Alchemist

  She stared at the tiled walls, terror rising in her throat. A group of people in scrubs were gathered to one side with their backs to her, occupied with something they were blocking from her view. They turned occasionally to glance at her, and only their eyes were visible above their masks. Crowe. Seligman. Linda Farmer, whom she had met only once, the Director of Medical Information – and another woman she did not recognize.

  There was a clatter of an instrument. She saw Seligman hold a tiny bloody object up to the light in long-handled forceps and examine it carefully. After some moments he lowered the object and raised a second. There was a murmured exchange of words, then several members of the group turned again and looked at Monty.

  She began praying, silently, desperately. She tried visualizing a gold cross; thought of the Lumiel square in her handbag. Then, despairingly, of Tabitha Donoghue’s smashed body on her car roof.

  The woman she had not seen before was walking towards her, slowly and carefully, holding a metal tray out in front of her as if she were presenting an offertory to an altar. A large frog crawled pitifully across the tray. Where its eyes should have been she saw raw and bloody empty sockets.

  Monty’s throat muscles went into spasm. She gurgled in terror.

  The woman moved the frog closer, so close it almost touched Monty’s nose. Shaking, gulping at air, she could smell the creature, could see the loose skin beneath its neck pulsing as it breathed. She shut her eyes tightly. They could not make her watch, she still had that freedom.

  When she opened her eyes again, the woman was moving away. Monty swallowed. Moments later the woman returned with another tray, which she again presented close to Monty for inspection. Neatly arranged on a bed of crushed ice were the frog’s bloody eyeballs.

  Her insides corkscrewed in panic. She jerked her wrists, her legs, her neck against the straps.

  Someone wheeled a rattling trolley up to her. The group were gathering around her now. Seligman leaned over her, rummaging in the instrument tray, selecting first a small, gleaming scalpel which he raised in one hand and inspected, then an instrument with a long, thin handle and a flat round steel scoop on the end.

  ‘Noooooooooooo!’ she screamed.

  Seligman rotated the scoop between his finger and thumb. Light glinted off it.

  ‘No!’ she said. ‘Please, no. Anything. Anything you want. Not my eyes, not –’

  ‘I will be quite quick,’ Seligman said to her, with no trace of emotion at all. ‘It is very important with the eyes to be quick, because the optical nerve endings die so very fast.’ Then his expression hardened. ‘The frog is a cold-blooded creature, Miss Bannerman. Cold-blooded creatures feel very little pain; did you know that?’

  She stared back at him, voiceless now.

  ‘I did not use any anaesthetic on the frog, so I am not going to waste precious time using any on you.’ He reached up and made a small adjustment to the angle of the lamp.

  Then Crowe’s voice: ‘Have you thought of anything you would like to tell us before Dr Seligman begins, Miss Bannerman? Or shall we remove one eye first and see how things go?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she gulped out. ‘There’s nothing. We – I – only spoke to Mr Wentworth – Zandra Wollerton; no one else. I didn’t talk to anyone else and they – they are dead. I didn’t, I promise, I swear.’ She knew she was incoherent now.

  ‘What about Mr Molloy? To whom has he talked, Miss Bannerman?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I think you do.’

  ‘Please. I don’t. I really don’t. I haven’t – seen him – not since – I don’t know where he is.’

  There was a brief silence, then Crowe said, harshly: ‘Take the first eye out. We’ll talk to her again when you’ve finished. A little pain might concentrate her mind.’

  The woman who had presented the trays leaned over Monty, pressed her fingers deep into the base of Monty’s throat, at the top of the strap, forcing her head back. Another pair of hands pressed down on her forehead.

  Panting in terror, Monty could only watch as Seligman’s gloved fingers came down towards her right eye. She closed her lids, squeezed them tightly shut, fighting with all her strength to resist the pressure of his fingers as he tried to prise them open.

  She was losing. First her lashes, then the rubber of his gloves rubbed painfully against her eyeball; then she saw a watery haze of light as he succeeded, the pressure from his fingers relentless, as if he were used to this, did it every day of the week. He had the lids peeled back now, wide open.

  ‘Retractor,’ he said calmly.

