her hard once again.
“Anyway, now you know. If I'm honest with you, it's completely knocked me sideways.”
It was obvious enough to him, but he smiled and kept eye contact, which she was now a bit better at returning. There seemed a familiarity to her, but he couldn't put his finger on what it was. It also led him to ask something else that was now bothering him, having heard her speak so well of memories and highlights from her life.
“Thanks for sharing that, it couldn't have been easy. Can I ask something unrelated?” She nodded, tears fighting to come through, the emotional tidal wave now catching up with the words she'd just spoken.
“As you were talking about those memories, the sights and sounds, the feel of the place. It made me realise I have no sense of that in my own life. I can't remember anything.” He paused briefly, before asking his next question. “Will I get my memory back?”
She took a moment before speaking, composing herself as her emotions still battled inside her.
“We think yes, in time, you will begin to regain your memory. When people undergo some traumatic ordeal or situation, the brain acts to protect us, and shuts down.”
“What happened to me then? What put me here?”
“I can't say, because then, in the future, you will be unsure whether you remember it yourself, which would be a sign that your memory was returning, or because I've told you, and you've taken that knowledge and made it feel like an actual memory.”
It wasn't entirely accurate. They––of course––had no intention of telling John what had happened to him. The incident part anyway, because of the drugs that were fed to him, would be permanently forgotten, as his memories of everything surrounding the actual disaster were being erased. But her explanation satisfied John, and he shut his eyes briefly, nodding to confirm his understanding. A wave of tiredness was kicking in. His sleeping patterns were totally messed up and, with no natural light, his body was genuinely confused as to what was day and what was the night. Lorna got up from her chair, putting it back against the wall. John closed his eyes again and was soon asleep.
Three Weeks Ago
Felix awoke suddenly from a deep sleep, having worked late into the night. He'd fallen asleep at his desk and had somehow knocked over a coffee cup during that time, leaving a small stain on some papers, but it had long since dried and wasn't anything serious. The light was coming in from outside and, before checking his watch, which said it was already past eight, Felix could tell it was morning time. He'd had about five hours of sleep.
He stood to stretch, suddenly coughing as he did, his hand automatically covering his mouth. It passed, but then he noticed blood on his fingers, not a lot, but enough to remind him of his fate. It was sealed, there was no undoing it. If anything, it focused him all the more on what still needed to be done.
Before finishing last night, he'd uploaded the files to the central computer and left it running. Going over to the machine now, he could see it had completed. Some testing would be needed, but he'd already done a little on himself, and it was undoubtedly a very surreal experience. He'd messed with drugs when he was younger, and the trips he used to take then had nothing on these visions. The vision that followed felt one hundred times more vivid as there was no sensory input to give him conflicting information about the test he was running.
Felix was well aware that the nuclear reactors on the base had a safety shut off facility, a last resort kind of action, but they were already way past that point. So far beyond it, it seemed impossible to contain the problem somehow now. It would take entirely something to do that, and he would need resources. He also knew his program now could train such a person, should that opportunity arise. He'd heard whispers of the rumours from Russia and Japan about the walking dead, people who had somehow survived as if protected from the poison. For Felix this was a golden opportunity to put it all to the test. He had to be ready if that opportunity presented itself and he needed the backing of those above him. He'd written to them the night before, telling them what he was capable of doing, and asking for support and clearance at the highest level.
That morning, however, as he checked the computer, a vague but explicit refusal had come back. It annoyed Felix. They were struggling to catch up, he knew. They were fearful. There must have been mayhem going on at HQ, jobs on the line, the government about to fall for having got it so wrong with these probes.
Felix knew they couldn't see it as he saw it, sitting in their safe leather seats miles away, no doubt flown to the other end of the country to avoid being caught up in this mess. They were short-sighted. It was apparent to Felix, at least, that things were going to get a lot worse before they began to get better. It would be an ongoing nuclear disaster unless someone could do something, but that something was an impossible task unless of course, you could survive radiation poisoning. And within half a mile, Felix was sure such a person existed. He was a numbers man. He'd done the maths. More people had been exposed in London than had been in Russia and Japan combined. If t
hose incidents had produced freak survivors, then the odds were good that the same would be true here.
