The Children Of The Mist (11 page)

The Doc's expression hardened, and Morven sensed that the warmup was over. Time to bring out the big guns. ‘Morven,' said the Doc, ‘there's something else…'

Morven observed him quietly and remained mute. Mainly because she knew it would wind him up.

The Doc looked pointedly at Vanilla who hastily handed him a brown chart. Morven's name was printed clearly on the front. The Doc opened it and perused its contents. He snapped it shut and looked at her. ‘There are some anomalies in the results of your blood tests.'

Morven was genuinely interested now. ‘What kind of anomalies?'

For a second the Doc's expression melted, like butter in the sun, but then he seemed to pull himself together. ‘Nothing that you would understand,' he continued, ‘but to be on the safe side, I think it would be wise to do a few further tests.'

Morven knew then that the Doc was clueless. He was playing for time. She did not intend to let him get away with it. ‘Try me.'

The Doc glanced at the closed file as if it would give him the answers. ‘Well, do you know anything about blood types?'

Morven nodded. ‘You mean like A, B and O, Rhesus positive and negative?'

The Doc nodded. ‘Well, the thing is…your tests show…that is — ‘

‘What the good doctor is trying to tell you, Morven, is that you don't test for any of them,' her father interjected. ‘You aren't A, B or O, or any combination of them.'

‘And,' Vanilla added a bit breathlessly, ‘your blood shows positive for an enzyme that no one seems to have a name for.'

Morven took a moment to digest this. ‘So, what was the blood in the infusion then?'

The Doc picked up the thread. ‘It was O, the universal type. You had such a big bleed-out that you had to have something. And, under the circumstances, we assumed the blood results were a technical or computer error.' He paused and looked at her very carefully.

Here it comes, Morven thought.

‘Although you seem to be recovering, I strongly advise that we do another round of tests. Just to be sure. Especially as you have been exhibiting some…odd mannerisms.'

Fat chance. ‘I think I'll pass, thank you,' said Morven carefully. She looked at her dad. ‘Let's go.'

He stepped forward but the Doc put a restraining hand on his arm. ‘Mr Smith. I'm sorry, but I can't allow that.'

For a moment Morven barely recognised her gentle, slightly batty parent. He looked almost dangerous. Awesome. He shook the hand off. ‘I'm taking Morven home.'

The Doc sighed, like he was truly sorry, but Morven could sense his excitement; she could smell it oozing from his skin, the old perv. She watched as he pulled a rolled up piece of paper out of his white coat pocket. ‘I didn't want to have to do this,' he lied, ‘but I have here an order to hold Morven until she's been evaluated by a psychiatrist.'

Morven was irritated. ‘That's bollocks. You can't do that.'

But her father walked up and stood close by her side. ‘I'm sorry, Morven, but I'm afraid they can.' He looked at the doctor. ‘How long?'

‘First thing tomorrow morning,' he said. ‘Meanwhile, we will be taking Morven to the secure wing, for her own protection.'

Her father exploded. ‘Protection! Protection from what, exactly?'

‘No need to get upset,' said the Doc. ‘It's just routine. This time tomorrow she'll be home.'

But Morven could taste his lies. She sensed his excitement. To him, she was no longer a patient but his own personal crusade. His five minutes of fame. He couldn't wait to start poking and prodding. Not a pleasant scenario really. And one in which Morven had no intention of playing a part. Frankly, she was beginning to get bored.

It'd have to be a mad dash to freedom. Being locked in the loony bin didn't really appeal at all. She just hoped she didn't meet anyone in the process. The pale blue gown really drained her complexion. And the open back with its four strings was the ultimate in fashion suicide. Better make it a very quick dash.

She held out her hands pathetically. ‘I'll come quietly,' she said, even as she felt adrenaline surge into her bloodstream. The audience relaxed a fraction, which was just what she had hoped for. When she moved across the floor, her speed stunned even her. Man, she was on fire. As she went down into a long, low skid toward the door, several hands reached out to grab her but she was just too quick. In a fraction of a second she was up and had her hand firmly on the door. She pushed and her face kissed the glass pane with a rude smack. Tears filled her eyes. Part pain, part frustration. Two faces looked calmly in at her. The two muscular guards eyed her through the glass with considerable interest.