  Gloved fingers appeared holding a tiny wire hinge with rubber edges. Monty saw it coming towards her eye, felt the acute discomfort as it was inserted, forcing her lids wider.

  ‘Right,’ Seligman said. ‘I’m now going to cut through the conjunctiva.’

  No, please no, you are not going to do this. Please no. Monty stared into Seligman’s eyes, pleading desperately, pleading with all her heart. His brow furrowed in deep concentration as he leaned forward, until his masked face was inches from her own. A flash of light bounced off the gleaming blade of the scalpel as it came slowly, rock steadily, down, then blurred out of focus a fraction of a second before it made contact with her flesh.

  130

  Level 2 … turn right … signed …

  Conor barged out of the lift before the doors were fully open and found himself in an empty anteroom identical to the one he had just left.

  He slid the card into the door, keyed in the number, pushed it open, then looked, wildly, both ways down the corridor, holding the gun out in front of him. The corridor was deserted. He sprinted down and after twenty yards he hit an intersection with a battery of signs. He tore down to the left, towards the door marked Theatre 1. Then on. Another ten yards.

  Theatre 2.

  He pressed his face to the glass porthole in the door. They were in there. Green scrubs clustering around the gurney. The surgeon bending over Monty …

  The key card fell from his shaking hand as he pushed it against the slot. He knelt, tried to get his nails under it, but it stayed stuck to the floor as if held by a vacuum. Jesus, come on! Frantically he prised it off the floor then rammed it into the slot and hammered in the numbers. The light flashed green and he charged the door with his elbow. It did not budge. He tried again and it bucked but did not yield.

  Was it locked from the inside? He pushed again, then pulled and it opened immediately, a large, heavy door on a weighted spring. Someone looked round, a woman he did not recognize.

  ‘Don’t touch her!’ he screamed, swinging the gun at all of them. ‘Move away from her. Move away from her or I’ll shoot! Move! I’ll shoot, I’ll goddamn shoot! Move!’

  For an instant everything froze, as if a pause button had been hit on a video.

  Crowe spun round. Conor saw the cold grey eyes above the mask and in that instant he wanted more than anything on earth to pull the trigger. He had never fired a gun in his life but he could do it now, do it easily. But the bullets might go astray, might hit Monty. Monty. Had to get Monty out.

  All eyes were on him.

  ‘Move! I said move!’ The gowned figures started moving, backing away. He swung the gun again, watching them like a hawk, then fixed his stare on the surgeon. ‘Drop the scalpel.’ He jerked the gun forward, gripped it with both hands, aimed it squarely at the surgeon. The scalpel clattered on to the tiled floor.

  He remained in this position, half in and half out of the doorway. He glanced over his shoulder. Corridor still empty. He was thinking clearly surprisingly clearly and he felt calm. He was in command. One step at a time now. He caught Monty’s eye.

  ‘Hands on top of your heads, all of you, put them up.’

  They obeyed.

  Glanced behind him again. Nothing. Looked up at the ceiling, at the television camera, directly above him at the fire extinguisher system, back at the camera. Other people would be watching, reacting. No time to waste, not one second.
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  ‘You!’ He yelled at a gowned woman, pointed the gun squarely at her. ‘Push that trolley here. The rest of you stay still; anyone moves they’re dead.’

  The hatred was exploding inside him. The hatred he had been storing for years. Had to release it, had to, before it destroyed him. The woman was pushing the gurney towards him now, wheeling Monty towards him, bringing Monty back to him. Her face was white but she looked OK, not hurt, she was OK.

  Got to stay calm. Come this far. Hold it, got to hold it.

  Come on, Crowe. Make my day. Give me the excuse to shoot you. God, I want to shoot you, you goddamned piece of shit.

  He stared down the barrel at Crowe. Seligman. Linda Farmer. Short, hard, bangs of anger exploded inside him like firecrackers. He felt the energy surging from him. He stared at the octopus lamp. Crowe. Seligman. Farmer. The lamp again. There was a flicker. A bulb blew. Then another.

  Crowe was staring hard at him. Conor quickly looked away. Got you, you bastard, I’m not letting you go, oh no.

