Nightmare
Subtitle: How to turn a sensitive, intelligent man into a monster.
V has flashbacks to his Larkhill experiences.
Rated NC-17 for disturbing imagery, uncomfortable ideas about torture, cruelty, and sanity. Not for the faint-of-heart.
Disclaimer: Characters belong to Moore and Lloyd.
V paused, the chisel poised in his glove. He had heard something. Very slowly he climbed down from the cement and rebar scaffolding he had piled against the wall. He pressed himself against the rubble and reached for his mask. Someone was coming. He turned the wick of his lamp and melted into the ensuing darkness. As his eyes adjusted to the weak light he was able to scan the ground in front of him, counting his tools. Another chisel lay in plain view to anyone walking the tunnel; its steely shaft reflected the dim light that filtered through the drains and manhole covers. V glanced down the tunnel again, turned his ear to the sound of footsteps.
It wasn't so much that the sight of a chisel would alert the trespasser to his presence so much as the risk the stranger might see it and take it away. V needed that chisel, and procuring another would be very hazardous. He weighed the risk. The interloper would soon come around the curve in the tracks and have a half mile of uninterrupted view. His cloak was behind him, hanging on the rebar. He reached for it, swept it over his shoulders and head and stepped out, retrieving the chisel quickly and using the opportunity to look down the tunnel toward the sound of the footsteps. Closer now. Louder.
But strange. An uneven rhythm. Light steps, not heavy. He faded back behind the rubble, pulling his lamp back in, sliding a knife into his glove. One more time looking carefully. No more tools. No evidence I am here.
The footsteps paused at the curve. V froze. The intruder has a choice. This tunnel or the one that curves away east. V crouched lower, waiting for the stranger to make his decision. The footsteps started up again, quicker, as though the man had confidence in his decision. Oh Bloody Hell. V saw the edge of the beam from the stranger's torch. He's coming this way. He balanced the blade in his glove, felt the weight, judged the distance, gauged his light, and sensed how much elbowroom he had to make the throw. Now all that was left was to see his victim, determine his height. A chest shot or the head? Depends if he has a gun. V set his teeth hard and narrowed his eyes. He hated guns. His fingers closed around his knife and he balanced his weight on the balls of his feet. Ready.
The stranger appeared, waving the torch side to side along the tracks in front of her. Yes. A woman. V relaxed. And she has no gun. At least not one in sight. The knife hung limp in his hand as he allowed himself the pleasure of feeling relief. She will pass me and be gone. Hurry up. He watched as she approached, only slightly curious as to why she might be in the tunnels in the first place. He didn't care, really, except that she had interrupted him. He was annoyed, but not concerned. Sometimes people did come down. Mostly the homeless, or teenagers trying to find a place to shoot their blackmarket drugs or to rut noisily against the walls. This intruder did not fall into either category. She was wearing a mack and sensible galoshes. Her torch was large and powerful; expensive. Her step confident. If she had been wearing a uniform he would have assumed her to be police or a city inspector. But no. She is in street clothes, her haircut styled in an expensive salon, not the local parlor. Now he was curious, and moved a little to follow her with his eyes as she approached his hiding place. What is she doing down here? The torch moved up and down the walls on either side of her. Is she looking for someone? Is she lost? Probably not. Sound carries so well in the tunnels that calling for a lost companion or for help is more effective than searching with a torch. She was silent but for her footsteps as the torch made a methodical pass left and right, right and left, casting stark shadows whenever it touched the long fingers of the rebar that stuck out of the concrete blocks. What is she doing?
She stopped directly opposite him. The torch focused on the wall beside her. She must have seen something. Oh no. The torch illuminated one of the places he had chiseled out some tile and the metal edging he needed back in his chamber. She stepped closer, ran her hand over the gouge. V sank lower behind his cement boulder. He kept his eyes on her, willing her to move on. Now he tensed. She swung to torch around to his wall. The beam bounced up and down where he had been working, directly over his head. He tightened his grip on the knife. Go away! He warned her in his mind, go away! If she came any closer he would have to act. The blade felt heavy now, his hand reluctant. I can't let her see me. If she sees me she is dead. Save your life, woman. Go on down the tunnel. You have nothing to do with me.
But she did not hear his desperate thoughts. She took another step closer, fanning the ceiling now with her torch. V calmed himself, lest she hear him breathe against the mask. Stayed still as death behind his chunk of rubble. The beam came dangerously close on that last sweep and before he had a chance to duck his head or close his eyes, the beam struck him full in the face. The pain of the bright light, even through the mask holes, was too much and he gasped. Just a slight gasp, but it was enough. The woman heard the sound, trained the beam full on his mask, blinding him. He heard her echoing gasp as the beam wavered, then returned to his face.