‘Let me out, you pair of meat heads,' she yelled, dug in her bare toes and pushed with all her might. The door opened only a fraction, and then shut.

A kafuffle broke out behind her. She turned to find her father and the Doc on the floor, locked together like lovers.

‘Kick him in the nuts, Dad!' Morven said. It was only now that she had the time to take in the male nurse. Instead of wading in to break up the fight, he was advancing on Morven. She did not like what she saw. There was an unsavoury expression on his face; a face that seemed unformed as if it were made from Play Doh. Greasy brown hair hung limply over a low forehead and he smelled like he'd been out in the sun too long. But Morven was less concerned with his unpleasant appearance than she was with the syringe held in his left hand. Whatever it held, it was not good for Morven.

Vanilla appeared to be transfixed by the sight of the two wrestling, cursing men. She caught Morven's eye, went bright red and looked away. No hope of help from that quarter apparently. Morven muttered a few choice words under her breath. Violence, it seemed, was the answer after all. And she realised at once that she really quite fancied a rumble. It was definitely time to see what she was made of.

Time for the Batgirl to take control. Pasty Face had it coming to him. She was utterly unafraid, her whole mind bent to the task at hand. As the male nurse inched carefully toward her, Morven tensed. Then he smiled and a small ripple of unease shivered down her spine. Some sixth sense made her look behind. The two guards were entering the fray.

‘Run, Morven!'

It was her dad. Sound advice, but there didn't seem to be any place to go. Caught between the two guards and the nurse, Morven had the sinking feeling that things may not turn out as she planned. If she were going down, it was going to be in one hell of a fight.

As a hand closed around her wrist, all conscious thought evaporated. In one fluid motion her right leg lashed out. Her foot connected with Pasty Face's rubbery midriff.

He doubled over. ‘You bitch.'

Morven snarled in fury. She had only just begun.

Just like the time on the roof at the building site, Morven felt the world slow down. As each guard came on the offensive, it was as if she knew exactly what they were going to do. Every counter-evasion seemed perfectly placed. Even when Pasty Face recovered and began to edge in, Morven felt under control. Slowly, but surely, she was manoeuvring her way closer to the door.

A wave of joy washed over her as a well-placed hand smashed one guard's broad nose. Blood sprayed copiously around the room. The aroma filled her head. It gave a whole new dimension to the old saying ‘seeing red'. The guard, half-blinded, staggered back. Now there was only one guard and Pasty Face. She was just getting into her rhythm. Already she'd worked out the guard's technique. As he spun in low she simply leapt up and over. She landed lightly. There was nothing between her and the door. With a triumphant cry she made a dash for it.

And then her foot hit a big splatter of blood. With her mouth in a wide O of shock, she slipped and landed flat on her back. It was just the opportunity her opponents had prayed for. With a mighty effort she flicked up with her spine and kicked off with her feet. If her dad and the Doc hadn't rolled into her she would have had a chance, but the extra handicap was her undoing.

Pasty Face straddled her chest, both thighs pinning her arms to her sides. She thrashed frantically, and she felt him dislodge. But it was a false hope. Both guards grabbed a leg each. A Christmas turkey would have had more range of movement. All she could do was whip her head from side to side. Which she did, in a desperate attempt to prevent the greasy little turd from sticking her with the needle.

‘Leave her alone.'

Morven stilled and turned to look at her father. He was sliding across the room toward her, the Doc like a limpet clamped onto his legs. His finger slipped in the bloody mess, and one eye was swollen. ‘Don't you touch her, you cowardly bastards,' he hissed.

Despite her predicament, Morven couldn't help but feel a wave of pride. While her dad wasn't exactly Ninja, he was outstripping all expectation.

As if he sensed he was out of time, Pasty Face carefully prepped the syringe. A tiny spray of liquid fizzed into the air. His free hand clamped onto her upper arm.

Morven glared at him and snapped her teeth together, twice. ‘You're going to regret this.'

Pasty smiled. ‘I doubt it.'