  He stared back at the octopus. Felt the energy shooting from him like rockets. The remaining bulbs exploded simultaneously. Flames sheeted out of the lamp and thick acrid smoke rose from it, spread out across the ceiling. The lamp was on fire, burning, crackling. Conor smelled the acrid reek of the smoke. Then a streak of brilliant orange light suddenly flitted across the room.

  It was followed by another.

  Then another.

  Conor’s eyes shot to the ceiling. The rotating warning light of the halon gas extinguisher system had come on. Crowe and Seligman looked up in alarm and took a step forward, towards the door.

  ‘Back!’ yelled Conor. ‘Get back!’ Flashes of orange streaked their faces as the mirror in the lamp housing revolved. One end of the gurney was within reach now. Conor grabbed the metal rim behind Monty’s head with one hand, and with the other jabbed the gun at the woman in scrubs who was staring, petrified, holding the gurney, her eyes moving from him to the light and back again.

  Conor yanked the trolley back towards him, then rammed it hard forward, smashing it into the woman’s midriff, sending her backwards on to the hard floor.

  Then six loud klaxon bleeps sounded. They were followed by a digitized warning voice:

  ‘FIRE EXTINGUISHER HAS BEEN ACTIVATED. EVACUATE THIS ROOM IMMEDIATELY. FIRE EXTINGUISHER HAS BEEN ACTIVATED. EVACUATE THIS ROOM IMMEDIATELY.’

  Panicking, Crowe, Seligman and Farmer all moved forward.

  Conor threw a glance at the flashing light and screamed, ‘Don’t move! Don’t move another goddamned inch!’ Swinging the gun hard on them, he moved backwards through the door, hauling the gurney into the corridor and rolling it aside to let the door swing shut. The instant the lock clicked home he rammed one end of the gurney into the door, swung the other end across the corridor and wedged it against the wall, barely giving Monty a second glance. It was a perfect fit. No way that door was going to open.

  A warning light flashed on the outside wall. Monty was staring at him in shock.

  The digitized voice was still audible. ‘EVACUATE THE ROOM. EVACUATE THE ROOM. TEN SECONDS TO ACTIVATION. NINE … EIGHT … SEVEN …’

  There was frantic pounding on the door. He saw a fist hammering on the porthole, trying to punch through the glass.

  ‘FIVE … FOUR …’

  Crowe’s masked face pressed against the glass. Their eyes locked. Conor felt the venom, the hatred, burning through the glass. Felt Crowe willing him, felt the power drawing him like a magnet. Drawing him towards the door.

  ‘THREE … TWO …’

  He tried to look away but could not. Tried desperately to break away from the grip of those eyes. Imagined a gold cross. It dissolved. Imagine another. That melted into black liquid. His hand went to the edge of the gurney. The door was shaking as if a battering ram was pounding it. Tried to look away. Saw only Crowe’s grey eyes, felt their pull, willing him to open the door. His head was bursting and he felt nauseous. The gun fell from his hand.

  Gold cross.

  Gold cross.

  Crowe was speaking to him now through the glass. ‘Move the gurney, Mr Molloy. This isn’t the way to carry on! We can deal with this in a gentlemanly way. Man to man.’ Crowe was suddenly his best friend in the world and he wondered why he hadn’t realized that before and why he was trying to hurt him now. Why, he loved his best friend …

  He turned and put both hands on the gurney, saw Monty frantically shaking her head, then caught Crowe’s stare again through the window. No. This wasn’t right. He thought of his father. Saw the huge black bird hanging motionless in the sky, its wings outstretched. Saw it hit the ground and jerk its head sharply up and stare straight at him.

  The way Crowe was staring at him now.

  Thought of his mother. Stared back into those grey eyes. No. No way, no –

  There was a piercing banshee scream.

  Crowe’s face disappeared. The light through the porthole dimmed. Conor heard a tremendous rush of air. He pressed his face to the glass. A snowstorm was blowing. It was the halon gas forcing out the oxygen, dropping the temperature to below zero, turning all the vapour to ice.

  He peered through the glass. The four people inside looked as if they were performing a ritual dance, ripping away their masks, mouths open, cheeks sucked in, eyes unnaturally wide in shock and fear.

  The woman he had knocked down was lurching across the floor, pounding her chest with her fists, her face shrivelled like a deflating balloon. She stumbled and fell, pummelling the tiles with her hands and feet.

