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In 2017, against a backdrop of a devastating plague, there is a covert research programme underway. Jeremy Moorecliff and Samantha Howard become unwitting players pulled into a deadly game that threatens to destroy them both, but it just might offer them an unexpected chance of happiness. The Healing Dagger
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Author's Note: I have significantly overhauled this story and, I hope, rescued it from the sloppy way I originally put it together. When I reread it a few months ago I had to cringe. At least now it marks the start point for the future adventures of our heroine. ~Persephone
© Persephone 2009, revised 2011
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Chapter 1 - Prologue
Samantha Howard looked down at the fitfully sleeping patient. On his face and chest the telltale purple scabs of Avian plague had blossomed like obscene flowers against the pallid white skin, once more leaving her nauseous and slightly afraid of this vile disease. She closed her eyes for a moment, wishing away the tiredness and the anguish she felt when facing yet another victim. There were so many victims, always so many.
Behind her Nurse McRae twittered on. "He's remarkably lucky to have had such a mild reaction to the virus; particularly considering his age and general condition. There's not a lot in his file.” The nurse briefly skimmed through the slim folder. “A wife, Caroline. Died four years ago from ovarian cancer. Clean bill of health six years ago on leaving the Army. There is a marker to be alert for signs of post traumatic stress disorder, but the military put that on most of their records now to cover their backs. There’s no record of his registering with a doctor locally."
One hand had fallen outside the covers. It surprised Sam to see the neatly trimmed nails and tidy cuticles. A simple gold band on the ring finger briefly caught the light.
"As you can see, the worst of the lesions have started to fade, and his colour is beginning to return. His temperature peaked at 41 degrees about 72 hours ago, but he's stabilised now. Remarkably, his blood pressure barely changed from 120 over 80 throughout the critical phase. That was why Professor Pullen took an interest. You should have seen the Professor’s excitement when the blood and pathology results came back. He also insisted on a full environment assessment from Social Services,” Nurse McRae’s lips momentarily tugged upwards in a brief apologetic smile as she glanced at the exhausted social worker, “and that’s why you’re here."
Nurse McRae looked expectantly down at the young woman who appeared to carry the weight of the world on her shoulders and its pain in her eyes.
Just thirty, Samantha Howard already felt old before her time, and the last six months of the plague had aged her considerably more. At twenty nine she had been one of the youngest team leaders in Manchester’s social services department and was marked out for a bright future. Then her world had come crashing down. The young joy rider who smashed into her little Fiat Uno had left her deeply impaled on a spike of his radiator grill, her husband dead beside her, as he ran off into the back streets and alleys of Moss Side.
The police pursuit of the stolen BMW had turned instantly into a desperate race to cut the young couple from the wreckage and rush them to hospital. A gruesome battle surrounded by swirling blue lights and the stink of petrol whilst Samantha screamed with pain as the spike held her pinned to her seat.
They said later that she was really lucky; that the surgery had been almost 100% successful. The almost was that she lost her uterus and her husband, and her dreams of being a mother.
As soon as she was able, she threw herself back into her work to cover the anguish of never having Mike beside her again, never having his babies. She had so wanted to be a mother it had hurt. Now, all that was left was a gaping wound in both her body and soul. Her colleagues worried about her single mindedness to the job, until the plague struck. Since then, no one had time to worry. They were all too busy dealing with the carnage.
Samantha opened her eyes reluctantly, “what’s his name?”
Sally McRae flicked once more through the case file to the personal details section.
“Jeremy Moorcliffe.” She snapped shut the case file to avoid learning any more and quickly thrust it at Samantha.
“Well, He’s all yours. We will be discharging him tomorrow morning.” She jerked up a hand to forestall Sam’s exclamation. “We need the beds! Another eleven cases came in today and nine are still lying on gurneys in the corridors.” She paused and hunched her shoulders. “Two died.”
In that brief moment Sam saw the pain flicker in Sally McRae’s eyes and understood; it hurt less if they were only patients to be treated, not people with lives and loves and a family. The nurses and doctors could cope only if they could hide behind their profession, but even then the desperate scale of the tragedy had scarred even the most compassionate. Sam reached up and squeezed Sally McRae’s hand. The nurse paused for a small dejected smile before turning sharply away leaving Sam to read the contents of the slim folder for herself.
I opened my eyes to see Caroline sitting beside the bed, her head lowered over some file while she toyed idly with the tips of her ash blond hair. I tried to remember something about Caroline, something important; then the sour smell of antiseptic caught my nose and I spotted the curtains around the bed. What was I doing in hospital? Perhaps Caroline would explain.
“Caroline?”
She looked up with an apologetic smile and I stared into gentle, smoky blue eyes.
“No, I’m sorry Jeremy. I’m Samantha Howard, Sam for short. You are in hospital, the Royal Victoria. What do you remember?”
“I was in work and started to feel funny. Someone helped me to sit down, then not a lot. What happened?”
“Jeremy, you were infected with Avian plague. The doctors and nurses have been fighting for the last four days to save you. You pulled through.”
“I thought it was almost always lethal?”
She smiled at me. “The key word there is almost. You are one of the lucky ones.”
A sharp little laugh escaped without my thinking. Lucky? For the last four years I had stopped living and had merely existed. I get a golden chance to slip quietly and honourably away to rejoin Caroline and I flunk it. I would have cried if I had known how to.
I glanced up to see Sam watching me carefully; and I suspected she had seen more of my thoughts than I wanted as those smoky blue eyes clouded momentarily with a poignant sadness before she turned away.
“Jeremy, I work with social services. Normally I wouldn’t be involved, but we need your help. As I said, you are one of the lucky ones, but we don’t know why. For every hundred people who catch the disease, eighty seven die. We are trying to find how the disease spreads, who is at risk, and why certain people, like yourself, manage to shake it off. We are really fortunate that we have Professor Pullen here at the Royal Victoria doing research into the genetic structure of avian plague, and what it targets within the Human Genome. He has asked if you would help us to try and find out more about the disease and how we can beat it. Will you? If you would like some time to think about it I understand.”
Again those smoky blue eyes caught mine with a silent plea. I didn’t need to think about it. It was duty, and it gave me a reason to go on.
“Of course.”
“Thank you.” Sam smiled and reached forward to cup my cheek with her hand. Such a simple thing, a little touch of human warmth and comfort, and something I had missed for so long.
“Professor Pullen will come and talk with you later today. Then we will get you home tomorrow and make a start on trying to find out why you. First though, is there anyone you would like me to call?”
I thought for a moment. Should I let the office know? My contract was due to end next week and I couldn’t really see myself going back there. Was there anyone else?
“No, thank you.” She gave me another of those careful looks.
“I’ll try to come back and see you this evening. Until then get some rest.”
My eyes followed her as she walked away until long after she was out of sight. Much later I fell into a light doze.
A loud bumptious voice startled me awake.
“Right! Gather round. The subject is a forty seven year old male who recently recovered from the H5N1c virus. You have all seen the notes, who can tell me what is unusual about this case?”
A gaggle of young doctors were crowded round my bed, eyeing me like a laboratory specimen. The loud bumptious voice belonged to a long angular face perched at the top of a long angular body, giving the impression of a rather ugly and malnourished horse.
“Professor, is it the blood pressure?”
“No, it’s because he’s alive!” whinnied the professor, highly amused by his own joke. The youngsters had the grace to look embarrassed as they saw me awake.
The professor turned. “Hello young man. I gather you are going to be our new guinea pig.”
He then proceeded to completely ignore me as he pointed out various interesting features of my case to his entourage. Within minutes my initial irritation rapidly turned to active dislike of the horse faced old prat and was glad when he breezed off a few minutes later without a backward glance. I was getting fed up of biting my tongue. The young doctors followed shamefacedly, trying to avoid eye contact with me.
Sam didn’t make it back that evening, but Nurse McRae came over and passed on a message apologizing, and promising to pick me up first thing in the morning. I passed the evening either dozing or trying to find something edible on the meal tray I was presented. I slept badly that night.
It was only eight in the morning when Samantha found herself sitting in front of the large desk in the Professor’s office whilst he lectured her on what he expected and how she should do her job. She knew that Professor Pullen was a genius and his work had made massive contributions to medical science. She just wished he wasn’t such an obnoxious shit.
“You’ve got one week Mrs. Howard. I want an in depth assessment of the subject. Everyone he knows, where he has been, what he has for breakfast, the colour of his underpants, the works. Get the report done and get it to Robert here.”
The Professor waved a languid arm towards the corner where a ferret like little man sat hunched and quietly smiling to himself. Sam glanced across and felt Roberts’s eyes lingering on her, making her think longingly of a hot shower. She gave a taut little smile, wanting to get out of the room and away from both those slimy eyes and the obnoxious Professor as fast as politely possible.
“Is there anything else Professor?”
“No.” He turned and started hammering at his keyboard. Sam stood up uncertainly, looked from the back of the Professor’s head to where Robert was still quietly smiling in the corner, walked quickly to the door and let herself out.
The hammering from the keyboard paused a few minutes later. “Will she do?” The professor threw the question out without turning.
“I think so. Her reputation is good, and she is worked off her feet like everyone else. She will produce the report and then forget about it.”
“If not?”
Robert’s smile grew. “I’ll deal with it, don’t worry.”
“We need this one. He’s too good a match.”
“As I said, don’t worry about it.”
The professor grunted and Robert got quietly to his feet and ambled out.
I was sitting by my bed, tightly clutching a carrier bag with my meagre possessions when Sam arrived the next morning. I felt so relieved to see her. She had been the only person to show any interest in me in all the time I had been awake in hospital, and I had felt almost childishly let down when she didn’t make it last night.
As if reading my thoughts she smiled apologetically at me. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t able to get back. I had to hand over my caseload to a colleague. Shall we get you home?” I sprang up from the hard backed chair and had a sudden dizzy spell. Sam slipped an arm under mine to steady me and I caught the faintest scent of an eau de toilette. Guerlain? Givenchy? Something like that. Slightly old fashioned and restrained. I thought I should remember it from somewhere and paused frowning.
“Jeremy, are you ok? Would you like to sit down again?”
“What? Sorry, oh no. I’m fine now.”
We managed to get outside to Sam’s car in the underground staff car park without any mishaps. It was a nice little Volkswagen Beetle in a pearlescent blue. I smiled to myself; it was such a feminine car. I peeked inside. Yep, there was even a flower in the dashboard vase, a white rose. Without reaching for a key, Sam pulled open the door and helped me in.
“Shouldn’t you keep it locked?”
“Why bother? It’s in a secure car park. Anyway, there’s a CCTV over there, and a panic button there so it’s safe.”
I looked. The camera was fixed and pointing in completely the wrong way.
“Sam, you ought to be more careful. One day you may get in and find someone hidden in your back seat. Please promise you will lock the car from now on?”
She grinned, lighting up the dreary car park for a moment, “OK, I’ll do it,” then solicitously guided me into the passenger seat like an old lady.
We drove out of the hospital, past the brand new genetics research centre and into the centre of Manchester. Beyond my giving Sam directions to the flat our conversation was stilted and awkward and it was a relief when we pulled into the car park of the apartment block.
My flat was in a nice part of town near the old canals and I was rather proud of it. For some obscure reason I wanted Sam to like it too and made a bit of a performance of letting her in, then stepping back to watch her reaction.
“Jeremy, this is lovely! What a wonderful colour scheme, and who is the artist of those paintings? They are so alive and vibrant. ”
Even as the words came out I think Sam realized she had made a mistake. I turned my face away quickly and headed for the kitchen.
“Can I get you anything to drink? Tea? Coffee?”
“Tea would be nice. Thank you.” She paused for a moment whilst I busied myself with the kettle.
“She was a wonderful artist, wasn’t she?” I looked around into those smoky blue eyes that seemed to know me better than I knew myself.
“How did you know?”
“She signed them.”
I sagged onto a stool and drew a ragged breath.
“I loved her with all my heart and soul you know?”
Sam said nothing. She didn’t need to. Her eyes expressed her understanding far better than mere words and, without thinking, I suddenly found myself unburdening all my fears and hopes and tragedies in a desperate stream, the torrent of words rushing to escape after being imprisoned for so long.
Eventually I ran out of breath and looked around to see the cold kettle. “Oh shit! I’ve been talking for ages and I didn’t even get you that tea. I’m so sorry, that was really selfish of me.”
Five minutes later we were sitting at the table with mugs of tea and all of Sam’s notes spread around her. I got up to offer some homemade cake but after seeing the mould that had appeared I thought better of it and discreetly swept the cake into the bin.
Sam watched with amusement as I wiped down the side and dropped the cake tin in the sink. “Are you always this tidy?
I grinned. “I had to be. Caroline was a wonderful artist but was never going to be a domestic goddess. My problem is that I love cooking and spent fifteen years in the Army.”
