There was only one thing for it, Amanda’s house on Jesus Lane. Amanda was a junior doctor. Close to completing her final year of clinical. They’d been seeing each other on and off for a few weeks before he disappeared. She wasn’t his usual type. She was independent, frighteningly bright and not afraid of speaking her mind. She was also an uninhibited, sensual lover and the switch from one personality to the other thrilled him.
Things had been going well, at least they’d gone well during the three dates and two nights they’d spent together. But that was before he’d disappeared. That was before he decided to turn up on her doorstep wearing nothing but a beard and a less-than-modest hospital gown.
He parked the Nissan as close to the house as he could. It was dark now. Half past five on a winter’s evening and the street was almost deserted. He could feel his stomach rumbling. How long since he’d had solid food? Who knew? He leant his weight against the buzzer and waited. Footsteps padded down the stairs and a muffled voice said be there in a sec. Jack started to shiver.
“What the hell?” Amanda’s housemate opened the door. Her voice was shrill, her face a picture of disgust. She tried to shut the door but Jack shoved his knee in the way. He grimaced as the door hit.
“Tara it’s me, Jack, Jack Hartman. Amanda’s friend. Is she around?” His voice still sounded strange to him. An old man’s voice, wheezy and pained.
Tara squinted, unwilling to open the door, but her body language relaxed a little, she seemed to recognise him through the beard.
“Jack? Oh yes, I remember,” she pouted and tilted her head to one side, “aren’t you the guy who hasn’t called for three weeks?” she said sarcastically. Jack was too weak for explanations. “Can I just see Amanda please?” he said again.
“Afraid not. She’s working at the hospital tonight. It’s her turn to stitch up the drunken idiots that stumble into casualty on a Friday night. Talking of which, what the hell are you wearing?” She looked him up and down. “This better not be some stupid stunt you and your drinking society buddies are pulling,” she cast a glance warily up and down the street, half expecting to catch sight of a bunch of similarly dressed pissed-up students. Jack took advantage of her shift in posture to push past her into the hallway. The shivering was getting out of control. He pressed himself against a radiator. Tara looked at him more closely, taking in the shaking, the hunted look in his eyes. She finally seemed to realise this wasn’t part of some stupid prank.
“What’s going on Jack? Are you ok?” She asked. Questions, questions. Jack really wasn’t in the mood.
“I’m fine, just need a lie down,” he replied hoarsely. He started to pull himself up the stairs, towards Amanda’s bedroom, but he only made it half way, his energy all gone, his strength used up. He fell forwards, passing out on the third step. The hospital gown fell open, exposing him from the waist down. Tara shook her head and went to fetch a blanket. She covered him with it, casting an appraising eye over his naked lower half as she did so. Jack Hartman might be a nut job but she could see one very distinct advantage to going out with him.
4
Sir Clive drummed his fingers impatiently on the desk. Dr.Calder was having trouble establishing a video link with Ed and the helicopter crew.
“Come on James, they’ll be there in 20 minutes. I want an image feed.” They’d managed to get a chopper scrambled and an explosives expert on board within the hour, but Sir Clive hated not knowing what was going on. If he was taking responsibility for a situation he wanted full control. See it as it happened, give instructions. The screens flickered. Indistinct grey shapes moving against a black background, Ed’s voice just audible above the static and thunder of the blades.
“On our way, Sir Clive. ETA is 6.30.”
“Switch to night vision Ed, we can’t see a damn thing,” Sir Clive said into the control desk mic. A view of the cockpit in garish green filled the screens.
“You know the drill. In quickly, a ten point phosphorous charge. All I want left is cinders.”
“Roger Sir Clive. We’re prepped and ready to go.”
“Excellent, we’ll keep a visual but I’m closing down comms till you land. Mary’s got some info on the man who got away.”
Mary Dalkeith handed Sir Clive a dull brown paper folder and took a seat at the table.
“These are the volunteers?” He asked. Mary nodded.
“Based on the visual we got from their security cams I’ve highlighted the most likely candidate. Patient ‘C’. Looks the right height and build.” Sir Clive scanned quickly over the details; his ability to analyse and memorise lists was a legend in the Service.
“I still don’t understand why he woke up. I thought they would have pumped enough sedatives into him to keep an elephant down,” he said, eyes fixed on the page.
“People react differently, they metabolise at different rates. Depends on your size and level of fitness.” Dr.Calder replied. “An exceptional athlete might need a much higher dose, he looks quite fit in the CCTV footage.” Sir Clive grunted his dissatisfaction.
“What the hell is this?” he said, his finger jabbing at the patient’s background details. “He’s a Cambridge undergraduate? A King’s Scholar?” He threw the paper down angrily. His fist banging the table.
“Did I not make myself clear in the brief? Did I not state explicitly that I wanted a bunch of no-hopers, junkies, losers and hobos for this trial? Invisible citizens. People no one misses. What were you thinking James? What the hell were you thinking?” Dr. Calder took a deep breath and swallowed.
“We passed that brief on to the lab,” he said quickly, his voice strained. “It was their responsibility to select the participants. We thought we’d made our views pretty clear.” Sir Clive ran a hand through his bristling white hair. He kept it cropped close to head. Impossible to manage at any other length.
“It is never, ever, someone else’s responsibility in this business,” he said, stabbing his finger at Dr. Calder. “You should know that James, you’ve been here long enough. Check, double check, then check again. Every tiny detail. Shit.” He said, breathing deeply, bringing himself under control.
It wasn’t just the fact that the patient would be missed that annoyed him. He was pissed off that they’d used a Cambridge student. The country was in a bad enough state as it was without risking the brightest minds of the next generation. He pushed the file away, clenching and unclenching his fists.
“What was the incubation period for the device?” He asked, his mind back on the practicalities of the task at hand.
“Three weeks inside the body, then it can survive outside the host. We don’t know what its lifespan will be once it’s been extracted. Could be a matter of days, could be months.” Dr. Calder replied. He knew Sir Clive’s rages, although fierce while they burned, blew over quickly. He didn’t labour a point. Didn’t need to, if his staff made the same mistake twice they were out on their ear.
In the helicopter over Marcon Pharmaceuticals Ed Garner made a final check of the equipment. Remote detonators, heavy charges, and a hell of a lot of explosive. It was a simple task. A lot easier than usual. There were no hostiles to deal with for a start. Just a case of getting in and out as quickly as possible, ensuring there were no mistakes. The explosives expert the Service had provided him with looked pretty competent. A surly Scot named Gavin McCallister, who’d said about three words since they took off. Ed preferred it that way. The man’s track record spoke volumes. Both Gulf Wars, insurgencies in the Sudan and Tchad. He’d certainly been around.