  Linda Farmer was ducking and lifting her head, her face a contorted mask of desperation. Seligman, all composure gone, was stomping round and round in a tiny circle, his body buckled, maniacally jigging his balled fists up and down.

  Crowe’s face reappeared at the window, blocking it, mouthing frantically to Conor. Conor turned away, looked at Monty and leaned forward, blocking her view of the porthole. There was more pounding on the door. He waited until it stopped.

  When he turned back Crowe was still there, a hideous marionette with a purple face, bulging eyes and veins pushing out of his forehead. He was shaking as if plugged into an electrical socket, frantically trying to communicate with Conor. Conor turned away again.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Monty said.

  Conor pressed his hand against her cheek and said nothing. He waited a good half-minute, watching the corridor in both directions, before turning back to the porthole. Crowe’s face had gone.

  He looked through. Crowe lay on the floor just beyond the door, curled up, choking and shaking violently, still staring up through the glass. Dr Linda Farmer, Seligman and the other woman lay contorted, convulsing, arms outstretched towards the door, eyes bulging and sightless.

  ‘Conor!’

  He turned as he registered the alarm in Monty’s voice. Two guards were racing down the corridor. The gun. Where the hell was the gun? He saw it on the floor, ducked down, grabbed it, then threw himself across Monty, trying to shield her, waving the gun so they could see it clearly. ‘Stop!’ he yelled.

  They halted, two nervous-looking men in their late fifties, and backed away, raising their hands.

  ‘Right!’ he yelled. ‘Now listen to me! I want Sir Neil Rorke on the end of a phone line. Right now, right this minute, do you understand?’

  ‘Conor –’ Monty tried to interrupt.

  ‘You hear me? One of you stays here with us and the other goes and finds Sir Neil. I don’t care where the hell he is or what he’s doing –’

  ‘Conor!’

  He glanced down at Monty, the urgency in her voice reaching through to him; she was staring at the corridor behind him. He saw a shadow leap along the wall and a split second later felt an explosion inside his head.

  131

  The gun flew from Conor’s hand. As he slumped sideways he dimly saw it spinning on the floor beyond his reach on the other side of the gurney. An arm clamped around his throat; his neck was jerked violently up, his
legs were kicked away and he was brought crashing to the floor on his back.

  A moment later someone was on top of him, a burly guard he did not recognize. He heard footsteps. Shouting. Someone yelled: ‘Move that trolley, move that fucking trolley! Open the door, get the fucking door open!’

  Dazed, Conor struggled to free himself, but his arms were battened down by the guard’s knees. Then he saw the muzzle of a handgun, inches from his face.

  ‘I can’t move it!’ someone shouted. ‘It’s stuck! Jesus, it’s wedged tight, gimme a hand, get out of the fucking way!’

  The guard climbed slowly off him, keeping the gun on his face. ‘Stand up. Quick.’

  Conor staggered to his feet and lurched sideways, colliding with the wall. Guards were appearing from all directions. Two of them were frantically pushing and pulling at the gurney. Conor was relieved to see it still had not budged; the pressure from the halon gas in the operating theatre would be forcing the door outwards, jamming the gurney even harder.

  ‘Lift it!’ one of them shouted. ‘Lift it from beneath! C’mon!’

  ‘Get the fucking woman off it!’

  They tore off the straps and tipped Monty on to the floor, then climbed beneath and tried to push it upwards. It still did not budge. Monty crawled on to her knees, white and shaken. Conor moved towards her but the guard jabbed him away with his gun.

  A hard-looking man in a suit appeared around the corner at the end of the corridor, walking rapidly, jacket open, tie flapping. Conor recognized him instantly: Major Gunn, Director of Security. Then, following a yard behind, he saw the unmistakable figure of Rorke, looking highly agitated.

  With a loud metallic scrape, the gurney finally swung free. One of the guards inserted a card, tapped the keypad, then pulled open the door. Conor felt a powerful blast of cold air. Rorke charged through into the theatre. Gunn, pausing for a second to stare at Monty and then Conor, followed him.

  Conor exchanged a glance with Monty. She was shaken, but on her feet. She looked fine. Half a dozen guards now blocked any possible escape path in either direction.