Sam grinned back at me over her tea. “I bet you even did the ironing.”
“Absolutely, it’s very therapeutic.”
At that she burst out laughing and I felt daring enough to voice a thought that had been growing in the back of my mind.
“May I ask a question? When we were in the hospital and you mentioned about me being lucky, I felt you saw straight into me. Why do I think you know exactly what I have been feeling?”
Sam looked down for a moment and drew a deep breath.
“I should have remembered that when we are watching people and thinking, they are watching and thinking right back.” She sighed slowly before turning those smoky blues on me once more. “You’re right.”
Slowly and hesitantly, Sam told me her story, tears leaking unnoticed from her eyes. How the BMW had come out of nowhere, the sight of the terrified teenager behind the wheel at the moment of impact. Waking to find she was alone again, and had lost any chance of her final ambition, to be a mother. I wanted to put my arms around her and let her know I understood, that I cared, and wanted to help. I felt a small and deeply hidden part of my soul begin to thaw.
Sam then looked up, straight into my eyes, and again caught me off guard with her perception. “Why can’t you cry?”
I was too shocked by her question to even try to lie or evade. The answer popped out before I realized.
“Bosnia.”
We stared at each other for a few moments, each shocked by how much we had opened up about ourselves; how much we had discovered. I wanted to retreat from the awful truth of the Balkans and changed the subject.
“Sam, it’s late and I’ve kept you talking here for hours. I would offer to cook but the inside of the fridge is a mess. May I buy you dinner? Please?”
She paused for a moment, thinking, as I held my breath.
“I’d like that. Thank you.”
The next four days were some of the happiest I could remember since Caroline. It was still work and a professional relationship, and we spent hours going though every aspect of my life, recording it all for the professor. But underneath, I knew we were both becoming true friends. I didn’t know where it would lead, and was afraid to risk something so fragile, but I knew it was there.
I watched as Sam closed her notebook and laid down the pen, gently massaging the stiffness from her fingers.
“Tomorrow I need to sit down and type up my report so I will be stuck in the office all day.”
“What will happen after that?”
“Oh, the professor will probably cross reference all the details and you may need to go in for more tests.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.”
We both looked away, unwilling to damage something so fragile with words. Sam broke the silence.
“It would probably be a good idea if I checked you are ok in a week or so. Just to make sure you are fully recovered, you understand?”
I smiled and my heart missed a beat. “I understand.”
It was late in the afternoon and Robert stood by the window to catch the light as he flicked through the completed report. Occasionally he would glance across at Samantha, watching with amusement the taut set of her shoulders and the hands clutched tightly in her lap. Eventually he dropped the file on the professor’s desk.
“So he’s alone? What did you think of him?”
“I’m not sure I should speak to anyone but the Professor about that. It’s an issue of client confidentiality.”
He smiled at Sam again, setting her teeth on edge.
“Of course, I understand. Did you like him?”
Sam wanted to escape the mocking slimy smile and decided she wasn’t going to share anything with this man. Her voice was sharp as she tried to cover her unease. “No, and I don’t appreciate being kept from my normal cases like this. In future find someone else.”
Robert’s smile grew wider.
“I’m sure that could be arranged. Thank you Mrs Howard. Good day.”
As Sam turned to leave the Professor barged into the room.
“All done? Good. Before you leave Mrs Howard, I want a sample of DNA for reference. You’ve spent time with the subject so in case of cross contamination I need to make sure I can eliminate you.”
“His name is Jeremy.”
“Who?”
“He’s not ‘the subject’, his name is Jeremy.”
The professor grunted as he reached for a fresh blood collection kit from his drawer. “Really? Well let’s just get that sample and you can get back to your real job.”
Later that afternoon, long after an angry Samantha had escaped from the research centre, Robert Devereau slipped into the Professor’s office clutching the report.
“You’re right, he’s ideal.”
“There was nothing missing from her report?”
“No, it was extremely thorough. She would have made a good interrogator for my old organization.”
“So when do you plan to do it?”
“Tomorrow.”
The Professor grunted his approval and turned his back in dismissal yet Robert Devereau hovered for a few moments longer.
“One question Professor. Why take her DNA sample?”
“Simple. She’s petite and blonde. I like blondes and the smaller frame will be easier to manage. Keep track on her though. If she goes back to find him in the next week or so you know what to do.”
“Of course Professor.” Robert left quietly, leaving the Professor to his thoughts.
That night, in a quiet pub in the nearby suburb of Congleton, two men met.
“How soon will we have all the data?”
“Six months.”
“Any problems?”
“Nothing I can’t handle.”
“Fine. Once we have the data kill them all and destroy the evidence. At the first suspicion of a leak, kill them all and destroy the evidence. Is the nurse appropriate?”
“He will do.”
“You sound unconvinced?”
“He is damaged goods. The drink problem worries me.”
“No matter. He is the best we can manage at this short notice, but keep an eye on him. Afterwards of course, he will not be a problem”
“Of course.”
With that Robert Devereau stood up and walked out without turning round.
Chapter 2 — The Subject
“Jeremy? Jeremy Moorecliff?”
I looked round to see a small guy with a sharp nose and receding hairline waving from across the rather tatty bar. I had never seen him before in my life. He slipped through the crowd gathered around the quiz machine and made a beeline for me. As he approached he must have seen the puzzlement on my face because he smiled.
“I’m Robert Devereau.” He switched his pint over and stuck his hand out. “We met ten days ago, but you were completely out of it. I work for Prof Pullen.”
We shook.
“Ah, that explains it.” I grinned. ”I haven’t seen you in here before though.” I waved a hand to encompass the faded plush and lino of the Salford branch of the Royal British Legion. A place where the aging drinkers still kept their shoes polished, trousers ironed and war stories fresh for unsuspecting newcomers. It wasn’t exactly me, but the beer was cheap and I needed to watch the pennies whilst looking for work.
“The professor keeps me too busy. I am ex-services though. Six years in the Royal Military Police.”
“You don’t look like a copper.”
Robert grinned. “I wasn’t a very good one. I left and did some security jobs before taking over as head of security at the research centre when it was set up. I don’t know if you remember, but at the time there were all sorts of weirdos making threats. Now I spend my time checking passes and running errands.”
“So what brings you down here?”
“The running errands bit. I gather you are a database administrator?”
My ears pricked up. Being an IT contractor meant you were always on the lookout for the next job and I had found them in stranger places than here before now.
“Yes, Oracle, Microsoft SQL and DB2. I’ve been doing it for about six years now. What do you need?”
“Well, we have a data migration project coming up and our IT team are maxed out, so some help would be welcome for the next six months. Look, can I get you another pint?”
I argued half heartedly, but my mind was already on a six month contract. I was thinking about how much to charge when he came back.
“Here you go. Cheers.” We dived straight in to discussing the project.
Twenty minutes later Robert looked at his watch.
“Shit! I need to get home. Look, Jerry. Are you up for it? If you are, I’ve got all the details in my car. I’ll leave them with you and we can catch up tomorrow morning.”
We wandered out of the legion and around the corner. I started feeling a bit woozy. Two pints shouldn’t do that! Then I remembered the antibiotics I was on. I just hoped I wouldn’t embarrass myself in front of a potential employer. As we turned a second corner there was a large van in front of me. Surprised, I turned to see Robert still smiling gently and felt a sharp prick in my neck before everything spun into darkness.
Once more I found myself running through the blackened village, a shattered minaret hanging drunkenly above the track that twisted between the ruins. So often had I been here that I knew my way without thinking. I pushed on, my breath coming in short gasps, as I struggled up the hill towards the little farm. As I ran the piles of dark rubble grew higher and I had to climb over them to reach the farm. I scrabbled higher and higher. If I could just reach the farm I knew I could save them, Carolan, Mira and pretty little Svetlana who always came running, hoping for a treat. I reached out to steady myself to find the rubble shifting, catching my arm. I looked down to see a tiny blackened hand pulling at my sleeve. A child’s silver bracelet rattled obscenely against the charred bones that tugged at me...
“OK he’s responding to stimulus, he’s coming round. Are you ready?”
I slowly swam up from the charnel house of my nightmare with the taste of tin in my mouth. Bright lights hurt my eyes whilst a green-garbed figure loomed over me.
“Jerry? Are you with us? You’ve had a relapse following the avian plague. We need to operate urgently. Can you sign here? And here? And here? Well done. OK, that’s fine, put him back under.”
Then everything went dark once more and time ceased to pass.
The latest outbreak of plague swept through Northern England like a whirlwind, leaving Sam and the rest of social services emotionally and physically shattered as they tried to house orphaned children, support shattered families and protect vulnerable youngsters from the opportunist scum who sought to exploit the fresh outbreak for their own vicious ends. It was nearly a month after she delivered her report before Sam had either the time or the strength to keep her promise to Jeremy. She had found herself thinking of him at odd moments, a brief pang of guilt mixed with a wistful desire; then the next emergency sucked her back into the maelstrom before she had time to pick up a phone.
When at last Sam had the luxury to think beyond work and sleep she settled her anxious thoughts and called his mobile, only to find it was switched off with no voicemail. She tried again the next day without success. After the third attempt she drove round to his flat and knocked on the door.
“You can’t go in love.”
Sam turned to see an elderly gentleman poking his head round from the next door along.
“I’m sorry?”
“You can’t go in without an appointment. You have to call the estate agent first.”
“I’m looking for Jeremy. He lives here.”
“Not any more. He went a couple of weeks ago. The estate agents put it up for sale last week. There’s been lots of visitors. It’s a nice area see. Nice people and safe.”
“Do you know where Jeremy went to?”
“Sorry love. Try the estate agents. They may be able to help.”
For a long moment Sam stared at the door, seeing in her mind the tidy little flat with its vivid paintings and gentle owner. Then, her shoulders drooped and she quietly turned and walked down to her car. She sat for a while, staring at her hands on the steering wheel. She felt hurt and betrayed. She knew she had no call on Jeremy. Had she imagined the spark between them? Had he waited for her and it was her fault she hadn’t called? Had she let him down as she had let down so many of her clients? Day in, day out, was he yet another of those she hadn’t managed to protect?
Soft tears rolled down her cheeks as pity swept over her at what might have been, at a lost chance for happiness, until at last a small spark of defiance eventually flared. If he wanted to go then that was fine. It had been work; that was all. He could have called her couldn’t he? Sam angrily cuffed the treacherous tears away, turned the ignition on and drove away. She considered phoning the estate agents but decided against it. If he wanted a new start who was she to hold him back? She had her work; He would be a fool to want anything to do with damaged goods like her.
Sam drove slowly back to the Social Services offices. She parked. She took the lift to her floor. She picked up the first of the new stack of case files that had appeared in her in tray. She started to read.
The first thing I saw was a fluorescent tube on the ceiling.
I couldn’t move.
All I could do was stare at that fluorescent tube. Dead flies littered the inside of its yellowing cover.
Time passed.
I could hear someone moving around outside of my field of view, whistling badly.
Eventually footsteps approached and I felt a hand slowly stroke my thigh. A man in a blue theatre uniform looked down at me and I smelt a pungent mixture of soap, sour sweat and old tobacco. I sneezed.
“Bloody hell, she’s awake.” The face vanished and the footsteps hastened away.
Time passed again. It felt longer, as my nose was itching and I really wanted to scratch it but couldn’t. Eventually the footsteps returned.
The gaunt angular face of Professor Pullen appeared in my field of view, peering down on me. I tried to speak but found my mouth full of stuff. I tried to grunt but he ignored me.
“When did the subject regain consciousness nurse?”
“A few moments ago. I came to get you immediately, like you ordered.” There was a trace of surliness in the voice.
The professor shone a light in my eyes and moved it from left to right. I followed it. Suddenly I felt a sharp prick in my hand. I tried to jerk away and grunted again. Another prick in my other hand. Again I tried to jerk away. Another in my left foot, then my right. Then a loud, sharp squeal by my ear. It hurt!
“Good, full nervous response to stimulus. Let’s try higher reasoning and memory.”
The tubes in my mouth were sharply pulled out and I gagged as they came out of my throat. My throat felt as harsh as sand paper.
“Unh, War-er, war-Ter, plis.”
A few moments later a small squirt of tepid liquid filled my mouth and I swallowed convulsively.
The professor came back into view.
“What is two plus two?”
“Where am I?”
“Later. What is two plus two?”
“Four. What happened?”
My voice sounded high and scratchy.
“What is the square root of nine?”
“Professor Pullen, what‘s going on?”
“Excellent, you remember me. What is your date of birth?”
“Eleventh of March, 1970. Professor, what the hell is going on?” I started to get angry.
He ignored me and turned to the surly nurse.
“Clean her up, start feeding and physio.” He turned and vanished from my field of view. I could hear rapid footsteps walking away.
