Tim Heath Thriller Boxset

by Tim Heath

  “We are looking for my son,” Clive said, taking the lead.

  “Can I see your ID, sir,” he replied, no hint of this being a suggestion in his voice. That was an order.

  “I don't have anything on me, I'm afraid. My daughter was in such a state when she called, hearing that her brother was being treated here. We thought he was dead. She just heard today. I came and got her straight away. What else was I meant to do?”

  If they were father and daughter, he couldn't tell. Clearly, she'd got her good looks from her mother.

  “I'm sorry, sir, but I am going to have to ask you to leave.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said you have to leave. You cannot be in here if you do not have any identification. This is a hospital. Not a shopping centre.”

  “Last time I was here, no one needed ID to visit family.”

  The SAS officer was already leading Clive by the arm. Clive was in no position to resist.

  “What about me?” Emma said.

  “You can carry on and find your brother,” the officer informed her. She looked genuine enough. They were not the first people to not have ID while searching for relatives.

  As they were approaching the front entrance, the SAS officer casually turned to Clive and said:

  “What did you say that your son's name was again?”

  Clive, for once, had no idea what Emma had said.

  “Pardon?” he said, a little too hesitant.

  “Your son's name. What is it?”

  “Matthew,” he said, making it up as best he could. The other guard looked up and shook his head. The SAS man turned and went after Emma, leaving the guards at the entrance with Clive. One turned to him and said:

  “You're coming with us.”

  “I'm a journalist,” Clive said, showing them his press card. “I'm just chasing a story, that's all. I'm not here to cause you any harm.”

  They noted down his name. The truth was they didn't want to make a scene. The same man said to Clive:

  “I don't know what you are doing here, but hear me clearly when I say this. You are not welcome here and are no longer allowed anywhere near this facility. If we see you back here, you will be in a lot of trouble.”

  At that moment, the other guard took a photo of Clive, the flash making him blink.

  “You have no right to take my photo!” Clive shouted. “I demand that you delete it immediately!”

  “In here, we have every right. The safety of our patients dictates we monitor everyone who visits. And you have broken the rules and tried to get in here, for whatever reason you might have. You are lucky we are letting you walk out of here. If there is a next time, and I strongly advise against that, you won't be walking away. Now beat it!”

  With that, they pushed him through the doors, helping him on his way. He kept his footing and stood outside waiting. Three minutes later Emma was given the same treatment, her photo taken before she was also, a little more gently in her case, shown out of the door.

  Their photos would be analysed, and their identity confirmed. As Clive and Emma walked away from the building, they were no more precise on what was happening, but their minds were racing with possibilities.

  “I laid eyes on one of those central three red highlighted rooms,” Emma said as they walked back towards the car. “Two guards were standing outside. I couldn't see anything inside. Whoever was in that room, they don't want anyone to find out.”

  “That's great work, Emma. Really good. I can see you going far. Why don't we go for a drink to celebrate? After all that, I bet you could do with one!”

  She agreed, and they went off in search of somewhere to get a drink, Clive enjoying the company and the challenge.

  John was about twenty minutes into his latest session with the doctor concerning his memory loss. They were now working through some exercises which, for a few people, would have already started producing some limited results. He wanted to see John feeling comfortable with the whole procedure first, before playing his trump cards. If those didn't work, then none of the exercises was likely to make any difference for John. So far there was nothing to suggest there would be an improvement.

  At least it was less stressful than the morning's physiotherapy session had been. For the first time in weeks, Lorna, with the guidance and help of a physiotherapist, had attempted to get John to take his first steps since arriving there, but with little success. The lack of movement, compounded by the initial injuries to his legs and back, meant the muscles had started wasting. It was a painful and disappointing setback for John, though Lorna had felt that the physiotherapist––a younger but experienced man––had not been displeased with the session. He'd seen this a lot in his line of work. It would just take time, effort and lots of mental strength. Lorna knew John had all these and she would undoubtedly play her part in getting him walking again. They'd talked a little about it, but John was unusually silent in the minutes following the session. It was as if he realised just how far he had to go. Getting out of the bed was now just the start of the challenges that lay ahead. And of course, in the back of his mind, even walking was only one stage in where he was heading. At some point, as yet still unknown to him, he would need his legs to walk the walk. The final one he'd ever do. A decisive one. A trail that, he hoped anyway, would save the lives of millions by making himself the sacrifice. Or so he'd been told through the visions. The more he thought about it, the stranger it all seemed. It was as if, with some gap now in time from the images he had seen, his belief was starting to waiver. He would not let this be known, of course. Maybe it was natural to think that way, devoid of any connection to the events about which he had been warned. When faced with it, surely he'd be able to do it. But he'd keep these thoughts to himself. Lorna didn't need to hear this side of him. Not now anyway. He did not know whether this was something he should talk through with her at all. He knew that she wouldn't understand. So he'd decided to bury it.