He leaped out blindly, aiming for her from memory and from the sound of her choking cry of astonishment. He took her down to the ground, rolling her over and over with him until he had her pinned to the ground and covered with his body. He put the knife to her throat. Her torch bounced and rolled onto the mangled tracks. His vision returned quickly with that light extinguished and he pressed his metal face against her soft one, the edge of the blade biting her beneath her chin. He pressed harder, trying to cram the edge of the steel into her throat. Right there. He knew where to put it. He saw in his mind the track the blade must make, through the windpipe, sever the carotid. She would gurgle and fall silent like so many others, her eyelids drifting softly down like ash from a pyre. Grey and soft. Like ash. The blood that gave her skin its rosy color would be draining outside her body, coloring the ground not her complexion. Then she would lie still and silent. His secret would remain safe. He pressed the blade until a ruby bead appeared on the steel and rolled down the silvery track to touch the finger of his glove. Press harder and it will be over. Slash. But his glove would not obey him. He shifted his body on her, pressed his knee into her thighs grinding her into the shards of concrete beneath them both. He tried again, the sharp edge now slicing into her pale skin, he could see its steely bite in the pain in her eyes. Blue eyes. Eyes wide with surprise, but no fear. No fear? He paused again. She had not screamed, nor cried out. She was not crying, begging nor struggling. He withdrew the blade. The violent urge to kill her had vanished. It was gone. He sat up. He sheathed the blade, but kept her pinned with his knee. She watched him with those blue eyes all the while. Silent.
Then her eyes moved, drifted down. He followed her gaze to a spot between his legs. Oh god. She thinks I'm going to rape her. He scrambled off her body and stood, swaying unsteadily. What's wrong with me?
Her hand went to her throat, and then she raised it to her eyes and looked at the blood on her fingers. The blue eyes then traveled up his body to his mask. "What are you going to do now?" she asked. She was calm. She lay there, honey blond hair framing her face, spread out on the concrete. A pretty face. Young. Maybe thirty years old. Her speech educated. Posh. She was not even trying to flee. V wished he knew the answer to her question. He leaned over her, offered her his glove. She took his hand and he pulled her to her feet.
He stood there, staring down at her. She was small. Maybe only an inch or two over five feet. Her hair shoulder length, wavy. Smelled clean, scented with roses. Maybe that is why, he thought. Roses. I could not kill her. She is not one of them. His throat hurt, it was tight. He wanted to answer her, but nothing could come out. He had not spoken to anyone in how long? More than a year. He had not spoken to anyone since, since, since Delia. Delia was the last human being he had spoken to. Two years ago. More than two years. How long ago? Time does not exist in the tunnels. She smells of roses. He felt dizzy. Delia.
Larkhill. Morning. It's cold.
V used his legs to grind himself into the wall behind him, the straightjacket twisting his arms and pulling at the joints in his shoulders. They are coming, like they do every morning. She will come. She will ask me questions. Drill me. Insist that I answer. Ask me questions. Then she will poke me, prod me touch me. Her fingers hurt. The needle hurts. Then she will turn me over to them.
Delia comes in with two guards. Two this time. Why two? He waits, trembling in the canvas restraint. She speaks
"I wish we didn't have to put you in that jacket, Five. You know it is your own fault. If you behave I can have these men take it off."
I don't want to behave.
Delia nods to the guards. One of them raises his arm, the truncheon an immediate threat, a warning to him. The other unbuckles the straps. Delia takes a step backward.
Yes. Fear me.
"I'm going to take a blood sample. And give you your injections." She says to him. She nods again and an aide steps in from the hall with the tray of torture.
Both guards hold their truncheons ready.
"If you cooperate I'll see about letting you out in the yard today. The Commander has given you permission to take a look at the garden. Isn't that what you wanted? No more fighting, Five. No more biting and kicking. Do you understand? Yes? Give me your arm."
He looks at the guards, the aide, and finally at Delia. The garden. He is ashamed at the pleasurable feeling which surges through him. I hate them. They should not be able to give me pleasure. But she does give him pleasure. She does offer him relief. He can feel his fury grow fainter as he considers the garden. An afternoon away from these walls, away from the screams, the smells. He knows she is manipulating him. Knows she is winning. He extends his arm. For now. She reaches for him. He closes his eyes, bracing himself for the pain.