“Wait! What are you doing? What’s happening? Where am I?”
The reek of sour sweat came back and I looked up into its owner’s blotchy features as he grinned, revealing nicotine stained teeth.
“That’s easy. You’re a girl, darlin'.”
The room swirled around me and then mercifully, everything went black.
The next time I woke it was to the sound of an argument.
“Idiot! You are supposed to minimize the shock to the subject. “
“Sorry Mr Devereau.”
“Do something like that again and you will be. Now get out.”
I tried to sit up but was still fixed to the bed. A gentle hand raised my head and carefully helped me manage a few gulps of water. It was the most wonderful drink I had ever had.
“You know. I really didn’t think he could do it.”
I looked up into the gently smiling face of Robert. The lips were smiling but the eyes were not. I shivered as a memory swept through me. The last time I had seen eyes like that was a mercenary sniper in Bosnia, a stone cold killer with lifeless eyes.
Robert ignored my reaction as he quietly continued, almost as if talking to himself.
“Cloning? Well cloning is easy. Ever since Dolly the sheep we knew we could clone people. Genetic enhancement and reconfiguration? Trickier, but definitely achievable, now that the Human Genome project is complete. Forced growth of a clone? Again tricky but apparently it’s all about controlling the speed of the body’s clock through the right nutrients and drugs. But transferring the consciousness? Now that is really impressive.”
“How?” I stared up at him, as mesmerised as a rabbit caught in the gaze of a snake. Robert went on, gloating over what they had achieved as if he was personally responsible.
“You don’t think we needed all this data storage just to work on genetic models do you? The human brain has a storage capacity of about 10 terabytes; however the full mapping of every connection of just one brain takes about one exabyte. That’s equivalent to a thousand million DVD's; and the Professor actually worked out how to copy and write all that data from one human brain to another in under a day. Your brain to be precise.”
I stared at him in blank shock until a single question rose unbidden to my lips. “Why?”
“Oh come on Jeremy. I thought you were brighter than that. The ability to rejuvenate, change appearance, DNA, sex even. How much do you think this is worth?’ He let out a little chuckle. “By the way, we really ought to come up with a more appropriate name than Jeremy for you now, don’t you think?”
“Why me?” At that Robert’s smile grew wider.
“Pure good fortune, for both of us. Us, because you were both available and perfectly suited for this. You, because we have given you an extra forty years of life and an opportunity to make medical science history. Isn’t that nice?”
There was nothing I could think to say to that and I lay back, staring wide-eyed at that fluorescent tube. Robert offered me another drink of water, tenderly brushed back some scruffy tendrils of hair from my face then straightened up and walked out of my field of view. I didn’t hear his footsteps. A few moments later the light went out and I lay in the dark. I eventually slept.
I was woken by the fluorescent light, tuneless whistling and a cold wetness beneath me, all at the same time.
“Alright darlin'. I’m Martin and we’ve got work to do. So you be nice to me and I’ll be nice to you. Understand?” As he leant close I could again smell the sourness of old beer and cigarettes on his breath. He started to undo my restraints.
“Ugh! You’ve pissed yourself, you little cow. That’s extra work for me so you had better be extra nice. Understand?”
My body betrayed me as I tried to shrink away from him, yet all I could do was lie flaccid and helpless. He towered over me like a giant. He stripped me down and washed me roughly with a sodden flannel; his fingers probing and fondling as he turned me over on the bed until I felt physically sick at his cold fumbling caresses.
I tried to block out what was happening, trying to focus on anything that would allow me to escape his hands, yet my memories wouldn’t come and protect me, forcing me to lie helpless under each new indignity and assault. Eventually he finished and looked down at me with a self-satisfied smirk on his face. I felt a wave of loathing and swore silently to myself that one day soon I would deal with this slimy toad permanently.
It was another two days before I had recovered enough to take an interest in my surroundings beyond cringing at the repeated ‘attentions’ of my ‘nurse’. Everything I saw in the small cell was clean, new, and windowless. Medical fixtures and fittings and dark grey lino lay beneath the harsh glare of the fluorescent tube. Martin was my only company, and when he wasn’t mauling me made some effort to wash and feed me and manipulate my joints to get arms and legs working. It says something for how lonely I felt that I grew to welcome even his revolting presence as human company to latch onto. I nicknamed him the Groper inside my head.
There is a military course that everyone going on operations had to do, and most of us slept through. It was called conduct after capture and I spent hours during those days in my hospital jail trying to dredge up as much of it as I could recall. Most of the course was about not revealing information, but no one was asking me questions. Some of it had been about escape, but the bit I really tried to remember was how to keep sane. I needed something solid and special that was waiting for me outside.
My first thought was military pride, the regiment, mates and not letting the side down but that crumbled to ashes as the memories of Bosnia soured the pride and no one from the side had cared when I left. I tried again with Caroline. My lovely impetuous Caroline standing in front of an easel, her brow furrowed as she absentmindedly smeared paint on her blouse. Then the picture shifted to her lying wasted and fragile in the hospital as the pain of her cancer and the chemotherapy finally proved to much for her lively spirit. My soul shrivelled as I looked back at the pain in my life and wished I too were dead, that the plague had been efficient for once and done the job it was meant to do. With that thought, at last, a small ray of sunshine broke through and I remembered Sam. I had found my special thought.
Each night I curled up in a ball and thought through every conversation I had had with Sam. Again and again I replayed the gentle stoke of my cheek and the look in her smoky blue eyes when we first met, and held that secret, precious memory close as I eventually drifted off to sleep.
The next week was agony. Intensive physiotherapy is the closest you can come to torture and still practice it in a hospital, and, wherever we were, I was treated as if it was a hospital. After one particularly harsh session when I had taken my first steps, Martin rewarded me by rolling out a mirror so I could see myself.
I stared at the shocking image in front of me. A skinny young girl of about eleven or twelve, with straggly lank ash blond hair, stared back. She was wrapped in a dirty hospital gown that hung shapelessly from her shoulders, but it was her eyes that captured my attention; soft blue eyes that had a familiar and slightly hunted look. I had seen this face before. Yet even as I wracked my brain to recall those eyes the Groper came round behind me and put his hands around my waist.
“See darling. You’re a pretty little thing aren’t you?” Once more his hands started to move over my body as I stood there shivering.
“Mr Francis, what are you doing?” The voice was quiet and close.
Neither of us had heard Robert enter, and we both started in shock at his gentle question. Martin leapt back so suddenly that I tottered precariously before grabbing the rail.
Robert’s gentle smile was still in place as he spoke again. “I will speak with you later Mr Francis. Now leave us please?”
He kept his voice low and polite and continued to smile his little smile whilst the Groper almost ran from the physio room. I was surprised to find myself realising that now I had a name to put to my loathing and the knowledge that he was as frightened of Robert as I was. I carefully tucked Mr Martin Francis away for future consideration and looked up at Robert.
For the first time his eyes seemed to soften. “Well? Have you chosen a name yet?”
I shook my head dumbly, still clinging to the wall bar.
“Well at least I think we need to get you something more appropriate to wear don’t you? Is there anything you want?”
I was about to shake my head again but the memory of the Groper’s hands still clung to my skin. “Can I have a shower please?”
“Of course.” Robert’s lips twitched upwards and he offered me his arm with old-fashioned courtesy, then gently shepherded me back to my stark, windowless home.
I didn’t see Martin until that afternoon. When he did come in, he dumped a pile of packages on the bed and stepped back, avoiding being near me.
“You’re better enough to dress and clean yourself now. Bathroom’s through there.” He passed me a bag of toiletries and a towel at arms length.
Shakily, I made my way to the bathroom and carefully closed the door. I gratefully sat down on the invalid seat in the shower cubicle and reached for the controls.
The cold jet hit me and I shrieked. Within seconds the door was flung wide by a scared looking Martin. I don’t know who was more shocked by that high-pitched shriek; him by the noise, or me, because it came from my mouth. I turned away and dialled the control to a warmer setting before gingerly putting just my hand in the gushing jet this time. Perfect. I looked back at the door and glared at the Groper until he scowled, stepped back, and partially pulled the door closed behind him.
The next half hour was pure heaven. The bag contained shower gel, shampoo, conditioner, a deodorant spray, a hairbrush and two items that took me a few moments to work out what they were for. First, a pink, velvet covered, elastic band, and second, a fuzzy ball on a loop of thick string.
After about ten minutes, when I was scrubbing everything I could reach with the shower gel and fuzzy ball, Groper banged on the door and shouted at me to hurry up.
I grinned and decided to test how far I could push.
“I’ll be a while, Robert asked me to make an effort.”
His answer was a subdued grunt. “Uh, OK.”
As I said, I had a wonderful half hour trying everything out. I did my best to dry and brush my hair, and had spent a frustrating few minutes working out how to hold it back with the rubber band thingy. I wrapped the towel around my waist and carefully walked to the door.
“Bloody hell!” Groper’s face was a picture, shifting from shock to leering in under one second so that all my feelings of embarrassment and loathing came back in that instant. I hurriedly turned away to the pile of bags on the bed, feeling the scorching heat of a blush the size of a tidal wave break over me.
Getting dressed was a nightmare. I had never been self conscious about being naked in front of anyone before; but today, the filthy touch of Groper’s eyes on my body whilst I struggled with the unfamiliar items, was truly horrible. I eventually struggled into a tee shirt, panties and pair of jogging bottoms as quickly as I could. In the pile of bags I had noticed a training bra, but there was no way I was even going to think about ‘that’ under his slimy gaze. I wondered, if I asked Robert nicely, would he stop Groper from being around when I got dressed?
For the next few days the physio was even worse, as the Groper took a series of petty little revenges against me. He stopped touching with anything but his eyes, but I found that was almost as unpleasant, particularly when I was getting dressed and undressed. I became tremendously self-conscious about my body and longed for the bathroom as the one place I had any privacy.
I started to pay him back during our sessions by occasionally looking over his shoulder and opening my eyes in surprise. The first time I did that, he jumped like a scalded cat and I caught an instant of sheer terror on his face. The rest of that session was awful but I didn’t care. I was too busy hiding a small smile inside me.
I started to think about how I was going to escape.
Michael Garrick was a very patient man for a reporter. This was why he was prepared to sit, sipping rubbish beer, listening to over-loud music, and surrounded by a raucous group of teenagers whilst he waited for his contact. He had an envelope of £500 of his own money in his pocket, and had made a promise for £10,000 more that he didn’t have, for the story of a lifetime.
His editor had told him he had the nose of a copper and the morals of an alley cat, something that Michael had taken it as a compliment and decided his days as a reporter on a regional newspaper were limited. When he had ‘acquired’ the invoices for the IT procurement of the Royal Victoria’s new genetics research department he had intended to write a story on public sector overspending. He took them to a friend in the accounts department of the National Computing Centre in Manchester, and asked him to take a look. The answer surprised him.
“Whoever they have on their procurement team has done a hell of a job.”
Michael perked up. “You mean he is on the take?”
“No, the exact opposite. This is an almost textbook example of best practice. If you were looking for some dirt in these you’re out of luck.”
The friend, who actually preferred to consider Michael an occasionally useful acquaintance, understood exactly what Michael had wanted and took some pleasure in being the bearer of bad news. He went on.
“Although why they want enough high speed data storage to run a small country is beyond me. Normally that sort of power is only used by meteorologists and intelligence agencies.”
It wasn’t much, but it was enough to keep Michael sniffing. He tried to arrange an interview with the head of the project, Professor Pullen, and after much badgering, got a really unsatisfactory half hour session that left both of them detesting the other and nothing worth printing. Next were the HR records, or lack of them. Over the last few months the number of contractors and employees had dwindled and now he couldn’t find a single person who worked there. Michael knew there was a story here, but was smart enough to realise he didn’t have enough. He put it on the back burner and focused on local government failures during the avian plague epidemic.
His lucky break had come two weeks ago when the editor sent him to cover a story about a fight outside a nightclub, leading to allegations of brutality by the bouncers and local police. He knew within five minutes of arriving at the club that the story was dead. Two door staff and one copper in hospital having been set upon with a baseball bat and a broken bottle against two drunken thugs’ solicitors whining to the press wasn’t newsworthy. The duty manager did however invite him in, and offered him a drink in the hope of some free publicity. It was noisy and mostly full of underage girls, all trying to dress like their mothers on a night out.
Michael sat considering how fast he could drink his beer and escape when something caught his eye. A rather tubby older man was sitting on his own, staring fixedly at the young girls and slurping heavily at his beer. He paused and looked at his watch, a small nurses type fob watch pinned inside his jacket. On the spur of the moment Michael decided the guy was worth targeting and moved across to join him. If he couldn’t get a story about police brutality then one about a perverted male nurse would do. They ignored each for a while whilst looking at the girls. Michael made to get himself another beer before turning to the target.