  It was currently just John with the doctor, as the memory recovery session continued. He was much more talkative now, and needed to be too. The exercises, for the moment, needed his complete attention. Soon he'd need to allow himself to drift off a little, the doctor probing and prompting, asking things in such a way as to engage all areas of the brain. Just as someone might shake an apple tree to free some falling fruit, so the brain sometimes responds in kind, offering up all sorts of lost or hidden information. And sometimes, in cases like John's, there could be whole chunks of buried memory.

  Forty minutes later they were finished with the latest session. John was now starting to feel the strain of the two workouts: one very physical, the latest mentally draining. Together they were now taking their toll on him. John needed to sleep and, as the doctor packed up, he was already drifting off.

  The doctor wanted to have a word with Lorna, but there was not much space just outside the door, even though the two soldiers moved a little. Instead, they both walked a short way down the corridor away from the guards, before stopping to talk with each other.

  “I heard this morning was hard on John.”

  “Yes, but from what the physio told me, it was fairly normal under the circumstances. He said he'd seen much worse,” she commented, before asking; “How are the memory exercises going?”

  “To be honest, if something were going to happen, I would have hoped that there would have been some response by now, at least something from the exercises. Usually, they prompt something. And for all my patients that have regained anything, they'd all responded better than John has so far. I'm not holding my breath.”

  Lorna felt for her patient at that moment, a level of care only a nurse can have in such intense circumstances. She wondered what it would feel like to remember nothing. If her memories of James, as sad as they currently were since his death, if those memories were suddenly gone. All the good times. The trips, the happy moments. What it felt like to be in love, to be loved. What it felt like to have him run his hands through her hair, ho
w he held her head as they kissed. The little things. The important things. She couldn't begin to understand what it was like. And then that feeling came back. Added to all that he was feeling and experiencing, the emptiness of any memory he once had, they'd added their own images to his mind. A lie. The big lie. And this was now starting to resonate in her heart. Doubt was creeping in, the longer she was with him. She didn't love him. She was fairly certain of that, as much as she could be certain about anything. But she was starting to doubt if she could really do it to him, the more she got to know him, to like him. And that was a scary thought, and something she'd certainly keep to herself. One word of that to the team watching her and she was off the case, for sure. Probably wouldn't be allowed anywhere near the hospital. She'd seen the increased security, the more visible army presence. Though not really sure why, or what the threat was, she was certain that it was all for John. He was as heavily guarded as any President would be.

  The doctor had been talking, but she did not hear his latest question, until he repeated it, stopped, and then touched her arm.

  “You were a million miles away, weren't you.” He was warm, smiling, gentle with her.

  “I'm sorry,” Lorna said. She was obviously embarrassed.

  “Don't be. You must be very tired. You are with John constantly, right?” He too was aware of the increased security, the protection around such a high profile and yet average looking man. It had taken a lot of checking and clearance for him to be allowed to see the patient. He'd been briefed, a little anyway, about the client before he'd first met him. He knew something of what was hoped. Of what, and who, John represented. And he was entirely onboard with it all. He too had loved ones, family now miles from where he had to work. He wanted, as did so many, to live beyond it all. To have hope, to have a future. John represented that. He was their best chance.

  “Yeah, I've been with him since he first woke up. It's less intense than it was, but there is also more time now, and less to talk about. So we're venturing into new areas. I guess if something does happen with his memory, that will at least give us a lot more to go on.”

  “It's not looking hopeful though, you picked that up, right?”

  “Yes...I was listening to you, honestly.” She smiled. She continued:

  “Is there any hope that he will remember anything? They say in the final moments of life; it's comforting to have some memories to take you through to the other side.”

  “It's hard to say, but my gut feeling is that the exercises we're doing will provide limited recovery if any improvement at all. We need to see how the next two sessions go. I do have a few good options up my sleeve, but always tend to use these last, when the patient is already fully invested in the process, and relaxed with me.”

  “And after that?”

  “After that, it depends. Like I've said before, with trauma patients, we look for trigger points. Photos, videos, anything that is a stirring reminder of what life once was. Family members even coming to see the patient. That can be hard though, with the patient feeling worried that the person in front of them is a total stranger, and the family member distraught from seeing their loved one in that state, often hostile to them. It's not always a great solution.”

  “And in John's case, it's not a viable option, either.”

  “Yes, I heard about that. The family have been told that he's dead. He should have been anyway. From what the team told me, everyone with him was killed. If they were to find out, then, of course, that would complicate matters.”

  “I think it would do more than that. As a parent, if you found your lost son, who you thought was dead, would you then let him willingly walk into something that would kill him, especially when he's telling you he's seen all these visions...?” She stopped. There seemed no need to go any further. They were also not entirely alone where they were.

  “I get you. So, as you see, the options are limited. I do have a final few exercises to work through with John, so there is always hope. In some exceptional cases, these have produced the desired results. My hunch, given a choice, is that the trigger points are his best shot.”

  Lorna smiled. She knew a lot about exceptions.