But her hands don't hurt. They are soft. She smells of roses this time and not carbolic acid, alcohol, and chlorine. He squints up at her, stretches against the bindings of the straightjacket. The restraints are gone. Her voice is soft now, not harsh and authoritative. Not ordering him about. But she is speaking. She is demanding I answer.
"Mister?" She is shaking me. "Mister. Are you all right?" She is touching the mask. He snatched her wrist. Held it there over his face. I'm lying on my back. Oh no. How did we switch positions? She is leaning over me now. He put his other hand to his throat. But she does not have a knife. He felt his belt. Six. He focused his eyes. It's not Delia. Not Delia. It's the small little tiny woman from the tunnels. He released her wrist and she withdrew it from his mask. "Are you hurt? Are you all right?" She asked him again.
V took a deep breath. Considered answering her. Am I all right? No. I don't think I will ever be all right again. Am I hurt? He inventoried his body quickly. I have a headache. He put his glove behind his head.
"Yes. You hit your head when you fell. Let me feel it for you." He stopped her reaching hand with a gesture. I can feel it myself. A big lump. He pulled his hand back and held it over his eyes and rubbed the fingers together. Blood. Mine this time. He looked at her. She was kneeling beside him, her hands on her knees. She had retrieved her torch, though now it was switched off and they exchanged looks in the dim blue glow of the tunnel. "You fainted dead away and hit your head on that block when you fell." She indicated the concrete behind him with a wave. "Who are you?" she asked, "And why are you here in these tunnels? Don't you know they are out of bounds? They are supposed to be contaminated. Don't you know that?"
He opened his mouth, "Yes." He said, though it sounded more like a croak to him than a word. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Yes." This time stronger, more confident. He wondered at the sound of his voice. Remembered his voice, so strange now to his ears. It sounded muffled behind the mask.
"Can you sit up? Let me help you." She didn't wait for an answer but leaned over him, lifting his shoulders. He frowned. I must be twice her size and weight. Why is she not afraid? Why has she not fled? Why does she not fear me?
In a savage twist it occurred to him that he should fear her. He has not killed her. She has seen him. She will tell others she saw Guy Fawkes in the tunnels. They would come and take him away. He shook his head slowly, still feeling dizzy. "I have to kill you now." He said to her, slowly pulling a knife from his belt. He felt like he was dreaming.
"Very well." She closed her eyes and lifted her chin. V looked at the soft expanse of her neck, the failed first attempt an angry red line from her collar to her ear, but now no longer bleeding. He twirled the knife and gripped it. I must kill her. It is my life or hers.
She opened one blue eye. "Get on with it, man."
V raised the blade. Not a slice this time. A stab. Right in the soft spot above the notch in her collarbone. Right there. He took aimHe saw the pulse on the surface of her skin. Targeted that flutter. Ready.
"I can't." He lowered the blade. Dropped his head to his chest, his hair swung against his shoulders, blocked the sight of her face from his eyes.
"No, don't stop. You can." She took his knife hand in hers and set the tip of the blade at her throat. "I'm easy to kill."
He snatched the knife away, confused. "What?" This is not happening the way I think it is?
"Please kill me," she whispered. A big tear rolled down her cheek.
V stood up and stepped back, crashed against the concrete, dropped the knife. Stumbled to the next block and sat down on it. She followed him, picked up the knife and put it back in his glove.
"Please."
"No. Go away. Leave me alone." He reached for his cloak. I have to go. I have to go.
"No. First you must kill me, then you can go. Please." She clutched at his cloak, holding him back.
"I don't want to kill you any more, lady. Let me go." She burst into tears, releasing him. V quickly gathered up his tools, picked up his lamp and fled. He did not stop until he had rounded the curve in the tracks. There he paused and turned around, to be certain she was not following. No. He saw nothing, heard nothing but the echoes of her sobs in his ears. He returned to his chamber, glancing behind him every few seconds, thinking about making a detour, or sleeping in the alcove above the tracks this one night to be certain he wasn't going to be discovered. She was not following, but she was not leaving the tunnels either. He could still hear her.
He set his bag of tools down and lit his lamp before entering the crevasse in the tunnel wall that led to his chamber. He glanced around one more time. She can't see me. He moved through his small room, touching everything, making sure it was all there. If I were dreaming, how could I wake myself? He pulled off a glove, put his hand over the lamp, turning his wrist until he found some live nerves. It's hot, but that's not proof enough. This is a dilemma.