“Pretty little things aren’t they?”
“Uh, yeah. I’m just waiting for my mates.”
“Nothing wrong with admiring the eye candy in the meantime though.”
The target laughed nervously. “You’re right there.”
“I’m Mike.”
“Martin.”
They stared for another few moments.
“Fancy a beer?”
“Yeah, alright mate. Thanks.”
Michael went to the bar and ordered two more pints and a double vodka. He sipped one pint and added the vodka to it before returning to the table.
“Here you go mate,” his voice friendly as he slipped across the spiked pint.
“Ta.”
They paused to drink and watch for a moment longer before Mike turned back to work.
“Come here with your mates often?”
“Nah, The fucking boss wants me on call all the time.”
“Bastard. Who is it so I know not to apply?”
“Prof Pullen. Bastard.”
Inside, the bells and fireworks went off and Michael started the slow patient process of reeling his target in.
Chapter 3 - Escape
Martin Francis arrived for work the next morning a scared and happy man in equal measure. He had £440 left in his pocket, a shopping bag from Kids Boutique in his hand and, since yesterday, his own office with a window; one out of range of the research centre’s CCTV system. He walked round the side of the building, checked no one was looking, and stuffed the shopping bag through the part opened window before walking quickly on to the main entrance.
Even as he swiped his access card the door opened. Robert looked him up and down.
“You’re late, again.”
“Traffic was bloody awful this morning.” Martin desperately tried to keep his guilt off his face. “Anyway I’m not needed with the subject until 7am. I’ve got five minutes.” He whined.
Robert stepped back. The smell of old beer wasn’t as bad as some mornings and at least he had shaved, so he let it go for the moment.
Martin escaped gratefully from Robert’s presence and rushed to his office shaking with relief. He roughly stuffed the shopping bag into his desk drawer and changed hastily into his uniform. Now that the little cow was washing herself, he should have time to get his notes photocopied and hidden, ready for this evening’s pick up. It would be a shame he wouldn’t have time to watch her get dressed this morning, but what was coming tonight, and what was now hidden in his desk drawer would definitely make up for it. He decided he would save the bag for tomorrow.
Michael Garrick was also a happy man. At the moment he was considering whether to let his editor know about the story, or should he try and sell it directly to one of the nationals? Hmm, tricky decision. The downside was his contract was pretty tight on the subject. He could live with that, but screwing his current paper wouldn’t make him particularly attractive to the nationals. They all knew how it worked, but didn’t like it if someone was too blatant. OK, that meant talking to his idle idiot of an editor.
With a shrug he picked up his files and walked down the rather dilapidated corridor to the idiot’s cubbyhole. Michael set his face in the happy grin of a keen reporter, then pushed his way into the cramped little office.
“Boss, how would you like a story that will have every media agency around the world hammering on your door? All for the bargain price of ten thousand five hundred pounds.”
At eight o’clock that evening Martin was already half pissed. The barmaid in the dingy little pub on the outskirts of Salford was getting fed up with him looking at her tits and was glad when two other men joined him.
Martin glared at the newcomer with distrust. “Who’s he? You said it would just be the paper.”
Michael immediately started soothing the target down.
“Martin mate. It is just the paper. Dave’s the guy with the money. You didn’t want me to forget that now did you?”
Martin still glared at the newcomer sullenly, his fear fighting with greed, greed won. He shrugged. “I got it. Just like I promised.”
“Martin, that’s excellent.” Michael poured on the honeyed tones, “we just need to have a look and then you can have the money.”
“Let me see it first.”
Michael glanced over and nodded to his editor, who pulled out a large brown envelope and teased Martin with a quick peek at the four thick bricks of crisp new £50 notes, before quickly shoving them back under his jacket.
Martin stared hungrily at the bulge, barely hidden under the editor’s jacket, then dragged out a bundle of scruffy photocopies and slid them reluctantly across the table. For the next ten minutes Michael and his editor shuffled through the pages. Neither said a word. Eventually, Martin’s nerve snapped.
“Look. Am I getting the fucking money or what?”
Michael looked up and merely raised an eyebrow at his editor. Dave said nothing; he was too shocked by what he had in his hands. He just reached into his coat and passed across the fat envelope. Martin grabbed it, stuffed it down his trousers, and then staggered quickly out of the bar.
Michael watched him leave. “Now there’s one scared guy. I’ve never seen him leave half a pint before.” He took a long pull on his pint before he turned again to his editor. “How long do you think he’ll live?”
Dave looked up, distracted from his reading. “A week? Two at best? It depends if he is smart enough to go to the police. Anyway we have a story to run. Let’s go.”
The Groper was grinning at me as I came out of the shower. Normally he was a grumpy git in the morning, but today he just stood there and grinned. I looked across at my bed and started to get worried. My normal clothes had vanished and in their place was a very girly, strappy pink summer dress.
“Hurry up darlin’. Robert wants you looking real nice today. See what a pretty dress he’s got you.”
My stomach started doing butterflies. Something was wrong here. I hesitated, clutching the towel tighter around me. The Groper took a couple of paces towards me and I realised once again just how much bigger he was than me.
“Get a bloody move on or you’ll feel the back of my hand you little cow!”
I turned quickly to the bed, shucking into the panties he had laid out and starting to fumble with the unfamiliar dress.
“Hurry up!”
After a few moments I managed to pull it over my head and started to struggle with the zip at the back but the Groper wouldn’t wait, he grabbed me by the arm and dragged me after him at a fast pace. We turned left instead of right, away from the physio room, and when we had passed through two security doors I started to hope that I might be getting out. Suddenly the Groper stopped. He looked up and down the corridor, and then pushed me into a side room. It was a dusty office with two desks, a filing cabinet and, glory be, a window, an actual window with real daylight coming through. I stared at the grey, washed out light and didn’t notice the Groper firmly closing the door behind me.
“Now girly, it’s time for you to be real nice to me.”
Robert Devereau listened carefully to the phone.
“No Mr Garrick, I’m afraid what you are suggesting is pure fantasy. The idea that anyone could transfer a human brain is so outlandish I’m surprised you actually fell for it.” Robert paused, listening once more to the distasteful little scribbler.
“Well if you have evidence, we certainly would like to see it. Perhaps the Professor could point out where you have been had?”……… “Certainly you can visit the facility. How about this afternoon?”........ ” You’re welcome. I will look forward to seeing you then.”
Robert gently placed the phone down, paused for a moment, and then dialled another number. It was answered immediately. He spoke quietly and without emotion.
“Operation Dagger is compromised. A journalist from the Manchester Evening News appears to have evidence.” Robert listened for a moment. ”Acknowledged. I will start closedown immediately and extract to the safe house.”
Still smiling, he put the phone down, opened the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out a bulky attaché case. Robert lovingly withdrew the contents and methodically started to assemble his tools. Four blocks of plastic explosive were carefully primed with finger length silver detonators and timer power units. Each timer was set for twenty minutes. Next was a Walther P99 semiautomatic pistol. Robert carefully screwed a suppressor onto the weapon, slipped a magazine into the grip and cocked it. He caressed the pistol for a moment before looking up at the bank of CCTV monitors to locate the Professor. His smile grew wider.
“Ah Robert I was just looking for you.”
“Certainly Professor. Are the backups complete?”
“Yes of cours…”
The two shots came together so fast they blended together. Robert moved quickly to the tape racks and ejected the cartridges, neatly packing them into the attaché case whilst leaving behind the first of the explosive charges. He then walked quietly out of the room; never bothering to glance at the corpse of Professor David Pullen, whose expression of surprise was marred only by the two bullet holes, one centimetre apart, between his eyes.
The next charge was placed under the underground fuel storage tank whilst the third sat on top of what the professor had assured him was the brain pattern transfer interface in the clone growing room. Eight minutes gone, seven left to safe extraction. Robert slipped quietly into the physiotherapy room.
It was empty.
He turned around and walked rapidly to the CCTV monitoring station. All the screens were clear. His hands flickered over the controls as he rewound back to the last point he had Mr Francis and the subject in view. There. Fast forward. There. Four minutes to safe extraction. He hit the emergency lock down to secure the building, set the final charge, then turned on his heel and ran.
“Now girly, it’s time for you to be real nice to me.”
Groper’s fingers were wrapped around my throat as he started to press his body against me. I could feel the heat of his breath against my neck as his hand pressed hard between my legs. Suddenly, beyond the door, came the frantic sound of running footsteps.
Groper’s body stiffened. “Fuck! Fuck! Get under there!” He desperately shoved me into the foot well of the nearest desk and rammed the chair in against me.
“Make a sound and I’ll kill you bitch!”
Seconds later the door crashed open.
“Where is she?” Robert’s normal quiet tone had become a harsh growl.
“In her bathroom. Why?”
“You’re supposed to be in physio.”
“She needed a piss.”
“You’re lying.”
“No honest, she needed a…”
Shots exploded.
A moment later the Groper’s body toppled backwards, then crashed across the desk. I stared in shock to see the sticky mess of the back of his head hanging framed between the drawers of my hiding place and froze.
I heard Robert breathing hard, then footsteps, the door banged and silence returned. I waited, counting slowly to a hundred in my head as the Groper’s blood dripped stickily across my face and into my hair. At ninety-three I heard a quiet sigh and the door opening and closing softly. Only then did I let myself breathe. My instincts hadn’t let me down.
“I’m too old for this shit.” I muttered, as I pulled myself from under the desk, and then grinned at the idiocy of such a thought. I looked down at the body of Martin Francis and shivered, remembering my vow to see him dead.
I had seen too many corpses.
As the initial shock subsided my training awoke from it’s long neglect and I realised I needed to escape, and quickly. Robert would be back as soon as he had checked the bathroom and failed to find me. I probably had less than three minutes. The window was small and high; too small for a man. Well, I had an advantage there. I pushed a chair across to the wall, pulled myself up and started to wriggle through the small gap into the cold wet morning.
The window was screened by some low bushes and I crawled awkwardly into their cover before tentatively trying to get my bearings. With a shock I realised that I was in the rear of the Royal Victoria. This must be the Genetics Research Centre. I had been a prisoner right in the heart of the city! I looked around for my next cover to notice the same staff car park that Sam and I had driven home from so long ago. How long ago? With a snort I shook my head to clear the errant thought, now wasn’t the time for introspection. I checked the coast was clear once more and started to sprint over the open ground. With an agonising lurch I suddenly realised I was barefoot and trying to run on sharp gravel. When I tried again I was biting my lip against the pain and my heart pounding as I hobbled as fast as I could manage to the welcome shadow and soft tarmac of the underground car park.
I knew Robert would come back. He would see the open window.
I needed a diversion and a hiding place, fast. As I scanned the area I suddenly grinned. There was Sam’s little Beetle parked in its usual place. I hobbled over and checked the door. Yep, she had ignored my advice. I gingerly stepped across to the panic alarm she had pointed out last time, hit the button with my elbow and dived into the back seat of her car as the sirens went off. A few moments later the car park was alive with shouting and running, so I snuggled deeper down into the foot space and shivered in the muddy thin dress. The men were still running around when there was an almighty bang and a shock wave rocked the little car. Around me it sounded like every car alarm in the car park had been set off.
Slowly the din of horns, sirens and shouting men slowly subsided as I suddenly realised that the explosion must have been set off by Robert to destroy the facility; and with that realisation came the sobering thought that I was now the last remaining piece of evidence of his plans. I shivered and started to think hard about my training in escape and evasion techniques and who I should approach for protection as more sirens approached in the distance. I kept out of sight and went on thinking.
The slam of the car door brought me back from a doze. The driver turned the radio on as they drove carefully out of the car park and I listened with sheer delight to the usual mix of music, interspersed with inane chatter from the DJ. Then I nearly laughed out loud for joy as I recognised Sam singing along to some of the tracks and had to bite my lip. After thirty minutes she pulled to a stop, turned the ignition off, and started fussing with something on the front seat. I didn’t want to scare her, and I waited until she opened her door and was getting out. I needed to find just the right words.
Sam was half way out of the car when she heard a little girl’s voice behind her.
“Sam? Help me please?”
Sam turned quickly and saw nothing. She looked again; this time peering down into the rear passenger compartment. There, on the floor, was a wet bedraggled waif. Crusted with dried blood, gently shivering and looking up at her in a mute appeal. In that instant her heart went out to the frightened child as her brain struggled with the shock of a stowaway who knew her name.
“Who are you young lady? Are you hurt? How do you know my name, and how did you get into my car?”
Large blue eyes peered nervously up from the foot well. “If I tell you, promise me you will hear me out, no matter how weird it sounds.” The waif then grinned. “But I did warn you to lock your doors, and park under the CCTV.”
Sam grabbed the car door to steady herself. She took a deep breath and looked again at the child. There was something almost familiar there. At length she made a decision.