Felix knew he was going to die very soon. That part was sinking in. It also made it easier to do what he wanted, what he knew needed to be done. He would never have to answer for his actions, whatever happened. That would, at worst, be someone else's issue. But there was more. He knew there was a way through, and he'd seen it the moment he'd started putting the program together. He knew what he had to do. And if some suit in government couldn't understand what he saw, then he would have to show them. He would have to prove the point. Some folks, he told himself, can only see something when it's right in front of their faces, so he was going to have to do just that. Opening up the rejection letter that he'd received, Felix ran it through another program. He took the header and signature and just altering the wording such, that once finished, it was a thoroughly supportive authorisation letter from the very top itself, demanding full compliance with Felix's master program, giving him any resources and personnel that he required. However, he would never get the chance to use it, nor needed to. But it felt good to have it, just in case. Today was going to be a great day––he could hardly wait.
Three Months Ago
It had been two days since the breakfast meeting, but James was going to meet the man once again, though he was unhappy about it. This time they were due to meet late morning, in a small village about three miles from where the café was.
James walked into the small coffee shop, a bell ringing as the door opened and then shut again behind him. There were five tables in the seating area, with two or three chairs at each. Only one other table was occupied at that moment, an elderly couple, at least in their eighties he thought, sipping tea from small china teacups, a toasted bun, butter melted on top, sitting on a plate between them. The gentleman had looked up, nodded and returned to his tea. Somewhere out at the back, someone was rattling cups or plates, no doubt the café owner cleaning in the kitchen. Moments later he saw a lady stick her head out through the open door from the kitchen, dishcloth in hand, and she called to him:
“Take a seat, love, and I'll be over shortly to take your order.”
James opted for the table in the corner, as far away from listening ears as was possible, given the small and cosy nature of the café. Sitting down, he spotted that both of the elderly patrons were wearing large hearing aids and he smiled at his caution. He could probably have stood directly behind them, and they wouldn't hear.
The lady appeared again from the back, coming over with a smile on her face and pad in hand.
“So, what can I get you?” she asked. James had not looked at the menu that sat on his table but ordered a pot of tea and a toasted teacake as well. It seemed reasonable from what he could see, and it was too early for lunch. 'Elevenses' as his mum would always say.
Moments later when the order had been taken, and the lady was back in the kitchen to prepare it, the door opened again and in walked the man he was to meet. A shout of be right with you was given from the kitchen, as he walked over and took a seat opposite James.
James guessed his companion was about the same age as him, maybe a little older. He had dark hair, that was kept neat and tidy. There were the beginnings of what were a few grey hairs, but it worked well. It suited him. He wore a smart jacket, a dark blue shirt underneath, without a tie.
They exchanged small talk––obvious stuff about the traffic and the weather. It was awkward and forced, and both knew it. They were not meeting here as friends, neither was it a business meeting. How had he got tangled up in all this, James started to ask himself, but the reality of the answer came too quickly, and he cut the thought off mid-flow.
The lady was back, the tray unloaded in front of James and the bill was put in the centre of the table, recording the items he'd ordered. She turned to the other man and took his order; he'd gone for the same. The teacakes were selling well that day.
“I need you to do me one more thing,” the man said suddenly, his voice calm, a sense of finality to it all, as if James' nightmare was about to be over.
“What is it?” James said, with apparent levels of apprehension.
A package passed across the table. No one else was taking any notice, but James felt naked. Exposed. Vulnerable. He grabbed the bag, feeling its weight, and slid it onto the floor as if it were a bomb or box of Class A drugs.
“What is it?” he repeated, a little more urgently, his blue eyes boring into the brown eyes of the man sitting just a few feet in front of him, the other side of the table.
“It's a piece of clever technology which will give me ears to listen into what is happening.” It would give him a lot more than that too, but he wasn't going to dwell on that. It was a remote hard drive, with transmitter ability, and could grab all electronic data within about twenty metres of its location. Telephone calls, video feed, emails––anything.