Morven watched helplessly as the needle finally found its target. A tiny prick and then it was over. It was strange but she could actually feel the drug surge into her bloodstream. It shot directly to her brain where it stopped. Immediately she tried to fight it. As she looked up into the pale eyes of her captor a wave of hatred fired up in her heart. When she woke up, there was going to be hell to pay. She was going to hunt him down and suck the spirit from his miserable carcass. She was going to wear his eyeballs as earrings. And that was if she was in a good mood. A flood of tiredness washed over her. With every atom of her being she willed herself to stay awake. She could beat this thing. Hell, she was Batgirl. Next best thing to Wonder Woman.

The heavy weight receded and Pasty's face floated above her. Morven glared at him. ‘I'm going to drink your blood, you scrotum,' she said succinctly.

And he laughed. He was still laughing as her world telescoped inward and flickered out.

* * * * *

It was nearly six o'clock when Zest finally parked the last car in the secure fenced car yard. He loved cars. Was good with them, too. He had a knack for the mechanical. It was one of the reasons that the dealership owner, Elvis Wesley, let him live in the caravan — rent free, no questions asked. In return, Zest helped out all he could. He liked Elvis who, while strangely obsessed with The King, was a wizard with the giant yank tanks that glittered gaudily in the yard. The less glamorous models were less visible. Elvis only begrudgingly let them into the premises because he liked to eat. Every time one of the tanks went, Elvis went into mourning. He'd drink cans of American beer, get out his old guitar and play
Jailhouse Rock
until he slipped quietly into unconsciousness on his front deck.

Zest switched off the ignition and patted the old leather steering wheel. But his mind wasn't on the vehicle. The long day was finally singing its swansong. Already the shadows were long and the stifling heat of the day had begun to recede. Streaks of flamingo pink scored a soft lavender horizon. Night called. For the 100th time, he checked his phone. Still nothing. What the hell was going on? Why hadn't she texted him? He couldn't rid himself of the horrible feeling that something was very wrong. Unable to control himself any longer he typed in a quick message. ‘Hey u, how u going?' After a moment of hesitation he pressed send.

Relieved to have made some kind of decision, he pulled the keys out of the ignition and hopped out of the car. He could see Elvis waiting patiently at the office door for him. He jogged carefully through the parked vehicles and threw the keys to the waiting man.

‘All done,' said Zest.

‘Cheers, mate,' said Elvis. He pulled two combs out of his back pocket and ran them expertly through his black, coifed hair. ‘Got a special delivery on Monday. Can you give us a hand?'

Zest nodded. ‘Sure.' He had no idea what was in the large crates that arrived sporadically at the yard on Mondays when the place was shut. Didn't know and didn't care. Well, actually, he
was
a bit curious, but not enough to try to find out. That was another reason Elvis let him stay. He'd never have shifted them on his own. And besides, Elvis knew that Zest kept his mouth shut. It was a happy arrangement for all parties.

Elvis smiled, his white false teeth bright in his pitted, swarthy face. ‘See you later.'

Zest set off to his van. Not for the first time he wondered how old Elvis was. He could be anywhere between 50 and 70. He looked pretty fit for an old geezer but his face looked like it had lived a couple of centuries. His phone buzzed and all thought of Elvis was wiped away. Morven!

But it wasn't. Just some crap phone sales stuff. Inside the van it was stifling hot, even though the windows were all open. Normally he'd make his herbal drink and then head out to meet Morven. Saturday night was a big night. Unable to decide what to do, he absentmindedly fell into the old routine. With the kettle on, he had a quick shower, pulled on his camouflages and a clean vest, and went back to the kitchenette. Without thinking he
measured out a scoop of Wolf's Bane and poured the nearly boiling water over it. For some reason, nearly boiling worked better than actual boiling.

He sat down on the top step where a tiny breeze gave some relief. It wasn't dark yet but already he could feel his senses stir. Memories of the night before flickered through his mind. His body could still remember the savage joy of Being. Something primitive and urgent beckoned. He sighed and ran a hand over his face. One day without the herbal suppressant was dangerous. He'd never missed more. And tonight was a full moon. She would soon be there, smiling at him.

Zest jumped as
Gangsta's Paradise
burst through his pocket and he slopped the hot tea over his shirt. He swore, held the hot material off his skin with one hand and pulled his phone out of his pocket. The number was unfamiliar. No one ever rang him from that number, or not that he could remember. Intrigued, he lifted the phone. ‘Hello.'