“Come inside, let’s get you warmed up.”
Sam’s home was a pretty little cottage. It must have been somewhere deep in the country because I couldn’t hear traffic or see any other houses nearby. She ushered me in through a picture perfect garden and straight into the kitchen.
I started to speak but she gently hushed me as she inspected my head for injuries beneath the mat of blood. When she was satisfied I was unhurt she gave her orders. “You don't appear to be hurt so… Clean, Warm, Dry, Talk, in that order.” With that she led me upstairs to the bathroom.
“Do you need any help?” I shook my head.
So she smiled and handed me a towel. “Give me a shout when you are done and I will come and help with your hair.
The hot shower quickly warmed me up, but getting the dried blood out of my hair was harder. As I scrubbed, pink rivulets ran down my body, and other images of blood kept forcing themselves on my consciousness. First of the back of Martin’s head as I crouched under the desk; then, of the fire blackened houses and pools of blood in the village of Mihrovac. Then Ahmici, Srebrenica and Prozor; the images went on until I squeezed my eyes tight shut and kept on scrubbing and scrubbing until they went away. Eventually, I turned off the shower, stepped out and started to towel myself dry.
There was a little tap on the door. “Are you decent?”
I wrapped the towel around my waist. “Yes, come in.”
Sam frowned when she saw me. “Do the towel up under your arms young lady.”
I blushed, realising my mistake, and did as she asked. With the towel finally snug under my armpits she led me into her bedroom and sat me in front of the dressing table. Amongst the clutter of brushes and tubes I saw a bottle of Samsara eau de toilette by Guerlain. I smiled as I remembered smelling that on Sam the day she picked me up at the hospital. There was also something else I knew I should remember about the perfume, but I just couldn’t reach it.
Sam started with the hair dryer before brushing out my hair. “You’ve got split ends,” she mentioned above the racket of the hot fan, at least I think she said that as I had no idea what she was talking about. When she was reasonably happy with my hair, she handed me a man's baggy tee shirt that came down to my knees, then wrapped me up in a fluffy bathrobe. “Now, it’s time to talk.”
We ended up on the sofa, side by side, clutching big mugs of hot chocolate as the rain pattered against the windows.
I paused for a long moment marshalling my thoughts.
“The first time I saw you in the hospital I thought you were Caroline, and then you looked up. I laughed when you called me lucky, and I think you saw straight through me then. When you drove me home there was a white rose in the vase on your dashboard. In my flat you admired Caroline's paintings. We went out for dinner that night. You had the lemon sole, whilst I had a pretty average coq au vin…..”
Samantha Howard listened in shock as every little detail of those five days with Jeremy was replayed in a calm, dispassionate tone. The little girl then started talking about drinking in the British Legion bar, then waking in a windowless box. She talked about Professor Pullen, Robert Devereau and, worst of all, Martin Francis. The child calmly recalled the boasts of Robert and about being washed and touched and leered at by the nurse. Her voice quivered for a rare moment there, then she fought herself back under control and ploughed stolidly on.
In social services Sam had come across a lot of abuse cases and had seen all the classic symptoms of denial, guilt and repression. She didn’t understand how or why this child knew things that only she and Jeremy could know, the explanation was just too far fetched, but she did know when someone was hurting, and she knew what to do. Sam put her mug down and gently wrapped her arms around the little girl as she continued to pour out her story. Eventually the words ran out and she snuggled calmly deeper into Sam’s arms whilst Sam’s mind was in shock with what she had heard. She sat thinking and cuddling the waif for a long time. At last she looked down. The child was fast asleep.
Chapter 4 — Convergence Begins
There's nothing quite as depressing as the smell of burnt paper, thought Michael Garrick, as he watched the fire-fighters start to roll up their hoses and stow their equipment back on the tenders. He had ignored the stream of flashing blue lights racing past when he had left the offices of the newspaper five hours ago. Now, as he stood behind the police cordon, and stared intently at the smoke blackened structure of the Royal Victoria Genetics Research Centre, he knew he'd missed a story.
Beside him Pete Carron, his photographer, jostled forwards as he saw four fire fighters carrying out a limp bundle, his camera tracking and clicking the sorry procession. One fire fighter stumbled and a thin blackened arm slipped down, it fingers grotesquely splayed.
"Did you get that?" Michael eagerly demanded.
"Got it Mike; nice pictures." The photographer gave him a cheery grin. He looked up. "We're going to lose the light soon."
Michael came to a decision. "OK, let's get back and put the story to bed. We've got enough."
Unseen by the reporter, Detective Chief Inspector Ian Hill picked his way carefully through the dark interior of the Research Centre's server room. Beside him the Fire Station Officer pointed his torch to help him navigate the piles of shattered computers and twisted racks as he briefed him.
"Of course you will have to wait for the formal report from the forensics team but there's no doubt about the cause. Four separate explosive charges, each placed where they could cause maximum damage. It might be the work of some loony fringe group, but I doubt it. Can you smell it?"
Ian sniffed, but couldn't get beyond the stench of burnt wiring and paper.
"No? It may have faded a bit by now,” he noticed the blank look on the policeman's face and explained, " Toluene. Probably military grade high explosive."
"Why didn't you get the bomb squad in?"
"It was too late. The teams had already entered and where searching for bodies when we noticed it. There's not a lot of point now."
"OK, so tell me about the bodies."
"Again you'll have to wait until the post mortem for the detail, but they weren’t killed by the fire, or smoke inhalation."
"You're sure?"
"I'm never sure, but two appear to have bullet wounds to the head. The third was so badly damaged by the blast so I won't even guess there, but it looks like you've got yourself a hell of a mystery."
Detective Chief Inspector Hill grunted and stomped back outside into the fading afternoon light and drizzle. He hated mysteries.
Fifteen miles away, in a grubby little bedsit in Stockport, Robert Devereau sat watching Sky News and smiling slightly. In the background, the local radio station chirped its way through the latest hits and his hands were busy cleaning his semiautomatic pistol. Each part was neatly laid out in front of him, cradled on a sheet of plastic carefully placed just so after being lovingly cleaned and oiled. Everything else he had used, touched or worn during the operation had already been disposed of in bins and alleys across the city. At his feet was an open sports bag. Most of the DLT tapes he had recovered from the centre were neatly lined up inside
Robert paused his cleaning and looked down to consider the bag. It was such a small bundle for $10,000,000. On impulse, he opened his laptop and logged into his account in Lichtenstein to see that the first $2,000,000 had already been deposited. He thought for a moment, then set up an automated rule so that the moment the remaining $8,000,000 was deposited, the total would immediately transfer to his Cayman Islands account and an alert would be sent to his mobile. He smiled again. He really didn't trust the Chinese at all, which was why a DLT tape duplicator was gently whirring in the background. All he had to do now was wait.
Samantha Howard looked down at the sleeping child as the early morning sunshine tried to squeeze between the curtains. She lay curled up like a kitten under the duvet. Sam had thought so much last night that now she didn't know what to think any more. The evidence had been overwhelming, but it just couldn't be true could it? Her heart told her that here was a child who had been hurt and abused. Her mind tried to struggle to accept that the child had once been Jeremy. The same Jeremy who she knew had had feelings for her, just as she had for him. The very person she had written that report on. That bloody, bloody report! A wave of guilt washed over her. It was her fault and she didn't know what to do.
Just then the child rolled over, uncurled, and yawned. She looked up at Sam with sleepy eyes and blinked slowly.
Sam smiled brightly back. "Good morning young lady. Do you want some breakfast?" She couldn't bring herself to call the child Jeremy. It didn't feel right somehow.
Those haunting blues eyes returned her gaze levelly. "Sam, thank you so much. For everything." To that there were no words she could think to reply, so Sam sank to her knees beside the bed and hugged her tightly. In return Sam found the child's arms wrapped round her neck, and gently rocked her backwards and forwards, whilst she stared at the far wall and tried to decide what to do.
After a few minutes there was a quiet voice in her ear. "Sam? I really need to go to the loo." Sam laughed and gently disentangled herself. "I've put a new toothbrush out for you. I'll see you in the kitchen when you're ready."
After breakfast Sam sat quietly as 'her' waif gathered the dishes, filled the dishwasher and wiped down the surfaces. She remembered with a twinge just how house-proud Jeremy had been.
When everything was clean and tidy the young girl finally turned and looked expectantly at Sam. For a moment Sam was tempted to pretend that she knew what to do and had everything under control but the quizzical gaze halted her. Instead she decided on absolute honesty. "We need a plan, but I'm not sure where to start." She paused, not knowing what to say next. The answer she got surprised her.
"I am. This is what I was trained for." The words sounded incongruous coming from such a fragile little girl, until Sam looked into her eyes.
For the next hour Sam listened aghast as Jeremy gave her a crash course in covert operations and tradecraft. Phrases like 'dead drops', 'safe houses', 'close target reconnaissance' and 'legend' whirled past her. All she could keep thinking was 'it really is him' over and over again.
Eventually Jeremy noticed her vacant expression. "Sam, do you understand? We are in a race against time. On the one side there's Robert. He's a professional. As soon as he finds I was not amongst the bodies he is going to come looking. That information will be in the public domain within four days, five at the most. It will take him a day or two to decide to visit you, and you are not trained to handle that sort of questioning. On the other side, we don't know who we can trust. We can't go straight to the nearest police station because, without evidence, we will both get locked up as nutters and become even more vulnerable. We need to find someone who is likely to believe us and who is unlikely to have been compromised by the opposition. We don't even know who the bloody opposition is!"
Sam had to stop herself telling the child off for swearing. Instead she asked, "So what do we do?"
"It's probably best if I go and find somewhere to lie up. You should go and stay with friends for a few weeks. The further I am away from you, the safer you will be. In a few days I'll try to make contact with some old friends in the police and try to convince them."
"No."
"What do you mean? No."
"Just that. No. It was my fault you were in there." Sam's voice rose as she went on. "All of this is my fault, and if you think I am going to lose you again!" She stopped suddenly, shocked by her outburst and her feelings.
"You're sure, aren't you?" It was a simple statement rather than a question.
Sam nodded dumbly and closed her eyes.
"Sam, I don't deserve you." It was little more than a whisper. She felt thin arms wrap around her neck and Sam knew that whatever happened, she had made the right decision.
As the morning progressed their planning process went on, and Sam found herself writing a shopping list.
"Can you get me a local ordnance survey map, a compass, a prepay mobile phone, but keep the SIM card out of the phone, and all the local and national newspapers starting from yesterday please? I assume you have satellite TV and Internet access?" Sam nodded. "Then can you let me have the log in and password for your computer please?"
"OK." Sam wrote that down too and handed it across.
"Thanks Sam. I think that covers everything."
Sam smiled quietly to herself. "Not quite. You've missed quite a bit."
Her smile widened as she caught the puzzled frown, then handed over her other shopping list that was considerably longer. Toiletries, underwear, nightclothes, skirts, tops, coat, hat, shoes, socks, tights, the list went on.
"You and I are going shopping young lady." Sam held her hand up to halt the expected protest. "We can't shop online; you said the cards would be tracked. Anyway it wouldn't be delivered for days. You can't live in just a tee shirt. We will go to Chester and I will pay cash."
Sam could see the girl was thinking hard about it so she pressed on. "Anyway, what was it you said about building a 'legend' and blending in?" Sam paused. "And on that point I can't keep calling 'Jeremy', or even 'young lady'. We need to find you a name."
It took an hour to find some clothes that fitted, and another to drive to Chester. By then Sam was getting frustrated.
"Pauline." "Sounds ugly."
"Katie." "Bimbo."
"Sue." "Peggy."
"Michelle." "Old girlfriend."
"Mary." "Boring."
"Esme" "Granny."
Sam was running out of names and patience.
"Jennifer." Silence. She pushed her advantage. "Jenny sounds a bit like Jerry so you'd remember it. I think it sounds nice." Silence reigned for a few minutes until Sam heard a quiet voice beside her.
"Jennifer, Jenny, Jenn, Jennifer."
Sam smiled to herself. It felt right.
A few minutes later she parked up in the multi storey car park near Chester racecourse, climbed out of the car, and turned. "Come on Jenny, time to go shopping." They both laughed.
Shopping with Sam was the weirdest, most frustrating, most fun thing I had done in years. We scurried from shop to shop in the chilly winter sunshine, looking, trying on, posing, rejecting, going back and buying.
By late morning my feet were beginning to ache. We took a break in a little old fashioned teashop just off the arcade. The waitress bustled over to us as we took the weight off our feet and smiled at Sam. "What can I get you ladies?"
"A pot of tea would be lovely please."