He heard a sound outside. He dropped to a crouch, turned his eyes on his lamp. He listened again, then moved swiftly to extinguish its light. In darkness he heard the sound again. Scratching at the entrance to his chamber, falling pebbles and, yes. Footsteps. Yes. She must have followed me. He reluctantly fingered the knives on his belt. I have to do it this time. I'll carry the body down to the sewers. She will float a long way before she is discovered. He took a step, crunched in the gravel near the entrance as he felt along the wall. Sure enough. The sent of roses reached him. She followed me. How could I let that happen?
"Mister?" At the sound of her voice, he knew he was lost. He took his hand off his belt and sat down, folding his legs under him, resting his head in his hands. It's over. She emerged from the crevasse with her torch. She didn't see him crumpled low on the floor. Her eyes followed the beam of light as it touched his things in the room. His supplies stacked neatly against the walls, his water barrel, his lamp, his cot. Then the beam found him.
"Oh. There you are." She knelt beside him.
V lifted his head. "Who are you and why are you here?" He asked quietly.
She arranged herself comfortably, so small and slight in her tan mack and shining galoshes. She smiled sadly at him, "My name is Audrey." She offered him her hand. He took it, it seemed rude not to. "I'm very pleased to meant you, Mr…?"
V stared at her, released her hand. Who am I? Delia had called him Five. No. This is not Delia. "V" he whispered.
"Mr. V."
"Just…V" he corrected her. He bent his head back into his gloves. It's all over.
"How long have you been here….V?" she asked.
"A long time."
"And you haven't been sick?"
He looked up at her. "Sick?"
"With the virus. These tunnels are supposed to be contaminated. They say even rats can't live down here. They say even one whiff of the air down here is fatal, that it will be contaminated for decades. They say whole departments of medical personnel are required to keep these tunnels sealed off from the city. To protect us."
V couldn't help but ask. "And you? Have you taken a fatal whiff?"
"I was hoping to. I saw evidence that someone has been cleaning the tracks and chiseling at the walls. And then I saw you. I knew that maybe, maybe, the government has been lying and there is no viral contamination. You should not be able to live down here."
V thought about the homeless men and the teenagers. "Not everyone believes what they are told."
"Apparently." She nodded at him. "Why the mask? No one else is down here. No one can see you."
V considered taking it off and showing her why. He imagined her running screaming out of his home and leaving him in peace. It was a fleeting thought. A delicious thought. It made him feel better. He touched it, ran his finger along the strap over his ear, considering it.
She cocked her head. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to." She looked at him in a way he instantly recognized. She thinks I'm insane.
"Why did you follow me here?" he asked her, dropping his hand.
"I need to know. If there is no contamination. I must change my plans."
"You planned to come down here to get infected."
"Yes." Her voice was tight.
"And now? You solicit your own murder?" And you think I am mad?
He watched as her face contorted. She struggled to control herself; he saw the muscles in her throat jump with the strain. She broke down sobbing into her hands. He sat next to her. Helpless. Waiting. Patient. Her shoulders shook for a long time, long after the sobs had ceased to echo in the small chamber. He did not touch her. Finally she lifted her tear-streaked face to his. "You have to kill me."
V leapt to his feet, bounded past her and crossed the room to the far wall. He bent his forehead to the concrete, dug his fingers into the wide cracks and held on. Why is this happening to me? A wave of anger and frustration seized him. He turned on her. "If you want to die, then kill yourself." He whipped out a blade and threw it at her, watching as it hit the ground exactly where he wanted it to and spin to a stop by her right thigh, the tang inches from her hand.
"I can't. I would have. I can't. I will burn in Hell. I have to…" She wept some more into her hands, ignoring the knife, then turned to him. "I can't. I have to go to Heaven. Someone else must do it."
V blinked. "What?" he breathed.
"I will tell you. I will tell you if you promise to kill me afterwards. Please."
"No. I will not promise." He moved closer to her, puzzled. Suicide had been constantly on his mind for years. Heaven and Hell had not. Hell contained no fearful devils for him. He had been to Hell already. He was in Hell now. He was quite familiar with the geography, with its denizens. Curiosity overcame his reluctance to speak. He returned to her and retrieved his knife; sat down.
"Tell me," he commanded.
She wiped her face with the sleeve of her mack. "My son, Jack, was a student at St. Mary's. He was only seven years old. He came home one day, fell sick. My husband John too. They went to hospital with all the others. They never came out again." She wiped her eyes. "I've tried. I've tried for years. Two years now. I just can't do it anymore."
"Do what?" he asked her gently.
"Live."
Nightmare
Chapter 3
Rated R for medical squick. Seriously. Don't read this is you are squeamish.