  “The biggest exception of them all is lying in that room right there. Quite why John survived, I still do not know.”

  “Well, it's good for us that he did. At least we know there is hope. Have you heard the news from today?”

  “No,” she said, not that she'd heard that much of anything for about a week now. Her life had been the hospital.

  “They say the reactors cannot last for much longer. Unofficially, I heard, they think it's a matter of weeks if that. The radiation dust from them all has increased steadily over the last few days.”

  Lorna just looked at him; there was a finality in his tone, but the slightest sparkle of hope still left in his eyes. She wondered if he could say the same for her, at that moment.

  “I guess that focuses the mind. We have a couple of weeks, at best, to get this guy walking again. After that, who knows?”

  Neither of them did. At that moment, no one especially knew what it would involve, what it would take. What it would cost them. They would just have to find out. And that moment was drawing ever closer.

  20

  Clive slammed the phone down on his desk, clearly annoyed. He'd just had word that John's family had been told; someone had leaked to them the suggestion that John was still alive. It would ruin his scoop. However, what annoyed him far more than that was to think that someone in his team, a small one at that, could have been the source of this leak. It had happened many times before. To the young or inexperienced, hot news was just too good not to share. Careless Talk Costs Lives had been the famous Second World War slogan in the UK. Never was a truer phrase spoken than in Clive's world of journalism. Usually, it was rephrased to Careless Talk Costs Money, and often they'd add and Jobs to that as well. They had not expected that in the present case the original statement would be the truer one. Lives were now at stake. And Clive was fuming. He stormed out of his office. To remain would be foolishness; Clive would do more harm than good. He needed instead to find out what had happened. If someone from his team had spoken to anyone, they were finished. Even if it had been Emma, nice as the drink had been with her, enjoyable as the kiss in the car had been when he'd made his move. For a while she had let it happen then she recollected herself and had stopped it. Maybe now, therefore, she was looking for an out, or looking for some form of a comeback? Some revenge? Well, if it were her, he would find out. He always did. Just now, he felt like stringing someone up by their neck, to hang them so that the whole office got the message: on something this big, this important, this good, you don't go shouting your mouth off. You don't ruin the story before its time. Anyone doing that isn't thinking like a real journalist. They indeed weren't acting like a team player. He was beside himself with emotion. He needed fresh air.

  What he didn't know, was that no one had leaked the news from his team. They were all too scared, as well as too immature, to understand the value of the story to the highest bidder. It had been in fact the secret service team from Africa. That morning, posing as reporters intent on bringing some good news, they'd knocked on the countryside front door of John's parents and spoken with his mother. Initially, she didn't want to talk, disliking the apparent intrusion. She was angry that the same people, journalists, were coming for more dirt, from the same filthy industry that had been responsible for killing her only child. Nearly having the door slammed in their faces, they'd merely asked her how she felt to hear the news that her son was alive. She'd frozen on the spot and asked them to repeat what they'd just said. They'd played the part well, being the bearers of good news at such a difficult time for the nation. The information was given to the mother as to where her son was being kept. There was no more information than that. None was needed. Plant enough hope and they knew the mother would do the rest. It was another well-planned distraction technique employed by the African secre
t service team operating illegally in the UK. Their sole aim was to silence the possible truth that they'd been behind the accident. That, far from actually being an accident, it had been a deliberate attack; an act of war, no doubt, in their victims' eyes if ever they knew. What that Indian technician had done, when he went against their orders and sent out that final message from the probe, was to make them vulnerable. The Africans did not know why ever he had done that. He'd also gone missing since it had all happened. It was hoped that a team had got to him and made him pay for his actions, actions that could lead to a military showdown if the British were ever to find out that this was no accident. The one final threat, therefore, as they now saw it, remained with this freak survivor, John. And one way or the other, they needed to get sight of him. If it was through Clive and his team, they were happy. If it were through the family, that too would work out for them.

  The two-person team that had broken the news to the mother had remained in the shadows, watching the property. They were there to keep a track on her, to follow her. And sure enough, less than twenty minutes after they'd gate crashed the mourning of her lost son, she was seen leaving, overnight bag packed and placed in her car on the front seat next to her. They watched her back out of her driveway and head in the general direction of London. It would take her some time to get there, but they were now following her anyway. The passenger in the tailing car took out her phone and called ahead:

  “She's on her way, as planned. Will be with you in around two hours, depending on traffic. We are following behind her. We'll call you when we get there.”

  With that, they finished the call. The net was closing. Soon there would be nowhere to go.

  Clive had been making calls for the last thirty minutes. His usual sources, when stories got leaked in the past, had revealed nothing. That was unusual. It might mean that it wasn't from his office, or was in fact from someone so senior that they knew Clive's go to people, and had avoided them. That said, none of those people was in his team; they were off the hook for the time being. Maybe someone else from the office had got wind of something and was doing their own digging? He would keep close to his sources and see where it might lead. It lightened his mood somewhat to realise it wasn't a traitor within his team and he went to find some coffee.