"And for your daughter?" Sam froze in shock and I quickly covered it. "A double espresso please." From the look on the waitress's face this wasn't what she had expected and I scrabbled to recover. "Sorry, I was joking. Could I have tea as well please?" Slightly mollified, the waitress bustled off, muttering something about cheeky little brats. I turned back to Sam to see her smiling brightly. When we left, I took her hand in mine and held it for the rest of the day.
It was a long day. Hunting shoes, trying on skirts, tops and trousers and getting my ‘split ends’ trimmed all left me in a whirl as we went from shop to shop. I did make sure we also filled the operational shopping list, and for some reason that made me feel guilty.
It was late in the afternoon when we finally made it back to the car park, laden with bags, happy and exhausted. I made Sam wait by the lift as I approached the car cautiously. I knelt down and looked closely underneath, scanning for an under vehicle booby trap. Once I was satisfied I went back to fetch Sam only to catch a look of wistful sadness in her eyes. We drove home in silence.
After dinner we sat quietly together on the sofa sipping mugs of hot chocolate. I was feeling comfortably drowsy.
"I really enjoyed today. Thank you Sam."
"Did you really?" Sam looked at me with genuine interest.
"I think so. It's all so strange. I was really happy being with you. Trying things on was fun. Just walking and feeling free was lovely. People treated me like a person rather than a specimen, or a toy to play with." I shrugged off the memory of the Groper’s filthy hands. "At the same time I feel guilty. I am, I was, a professional soldier, then a freelance IT consultant. Now I'm not sure what I am. It really hit me this morning when we were in that teashop. The waitress looked at me and expected me to be something that I don't know how to be. When I was inside the research centre I knew I was me. It was just that the container had changed. Now, I don't know and it's….it's scary."
Sam reached over with her free hand and gently stroked my hair. "That was very hard to say wasn't it?" I looked up into her smoky blue eyes, swallowed, and nodded. We sat for a while, watching the logs on the fire quietly spark and grumble to each other.
"It upset you when that waitress thought I was your daughter, didn't it."
Sam looked up and smiled sadly. “I should have remembered that when we are watching people and thinking, they are watching and thinking right back." A single tear ran down her cheek whilst she thought for a moment. "You wouldn't have liked the double espresso though dear."
I wanted to tell her that she would be a wonderful mother. That she was kind and good and deserved better. That I loved her.
I didn't. I didn't have the courage.
We sat quietly together, each wrapped in our thoughts until Sam noticed my eyelids softly fluttering with tiredness. "It's late, and you need to get to bed Jennifer." I didn't argue. I just kissed her cheek, hugged her and went upstairs. As I looked back she was still sitting there, staring at the fire.
The young Detective Sergeant looked up as Detective Chief Inspector Ian Hill strode in to the incident room.
"Well Munroe, what have you got for me?" The DCI growled. It had not been a good day so far. The Manchester Evening News had run the story of secret human cloning and brain transplants this morning. Now there were about a hundred journalists and film crews clamouring for interviews outside, and just to put the cherry on the cake his Superintendent had called him in ten minutes ago.
"Ah, Ian, thank you for popping up. I hear you've got things well under control on this one."
"Thank you sir. It's still very early days yet."
"Well, you've probably noticed that this has suddenly become a very high profile case, so I'm assigning a full time media team to support you. Of course, as the senior investigating officer you will occasionally need to brief the press. Your first press conference is tomorrow morning I believe. It will be a good opportunity to develop your profile. Good luck."
"Thank You Sir." DCI Hill said. What he actually thought was, Bastard. If it all goes pear shaped you're making sure I'm the one left carrying the can. After a few meaningless pleasantries he headed back to the incident room to get an update. Detective Sergeant Munroe handed him the file.
"The initial reports from both the post mortem and the fire investigation teams have come in. As we suspected, there were four distinct explosions. Each relatively small but made up of military grade plastic explosives. Their initial guess is Semtex."
"Dear God, not dissident republicans?"
"We don't know sir. Just to be on the safe side I've alerted Special Branch. They are sending a liaison officer over later."
"Good call young man. What about the bodies?"
"We've identified two of the bodies. The first is Professor David Pullen, the head of the research centre. He had two bullet wounds to the head. We've recovered one round and it's in forensics now. The second is more interesting. A Martin Edward Francis. A former nurse, but he was struck off the nurses register five years ago following a conviction for indecent exposure. Again, two bullet wounds to the head. We haven't recovered any useable forensic material there though."
"And the third?"
"A male, about forty to fifty. The body was badly damaged by the explosion but they are pretty sure he had been dead for some time beforehand and had been stored in a freezer. There were indications that the victim had recently recovered from avian plague but apart from that they couldn't identify cause of death."
"Well if he recovered from plague, there must be hospital records, samples and the like. Get onto all the local hospitals and build a list of all male plague survivors for the last year between thirty and sixty. It can't be a long list."
"Yes sir. There is one more thing. You know you asked me to go over any CCTV footage we could find?" DCI Hill nodded. "I think you need to come and have a look at this."
Five minutes later DCI Hill was crammed into the small video suite with his Detective Sergeant and the video technician. The footage was from one of the Royal Victoria's area coverage cameras and the quality wasn't brilliant.
The video technician cued up the first clip. "This is from six minutes before the explosion." DCI Hill watched as a little girl wearing a thin summer dress hobbled barefoot away from the Research Centre then disappeared out of the camera’s field of view. Two minutes later two of the hospitals security staff ran across the screen heading in the same direction.
"Do we know what that was about?"
"I got Detective Constable Earle to go and take a statement from the security guards. Apparently someone had set off a panic alarm in the staff car park. There are cameras in there but none of them picked anything up."
"Get someone to speak to all the permit holders for that car park. See if anyone noticed anything."
"Yes sir, but there's more." The sergeant nodded to the technician and the picture jerked back to life to show a small man wearing a broad brimmed hat with an open umbrella and an attaché case walking casually away from the Centre. The umbrella hid the man for almost the entire sequence.
DCI Hill sucked his teeth and thought.
"Was it raining?"
"It had been earlier but it had cleared up by the time of this footage."
He thought for a moment. "So, we have one child, apparently running away in one direction, and one male, who is very probably surveillance aware, leaving in another. Both probably knew what was about to happen. See if you can enhance the imagery for both of them and then go back over the last month to try to get a better image going in or out. I'm going to see the Superintendent. That child is now our priority. She knows something, and if this is a terrorist attack, some evil bastards will want to shut her up fast. We have to get to her first." He turned and walked out of the suite. Then his head appeared back around the corner. "Make sure you keep this information absolutely confidential. Oh, and by the way. Well done, both of you."
DCI Hill took the stairs up to the Superintendent’s office three at a time.
In the small bedsit Robert Devereau picked up his phone at the first ring; the voice at the far end masked by a voice synthesiser. "Was the closedown clean?"
"I believe so. The data is secured, the facility destroyed and two targets verified. I'm waiting on the confirmation of the third, but three bodies were seen being removed from the site."
"Which one is unconfirmed?"
"The test subject. I'm monitoring passively at the moment for more information. My sources haven't yet been able to get close to the investigation team, but they are working on it. There is a press conference planned for tomorrow. If she survived, I believe it will take some time for the UK authorities to verify her story. That will be my window to execute."
"Understood. We will arrange pick up of the data from the prearranged dead drop. Make sure it is in place by Wednesday at twelve hundred hours."
"Acknowledged. I will expect the funds transfer by the same time."
The phone line went dead and Robert returned to his surfing between the news channels.
Chapter 5 - Convergence Ends
At three minutes to ten the Greater Manchester Police PR team were still fussing around Detective Chief Inspector Hill. Next door, he could hear the muted banter of over a hundred and seventy journalists and eleven camera crews. What was worse, he had just been informed that Sky news would be running the press conference live.
The Superintendent had briefly wandered over to wish him luck. "I'll be watching from the back Ian. I'm sure you'll do wonderfully." With an insincere smile he ambled off before his very nervous DCI could fire back a reply that would definitely not have been career enhancing.
"OK Ian, they are ready for you." His press minder murmured in his ear as they approached the door. "Remember, keep to the facts, ignore the camera flashes, and if you don't like a question, pretend they are a defence lawyer."
As he stepped into the briefing room, the assembled journalists fell quiet, and the flash, flash, flash of the cameras started. He made it to the podium without tripping and held on to it like a life belt before looking out across the sea of faces.
"Good morning Ladies and Gentlemen. I am Detective Chief Inspector Ian Hill of the Greater Manchester Police and I am the senior investigating officer on this case. As you know, on Friday, Police and Fire services were called to the Genetics Research Facility of the Royal Victoria Hospital following reports of an explosion and fire. Three bodies have been recovered from the site. Initial evidence suggests that they were the victims of a premeditated attack, and as such we are treating this as a murder investigation. Over the last thirty six hours my team have started a number of lines of enquiry to identify possible suspects and have established an incident hotline for members of the public to call in, or send a text message, if they have any information they believe may help us find the perpetrators. The number is 0900 974 1274. Thank you. Now if you have any questions I will try to answer them, but please understand this is an on-going investigation."
"Detective Chief Inspector, I'm Gary Mild of the Daily Telegraph. Is it true that one of the deceased is Professor Pullen, the head of the Research Centre?"
"We have identified two of the three bodies, but until the next of kin have been informed, I'm not at liberty to reveal their names."
"Detective Chief Inspector, Peter Doherty from BBC news. Do you believe the attack was the work of religious or other extremists opposed to Professor Pullen's research?"
"We are not ruling out any line of enquiry at the moment, but I'm not prepared to speculate at this early stage of the investigation."
"Mr Hill, Michael Garrick from the Manchester Evening News. There are reports that people were spotted on CCTV leaving the centre just before the explosion. Have you identified these people?"
"As I said, we are pursuing a number of lines of enquiry, and this includes reviewing all CCTV footage from the area. As you can imagine, with a busy hospital there are a large number of people moving around all the time and we are working to eliminate them from our enquiries."
Ten minutes later and drenched with sweat, Ian Hill escaped from the claws of the press. He stormed straight down to his incident room and grabbed hold of Detective Sergeant Munroe.
"How the fuck did that little shit Garrick find out about the CCTV footage?"
The young DS blanched. "He must have spoken to the hospital security guards."
"Get over there and put the fucking fear of god into them. Get there now! And if one hair on the head of that child is harmed I will personally rip them new arseholes!" Ian Hill was shaking with rage. He turned to the rest of the incident room staff who stood frozen at his outburst. With a monstrous effort Ian Hill brought his rage under control so that his next words were so quiet they had to strain to hear them. "The clock is now racing. God help us, let's save that child."
Robert Devereau muted the sound on the TV and sat back. The journalist had said people, not person, and the policeman hadn't denied it. It wasn't conclusive, but it was worrying enough to justify breaking cover. After a moment’s thought he picked up his mobile phone and dialled a number, it was answered in moments.
"Manchester Evening News, Pete Carron speaking"
"Pete, its Rick Douglas." Robert had created a fake identity as a reporter on a rival paper to subvert the young photographer. "I have an ‘opportunity’ for you. Your mate Michael Garrick knows something about people leaving the research centre just before it blew up. I need to know what he knows, and fast. "
"Understood Rick, I'll see what I can do. It'll cost you a thousand for this one though."
In the busy newsroom of the Manchester Evening News no one noticed as Pete Carron hung up and grinned to himself. He always enjoyed putting one over that supercilious little shit Garrick. If another journalist beat him to the story, and he got a little something as well, it was definitely no skin off his nose.
Jeremy and Sam sat in stunned silence as the live broadcast switched back to the studio.
"He didn't say anyone got out though did he?" Sam pleaded. "It wasn't enough to raise suspicion was it?"
"If you were already suspicious and worried how would you take it? No, If I were Robert, I would start looking now. We need to slow him down and initiate our contact with the police now. And I know just how to do it."
Sam watched mystified as the young girl picked up the prepay mobile phone and started creating a text message.
"Sam, tomorrow morning I need you to go to work. If you don't, it will raise suspicion. Take the mobile with you. When you get into the city centre, turn it on and send the text message. As soon as it is sent, turn it off and remove the battery. Do you understand?"
Sam nodded unhappily. It made sense, but she hated the idea of leaving 'her' little girl alone and unprotected. Conversation was strained throughout the rest of day and they both went to bed early in the hope that sleep would come easily.
It didn't.
Seeing Sam off to work on Monday morning was hard. She dragged her feet and delayed until I started to get fed up.
"You will be careful Jennifer, won't you?"
"Yes Sam."
"You know where everything is?"
"Yes Sam. You need to get to work or you'll be late." I gently chided.
"I know. I'm going now. Remember not to answer the door."
"I will. Remember to send the text."
We hugged, and I noticed the strain around her eyes. She drove away slowly, looking constantly in her rear view mirror. I went inside and locked the door.