“What am I supposed to do with it?” he said.
“I need you to hide it inside the main control room at the base.”
James' eyes opened wide, and he looked around wildly for a second.
“You are out of your mind! There is no way I can do that!” His voice was raised a little, though no one reacted. The lady came back at that moment with the second order, placing it down in front of the man, the paper bill added to the first in the centre of the table. They remained silent for a few seconds, as she left them once again. The pause had been a useful cooling off period.
“I need you to do this, James. You are still on duty there at the moment, aren't you?” He knew he was, but it helped change the subject a little.
“Yes, why?”
“Look, I've arranged an opportunity for you to be able to go to the base later today, you'll be called soon. Someone will need some medical attention, which will be your natural way in.” He passed James an envelope which contained a small pouch. A needle and small bottle of medicine were inside.
“You'll need this with you. It’s the antidote to what the lady will be suffering from. You'll need to inject her before the shaking stops. You'll be fine. And when you are there, look for somewhere to stash my package. Somewhere central, in the main area, but somewhere well out of sight. It's important that they don't find it. You got me?”
“Yes, I've got you. And I don't like it one bit!”
He took a bite of the teacake and washed it down with some more tea. His phone rang. It was the base, asking him to come in. One of their members of staff was feeling unwell. Could he come at once? James' eyes flashed up to those of the man sitting in front of him, with his phone still to his ear. 'Who is this man?' he thought. 'What have I got myself into?'
“I've got to go. That was the call.” James got up, took out a five-pound note and dropped it on the table. He picked up the package, putting the envelope inside his jacket, and left the café.
The lady appeared again, hearing the bell, and came over to the table, picking up the paper bill and the money, which was too much.
“He's a doctor. Something came up suddenly,” the man said.
“No rest for the wicked,” she smiled, taking his dirty cup and plate away.
Before arriving at the café to meet James, he'd been at Eleanor's home. He had called in the night before as she had asked him to come round to pick up some stuff. Hours later, a bottle of wine sitting empty, Eleanor asleep on the bed, he had stirred himself and pulled himself free from the tangled bedclothes, covering up Eleanor again. He went in search of his clothes.
He took out a bottle of powder from his pocket. An odourless drug that he sprinkled over the coffee. It would take a little while to affect the body, just enough time to make you feel a bit unwell, before convulsions, even foaming at the mouth would begin. Left untreated, it was a poison and would kill. But it was quickly cured, which made it a standard drug with police interrogation teams around the world, though it was illegal in the UK.
Having spiked Eleanor's coffee, he watched a little television, keepin
g the sound down, before undressing and getting back into bed. To be double sure in the morning, he would make her coffee before saying goodbye. Getting under the covers, she turned over in her sleep, her body pressing against his, her breasts facing him, and he ran an arm over her, easing her onto her other side, and then fell asleep.
In the morning, they showered, got dressed. Eleanor was a little foggy about the night before and had quite a hangover, though she remembered the drunken sex they had had. He handed her a hot cup of coffee as she stepped out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around her.
“Thank you,” she said, taking a sip. She felt happy, glad that he was around again, wanting there to be more, a relationship, something for the future. She stopped thinking about it and got dressed. They both left the house before nine, going their separate ways. She was driving the one hour it took her to get to the base, and he went the other way but would wait twenty minutes before turning around and also going in that direction, to meet James in the café later that morning. Things were progressing well. By the end of the day, he might know what the big secret was; he could see the headlines already. His headlines. It was going to be huge.
James pulled up to the main security gates just twenty minutes after receiving the call for help. He was cleared and drove his red Mazda down the drive and parked in about the same spot he'd been in just days before. Opening up the boot of the car, he grabbed his black leather bag, the large kind all doctors seemed to carry and started to walk to the guarded main doors. They were expecting him. Inside his bag, he'd carefully placed the metal recording device he'd been given, as well as putting the needle and medication in there, now just part of his equipment, as he played the role of the good doctor with all the answers. He'd come to save another patient.