My first task was to start collecting all the information I could about the explosion, and the background of the Genetics Research Centre. I started six files, and began filling them with what little I had. One each for Robert, Professor Pullen and Martin Francis, one for the Centre, one on human cloning and mind transfer, and the final one on the police investigation. I signed up to an online proxy and obfuscation service to hide my tracks and started digging. Occasionally I glanced up at the TV news channel muttering quietly in the corner.
There was a sharp bang at the front door. I froze, my heart in my mouth. It was only the sound of letters hitting the floor that allowed me to breathe out.
"Idiot!"
I kicked myself for forgetting the basics, and spent the next hour preparing hiding places and escape routes from both upstairs and the back of the house. I hid a steak knife in my bedroom and slightly calmer, got back to my research.
The next time I looked up at the clock, it was three in the afternoon. My stomach growled at me so I quickly grabbed a sandwich and looked around the kitchen. What had felt homely and comforting when Sam was there now felt claustrophobic. I went back to work but struggled to concentrate. I lapsed into long periods of staring at the wall, thinking and worrying. Had Sam sent the text? Would the police act on it? How close was Robert? When would he come? Who was behind him? Were the police compromised?
Gradually, my thoughts drifted to areas that I found more disturbing. Now the centre was destroyed could I ever get back to my old body, my old life? What would that do to my relationship with Sam? What was my relationship with Sam? What did she want? Steadily my thoughts continued to spiral down into the darkness of my soul. Did I really want to go back to the loneliness of my old life? Was I betraying Caroline's memory? I couldn't answer any of them and the knot in my stomach grew tighter.
Eventually I couldn't stand it any more. I buried myself in housework before getting started on dinner to hide from my own thoughts.
Sam came home early and we hugged hard, trying to both draw and give reassurance with that embrace. Sam looked around and noticed the neat pile of ironing and the tidy living room, a brittle smile on her face accentuated the stress lines.
"You have been a busy girl haven't you?"
I smiled back, hiding my irritation at the comment, and took her through to see the research I had done. "Did you send the text?"
"As soon as I got to work; and I turned off the phone afterwards." She sounded slightly resentful that I had checked.
I tried to interest her in my notes but could see her mind wasn't on it. After a few minutes she reached out and stroked my hair. "I need a shower." I let it go and she headed upstairs whilst I went to check on my cottage pie.
I was struggling with a large cast iron skillet when Sam walked quietly into the kitchen behind me. A chair scraped and I span in alarm. The heavy pot crashed to the floor, spattering the tiles with gobbets of potato and mince.
"Oh Fuck!"
"Jennifer! I won't have you using such foul language young lady!"
I stared at her in shock, and then the spring that had been winding up inside me all day finally snapped.
“Fuck off! Stop trying to make me into I’m something I’m not!”
I lashed out with my tongue, offloading the uncertainty and fear that had enveloped me for days onto the one person I could reach. The venom of my words slashed into Sam's face like daggers.
Even through my bitterness, I could see the desperate hurt I was causing her.
“I’m a freak, a science experiment. I never asked for this and I’ve lost everything I had — EVERYTHING!”
Before she could move, I rushed for the door. I ran upstairs and into my bedroom. I hurled myself under the bed and wrapped myself into a ball, dry eyed and shaking.
Time passed.
My bitter anger and frustration slowly mutated to equally bitter shame and guilt at what I had done. Muscle by muscle I slowly uncurled from my hiding place as my bladder demanding my attention. I slipped quietly out of the bedroom and down the hall to the bathroom. Downstairs I could hear the washing machine as it ran up to a spin cycle. I pulled up my skirt, slipped down my panties and sat on the loo. The very act of having to sit down to pee still made me feel self conscious. For a moment the shakes came back and I squeezed my eyes closed. The butterflies in my stomach felt more like a tornado.
Going down the stairs, and back into the kitchen, was the longest walk of my life.
Samantha stood with her back to me; her head and neck straight and stiff as her hands chopped carrots with a staccato rhythm.
“I hurt you.” Despite the desperate effort it took for me to speak, the words came out little more than a whisper.
The carrots were swept into the waiting pan in a splash.
“You’re the only one who cares, and I hurt you.”
She turned, every muscle under tight control, and looked straight at me. The puffy redness around her eyes stung me far worse than any glacial stare or harsh frown could ever have done.
“Yes, you did.”
For long moments we stood, I was too terrified to move, or speak or even breathe in case I pushed her away forever. At last Sam sniffed sadly.
“Why?” It sounded like a plea.
I closed my eyes to hide from the pain I had caused. “I can’t let it out, it’s all trapped inside me and I can’t let it out. I’m frightened and confused and ashamed and it’s all whirling around inside my head whilst my stomach is doing back flips, and I’m terrified of being alone again, but I’m pushing you away. I can’t even cry.” I stopped suddenly and gulped down a breath, still shaking like a leaf with my eyes screwed tight.
I felt a feather touch on my shoulder and started. My eyes sprang open to see Sam jerking back as if scalded. Without conscious thought I threw myself desperately into her arms, hugging her to me with all my strength.
“I’m so sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” I gabbled on and on as I felt her arms enfold me; tentatively at first and then with greater assurance as I clung to Sam in desperation. I felt the heaves of her sobs against me as she stoked my hair, and my shame came back tenfold at what I had done. I still didn't cry.
We sat close together that evening, holding hands until it was time to go to bed. We didn't speak of what had happened earlier. We didn’t really speak at all.
Pete Carron quietly slipped out of the newspaper's offices and started walking down towards his favourite sandwich bar for lunch. As he walked, he fished out his mobile and punched in a number.
"Yes?"
"Rick, it's me, Pete."
"You took your time."
"I know mate. I'm sorry it took a couple of days but I've got the goods. Garrick did know something. He spoke to one of the hospital security guards and they said that two people were seen leaving the centre; a bloke with an umbrella and a girl. I tried to check with the guards myself but they clammed up as soon as I mentioned CCTV. Is that what you were after?"
"No, not quite. Look, I'll still stump up the grand but I was looking for something a bit more juicy."
"Sorry Rick, I'll keep my ears peeled OK?"
"You do that Pete." The line went dead.
Robert Devereau sat back and thought. So the subject did get out. He must have been in the room with Mr Francis all the time. It was too late for regrets and in a way Robert was found a sneaking admiration that the subject had kept his nerve and then taken such decisive action. Where would the subject have gone? He had training, so he should be relatively predictable. Option one; back to his old flat, an area he would know well, or option two; to someone he knew? Mrs Howard's report had made it clear that there was no one close, so he would probably start with the flat. He would have gone there first to get clothes, money, and possibly a weapon, and could still be in the area, lying up, living rough and trying to blend in with the homeless street kids. Robert swiftly pocketed his pistol, pulled on a dark coat and headed out of the door.
As Robert Devereau was heading for the little lock up where he had hidden his car Detective Sergeant Alex Munroe was trying to stretch the stiffness out of his back. So far the incident hotline had received 947 calls and 1,482 text messages. The calls had taken priority and the team was only now working through the text messages. He looked at the message stack assigned to him and groaned, clicking to open the next one in line. He looked at it idly.
His shout brought the whole incident room to a standstill.
"Governor, Get over here. NOW!"
He turned back and stared in shock at the screen.
FROM: 072335 879908
TO: 0900 974 1274
SENT 0947HRS 15 FEB 2018
FOR DCI HILL:
URGENT
GIRL WAS BAREFOOT AND SET OFF PANIC ALARM
FRANCIS MARTIN KILLED DOUBLE TAP TO HEAD
KILLER USES NAME ROBERT DEVEREAU
HEAD SECURITY ROYAL VICTORIA GENETICS CTR
5-7, SLIM BUILD, STOOP, BALDING, FAIR HAIR
CONSIDER EXTREMELY DANGEROUS
3RD BODY MAY BE JEREMY EDWARD MOORECLIFF
DOB 11 MAR 1970
DISCHARGED ROYAL VICTORIA 18 NOV 2017
NEXT CONTACT WHEN DEVEREAU ID ON SKY NEWS AS SUSPECT
DCI Hill sprinted across the office and read the message over his sergeant's shoulder.
"Whoever sent this knows what they are doing. Two pieces of inside knowledge, a suspect and some verifiable data. Interesting that he uses the phrase 'double tap'. That's military jargon for two rounds isn't it?" He turned round to face the expectant room. "Right team listen up. I want the records for this mobile and I want a trace on every call and every time it turns on. I want someone to go to the hospital immediately and pull any records and pictures on Robert Devereau. Also, pick up any details you can on a Jeremy Edward Moorecliff. Run both names through the PND. Get the press team down here. If this is solid we are going to need to go to the media as soon as possible. Now MOVE!"
Robert Devereau got back to his bedsit a little before midnight. Jeremy's old flat was still empty, and there was no evidence of recent entry. Robert had then posed as a distraught parent looking for a runaway, going from shelter to shelter, talking to street kids, bribing, threatening, hunting. He had driven up and down deserted alleyways and poked around disused railway arches. There was no sign of the subject. By the time it was dark he was thoroughly annoyed, and had taken pleasure in crippling a desperate heroin addict who had seen him as an easy mark in the gathering gloom.
He dropped onto the sofa and opened Mrs Howard's report again, idly leafing through it when a thought struck him. She had been close to the target. She worked out of the hospital regularly. He began to smile at the simplicity of it. He pulled his laptop towards him and started hunting again.
Sam had to drag herself out of bed when the alarm went off. She had slept badly again, and her eyes felt as if they were coated with powdered glass. When she eventually emerged from the bathroom she saw Jennifer watching her with concern.
"Sam, are you alright?"
Sam forced a brittle smile. "I'll be fine dear. I just didn't sleep that well."
"Sam, you look exhausted. You can't go into work like that; you wouldn't be safe on the roads for one thing. Call in sick."
The thought tempted her. "I'll see how I feel after breakfast OK?" She hugged Jenny briefly before shuffling past to the kitchen in her dressing gown. It took her fifteen minutes to manage to make a pot of tea and some toast that she took through to the living room. With a sigh of relief Sam sat down in front of the TV with her breakfast on her lap.
I stood under the hot shower washing absentmindedly. I was getting seriously worried now. The police had taken no action on the text I had sent and Sam was definitely not coping with the pressure. I wondered if I needed to go back to the original plan of getting both of us away and going to ground for a while. I decided that I'd talk to her later and got back to washing. I was trying to reach that difficult spot between my shoulder blades when there was a loud scream from downstairs.
I threw myself down the stairs and into the living room to see Sam pointing at the TV. A grainy picture of Robert Devereau filled the screen. In the background the presenter went on. "In the last half hour Greater Manchester Police have released this picture of Robert Devereau; the head of security at the Royal Victoria Genetics Research Centre. Mr Devereau has not been seen since the explosion last week. Police are warning members of the public not to approach Mr Devereau directly but to immediately call the incident hotline on 0900 974 1274."
Sam and I stared at each other. I started dripping suds on the carpet. Eventually Sam found her voice.
"Jenny dear, I really think you ought to put some clothes on, don't you? And what are you doing with that knife?"
I swear I have no idea how I managed to collect the steak knife on my way down. I blushed, put the knife down carefully and went back upstairs to get dry and dressed.
When I came down again, Sam had a mug of tea and some toast ready for me. As I started munching my toast, she looked carefully at me.
"When I shrieked you thought that Robert was here, didn't you?"
I nodded reluctantly, knowing what was coming.
"But you ran straight in, even though you know he is armed and very dangerous.” Sam paused to gather my gaze to her smoky blue eyes, “Jennifer, promise me something? Promise me that if he comes you will run; as fast and as far as you can. Promise!"
"I couldn't leave you."
"No! Jennifer, promise!"
She was right. We both knew it. It was still hard to say the words and I choked as they fell from my lips. "I promise."
Sam wrapped me in her arms and hugged me as hard as she could.
Still hugging me, she kissed the top of my head. "So what do we do now?"
I thought for a moment. "You must call the police, now. Give them this address and tell them the girl is here."
When Sam put the phone down her smile had blossomed once again. "I spoke to DCI Hill. He sounds like a nice man. He's on his way right now. We are to stay inside the house until they get here."
We sprawled in relief on the sofa. After a few minutes I turned to Sam.
"Hadn't you better phone work and tell them you're not coming in?"
She grinned and dialled.
"Hi, Betty?.....It's me, Sam….. Betty, I've got a family emergency and can't get into work today….. Thanks Betty…… Who?.... When?...... but I don't have a brother…… Here?....You gave him this address?" Her face was white as she turned to me. "He's on his way. Betty gave a man this address twenty minutes ago."
I grabbed the phone from her nerveless fingers and hit redial twice.
"Put me through to DCI Hill. Now!"
"Mr Hill? You just spoke to Sam Howard …. No! Shut up and listen! An unknown male called her office claiming to be her brother twenty minutes ago. He has this address. Robert Devereau is coming here. Get here fast and make sure you have armed response vehicles in support. How far away are you?.....Thank you." I turned to Sam. "They are five minutes out with armed back up."
Sam took a deep breath and looked straight into my eyes. "Get up to your room Jennifer. Now. If he comes I will try to stall him until the police get here but I can't if you are here." I hesitated.
"Go to your room young lady! Right Now!"
Unhappily I recalled my promise. I headed slowly upstairs but made for the bathroom instead. I opened the window so I could climb out onto the shed below, then pulled the door almost closed.
I could hear my blood pumping in my ears as I waited.
Robert walked quietly around the cottage until he found the kitchen door. He tried the handle carefully and smiled as it turned. People really ought to be more careful. He let himself in, his pistol held loosely at his side. Samantha Howard had her back to him, looking inside the fridge.
"Good morning Mrs Howard."
He watched her jump as a milk carton splattered across the tiles at her feet.
"Mr Devereau! I saw you on the news! The police are after you."
"Where is she?"
"I don’t know what you're talking about."
"The girl. Where is she?" He glided forward.
"What girl? I don’t know what you're talking about." She was shaking like a leaf now.
Robert paused and looked around him. Through the door he could see into the living room, and two mugs on the table in front of the sofa.
He really disliked liars.
He screamed in Sam's face. "Don’t fucking lie to me! Where is she?"
From the window of the bathroom I could just see two police Volvo's approaching quietly down the lane. I slipped over the sill and gently lowered myself down to the ground, terrified in case I dislodged a tile.
Then I heard Robert scream at Sam. The armed officers were getting cautiously out of their vehicles and pulling the slings of their MP5's over their heads. At that moment I realised that they weren't going to be fast enough, and Sam was going to die.
I made up my mind and ran to the kitchen door.
"Robert!" I screamed, and threw myself sideways. A muffled shot rang out and a shower of splinters exploded from the doorframe. I lay stunned where I had fallen on the garden path.
Robert erupted from the house, his pistol sweeping around and down towards me in a long, elegant arc. I stared at the gentle smile on his lips. Then, thunder rolled and he jerked backwards like a marionette, red flowers blossoming on his chest as the force of the bullets threw him against the wall.
It went quiet.
A policeman ran past me and kicked the Walther away from Robert's hand; but he just lay there. His lifeless eyes open and his gentle smile still in place. In his pocket, a mobile phone chirped twice.
I watched dazed as Sam ran out of the cottage screaming my name, and swept me into her arms. I smelt Samsara eau de toilette, and knew where I had smelt it before. It was my mother's scent.
I looked up into Sam's beautiful; tear streaked, smoky blue eyes as she held me tight and safe in her arms and my vision misted. "No one hurts my mummy,” I whispered in her ear. Then at last, I found I could cry. I started to sob like a little girl, rocking softly in her embrace.
Chapter 6 — The Dagger Revealed
April 2018
When I got out of hospital, again, I felt like a pincushion. If another doctor had approached me with a needle, I think I would have screamed. As it was, they had kept running in and out with silly grins on their faces and patting me on the head like a dog. Sally McRae clucked over me like a mother hen, whenever Mum wasn't around to cluck, and kept the mob at bay. On one occasion I heard Sally threaten a very senior and over-excited professor of Virology with catheterisation if he didn't go away.
David Pullen was a genius. A selfish, self centred bastard, (not that I would use that word aloud if Mum was in earshot) but a genius nonetheless. He had isolated the genome that triggered a strong antibody response to H5N1c and reinforced it within a specially constructed incubator. Me.
It took them three weeks to grow a culture for the vaccine. In trials, the death rate dropped from 87% to 4% and, as the vaccination programme was rolled out, the infection rate also dropped like a stone. It wasn't perfect, and thousands would still die, but the worst of the cataclysm was averted.
They also found out something especially important to me. 49.98% of my new DNA came from a Mrs Samantha Howard, 50.0% came from a Mr Jeremy Moorecliff, and the last bit came from god knows where. At the time no one knew quite what to do with me. The lawyers couldn't decide if I was legally an adult (Jeremy Moorecliff), a child, or something else. Then an officious old bag from Children's Services stuck her oar in. She called a case meeting to get me placed into care. I shall treasure the look on the sour old cow's face, when a very eminent professor of Genetics testified that I was genetically Samantha Howard's daughter. Mum burst into tears at that point and I joined her, much to the embarrassment of the professor. After that, I think everyone decided it was all too complicated and left well alone.
June 2018
Sam was in the kitchen when she saw the police car pull up. She waved. DCI Hill looked up and grinned as he climbed out.
"Jennifer, Mr Hill is here." She called up the stairs.
"Coming Mum."
Sam still smiled every time she heard that word.
Ian was met by a flurry of arms wrapping themselves around him as he walked through the door. He promised himself to hold this memory tight. It was moments like this that made being a copper worthwhile.
They sat around the kitchen table. Sam and Jenny waiting with ill concealed impatience whilst he made a show of settling down, sipping his tea and slowly pulling out his notebook.
"Now that it's no longer my case, I thought you might like to know how the investigation is going."
"You've been taken off the case? That's not fair!" Jenny piped up. He grinned.
"It's got a bit bigger than Greater Manchester Police. There are all sorts of agencies involved around the world and it's being co-ordinated by Interpol now. A lot of this is conjecture at the moment, and I don't know if we will ever find out the whole truth, but this is what we think. We believe that Professor Pullen was running out of funds for his genetic research two years ago, so he contacted a Chinese pharmaceutical company. What he didn't know was that it was controlled by the Triads. As you can imagine, they saw the potential immediately and invested two hundred million dollars. However, to protect that investment, they made sure they had a man on the inside. A local freelancer with a reputation for efficiency."
"Robert Devereau."
"Exactly. The Professor didn't care as long as he could keep going. Anyway, late last year the money started to run out again, and he asked for more. This time, they demanded living proof."
"Me."
"Again, spot on. Now we don't know for sure, but we think there was never any intention to pay another two hundred million. As soon as they had the information, the centre would be destroyed and all evidence eliminated, so no one would know what they had. We found a complete set of data back ups in Devereau's safe house. The same back ups that were missing from the centre. From other material we found there, we believe the project is codenamed 'Dagger'. The Triads see it as a way to insert trusted agents or assassins alongside any target without arousing suspicion."
"Hold on, I thought you recovered all the data."
"Sadly, not quite. We also found a tape duplicator In Devereau's safe house. We've got a copy, but we think that they now have the originals."
"Why do you think that?"
"On the morning Devereau came here, a transfer of eight million dollars was made to his Lichtenstein bank account. We tracked it back to a bank that we believe is controlled by the Triads. They wouldn't have paid him off if they hadn't got the data."
"So what's going to happen now?"
"That my dears, is something for people who are far more important, and far cleverer, than me."
August 2018
I knelt at the side altar of the little parish church where I had been christened that morning, and prayed.
I am now Jennifer Susanne Howard, both in law and in faith. I let Mum choose my middle name on her own, and didn't drop too many hints, when she sorted out the adoption papers and 'birth' certificate. My godparents, Sally McRae and Ian Hill, are standing chatting with Mum and the vicar, whilst I have this moment to myself. In front of me are three small candles, gently illuminating the medieval altar with its simple crucifix.
The first is for David Pullen. For all his human failings, he had driven himself to find a cure for the avian plague. In doing so, he had lost much of his humanity, and eventually his life. But his work has spared countless millions from pain and tragedy.
The second is for Martin Francis. Now I look back, I see him as a rather sad, frightened and insecure individual, who hid it behind bullying and alcohol. He had abused me and planned more abuse. But if he hadn't, we would have been in the physio room where Robert expected us on that fateful day. Without realising it, he saved my life.
The last is for Robert Devereau. I remember some of his first words to me, when I had woken as a girl. "… we have given you an extra forty years of life and an opportunity to make medical science history." He may not have meant them but they were true.
But most of all I have found my heart again, I never realised what a gift it was to cry as well as to love, to feel hurt as well as joy. And with that heart I have found my new Mum. We have both been healed.
P.S.
Mum says I have to go back to school next term. I pointed out I already had GCSE's and A levels, plus a serious degree from the University of Life. She pointed out those were easy. She expected me to study "Female Psychology, Aesthetics and Social Anthropology; plus Intra, and Inter, gender interaction". I looked bewildered, so she took pity on me and translated.
"Learn how to be a girl dear."
The End of the Beginning
Comments
I am very glad...
...to see this wonderful story revisited afresh and maybe to see it garner new readers to enjoy it asw well! Welcome back dear heart! Thank you!
Dio vi benedica tutti
Con grande amore e di affetto
Andrea Lena
Love, Andrea Lena
The Healing Dagger (revised)
I don't know which version is better. All that I do know is that I like them both.
May Your Light Forever Shine
May Your Light Forever Shine
I remember this one
It was your debut story. I still remember how you were praised and encouraged to continue, the thoughts shared about it. I'm a little sad that the comments are gone, but it's the nature of things, I guess. I'll revisit the story sometime soon, I had a difficult three weeks just before - Finals at the Uni. I did well, but it still left a backlog for me to clear. :)
Faraway
Big Closet Top Shelf
Where you can fool around like you want to and most you get is some bemused good ribbing!
Faraway
Big Closet Top Shelf
Where you can fool around like you want to and most you get is some bemused good ribbing!
Revisions
I enjoyed this story when I read it first time although I can't remember it well enough to identify the revisions. On that basis, I approached it afresh and all I can say that this version was an enjoyable read. :-)
"Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it."
Enjoyed the first time
and the second. This is a good story!
hugs!
Grover
PS: I'm in the process of looking at some of my old stuff, and I know about that cringe factor. Eek!
Yaaay! She's back!
Good to see your writings back up!
Hugs,
Jenna
That goes double for me
Faraway, Stanman, DiMaggio have it right.
Allow me to welcome you back as well. You have been missed!
So much to read, so little time and only one of me :)
The English Teacher
So much to read, so little time and only one of me :)
The English Teacher
Technical detail
Samsara is by Guerlain, not Givenchy.
Unless perhaps there will have been a takeover between now and 2017?
Great story told with panache and economy. First time I've ever really been able to believe in an age regression story.
XX
AD
Dagger to the Heart
Great to see this story posted again and to be able to read it. I wonder how they were able to keep Jenny's identity secret. I think there will still be some opportunity for future challenges. (Maybe a sequel!)
Good to have you back!
As always,
Dru
As always,
Dru
Pandora's box
as now we have practical immortality as we can continuously clone our bodies and transfer consciousness over and over again. I will leave open the question to spiritual theorists as to whether that means your soul gets moved also or are you just a ginned up copy.
Kim
Not necessarily
The ability to copy conciousness may not be perfect - we know it isn't with modern computers, after all. :)
Speaking of the story, I've done as promised and reread it. And, I do hope we'll be able to see more of Jenny and Sam in the future - at least we know that they won't be hunted as the cat is out of the bag about the project, and it's water under the bridge. But, as the two lonelities that found each other, they have a lot of potential for growth. And who knows what can happen in the meantime. :)
Faraway
Big Closet Top Shelf
Where you can fool around like you want to and most you get is some bemused good ribbing!
Faraway
Big Closet Top Shelf
Where you can fool around like you want to and most you get is some bemused good ribbing!
Thanks for the link from the intro to God save the Queen.
Great story, short ending when you had built up a formidable story, but very enjoyable none the less.
I'm looking forward to lots more if you get the time?
Thank you
LoL
Rita
Age is an issue of mind over matter.
If you don't mind, it doesn't matter!
(Mark Twain)
LoL
Rita
Missed This...
...the first time around and again when you re-posted, probably because of the "forced" tag. My loss.
Very good story, skillfully constructed. (The significance of the perfume really took me by surprise.)
Eric
Missed it the first time around
I'm afraid I gave this story a pass when it was posted. On seeing the blog entry about it I decided to take a look to see what it was about. I'm glad I did. While it is short on actual (the usual) TG angst, it is a fine bit of sci-fi. It incorporates action/adventure and a bit of heroism which is wrapped up in a warm, fuzzy ending. All in all, my kind of stories.
Don't sell yourself short. You did a fine job writing it.
Hugs
Patricia
Happiness is being all dressed up and HAVING some place to go.
Semper in femineo gerunt
An unusual and very inventive plot
to this gripping and yet sweet story. Very well done, thank you for sharing.
Monique xx
Monique S
Bit of a latecommer but then -
T'is obvious I've come late to this party and it's pointless giving decietful excuses just suffice to saye I thoroughly enjoyed the story. Personally I read parralles between being 'reborn' as it were and the various different rites of passage that every transgender person personally has to endure.
A very moving and evocative story and a sincere thankyou from me for for your posting. Sorry I have'nt read it sooner but , well, as you are well aware, real life gets in the way.