Brokencot!V, Movie!verse
Disclaimer: characters belong to Moore, Lloyd and WB. Probably DC too.
V stared at her. I am not dreaming her. She is real. I see the blood trickling down her neck. I will have to move away from this hole now. Become more vigilant. Find another crevasse.
She touched a knife hilt on his belt; he followed her hand with his eyes.
"It would be so easy. You almost did it. Why did you stop?" she asked him.
"You do not deserve to die." The answer is so easy.
"Neither did my family. Yet they are dead." She tugged at the knife with her thumb and forefinger, tilting her head at him, pulling it out slowly and daring him to stop her. "It will be over in a moment."
He let her have the knife. "No. Sometimes it takes an hour to bleed to death. Sometimes two."
"Not if you sever an artery. A few minutes at the most." She picked up his hand and pressed the hilt into his glove. "You know that, don't you. You've severed an artery before. I can tell."
He tilted the mask at her. "How do you know?"
The edges of her mouth turned up in a half smile. "You knew just where to place the blade on my neck. You didn't hesitate. You didn't fumble. Your hands have the feel of an experienced murderer."
He shook his head. "Yet you have no fear."
"I do not fear Death, but welcome Him. I want to join my family. Send me to them. Please." She lifted his hand and the knife to her throat. "There is a lovely artery right here."
"I won't. I can't. There is a difference, Audrey."
"No. Death is Death. I do not want to live, but God must choose when I die."
"Putting a knife in the hand of your killer is trying to cheat your God of His will. Don't you think He will notice? The fact that I refuse…does that not suggest that your God is refusing you?" V put the knife back in his belt. He could see by the look in her eyes she knew he was right.
"Why?" she covered her eyes so he could not see them anymore. "Why is He doing this to me? What have I done? I have searched my memory for two years, lit enough candles to light all of London, prayed, cried, and atoned…but nothing helps."
V felt a twinge, he felt like a limb that's been twisted so long it becomes numb and then prickles as it comes back to life. "Has it occurred to you that perhaps He has something He wants you to do?" He asked her softly, taking her hand from her face.
She frowned at him. "What? I'm nobody. A wife and mother. Now not even that." She flicked her wrist to remove his grip on her hand. Anger edged her voice. "Do you have any children? Obviously not. If you did you would understand." Her face hardened.
Children. He put both hands on the ground to steady himself. No. Not again.
Larkhill. Afternoon. It's hot.
The orderlies have strapped him to a gurney this time, lying on his side, his knees drawn up in a fetal position. They gagged me. Why? Now they stand over him talking about football and sex. He tries to remember watching a game, playing one, sitting in a pub watching one on the telly with his mates. Nothing. Is the world spinning outside of these walls? Do these men go home every night to a meal and a beer and wife and children? Time seems out of place. How can the world go on? How can anything else exist? Does the rest of the world know we are in here? Do they care? He hears her footsteps in the hall. Her sensible shoes never squeak like the men's shoes, but their soft and determined footfalls cause him to tense whenever he hears them. Those shoes are always coming for me. And now I am on a gurney. What's that about? What will it be this time? I have a catheter. A biopsy? A lumbar puncture? This last thought makes him break out in a sweat. If I receive any more of those I do not know how I can survive.
I am in an operating theatre, not the usual room. Will it be surgery? He feels fear like an icy hand on his heart. What kind of surgery? The entire theatre is empty except for this gurney and these two men. It can't be surgery; there would be more nurses and technicians. More doctors. What are they going to do to me? He hears the door open and the sensible shoes come to a stop beside him, just outside his field of vision.
"Good. You have him ready for me," she says to the orderlies. We will get started as soon as the nurse arrives with the equipment. "Good afternoon, Five. How are you feeling today? Your vitals look good." He cannot see her, strapped down as he is, but her voice moves back and forth behind his head as she checks her instruments. She withdraws the catheter. One of the orderlies speaks.
"What ye gonna do today, M'am? Will ye be needin' anythin' special? Bob and me can get ye some cuffs or bars." He hears the eagerness in the orderly's voice, like a dog who has seen his master reach for the leash.
"Thank you, Mick, but no. He is already restrained and positioned perfectly for today's work."
He hears the door open and close and a cart pushed in. The nurse says, "It's another semen sample today, is it Doctor?" The orderlies guffaw until Delia hushes them.
"Yes. The last one was inconclusive. Do you have everything I asked for?"
"Yes, Doctor."
"Excellent. Then we shall begin. Bring the machine over here, next to the gurney."
He heard the nurse obey, the rattle of the medical cart, felt the jolt of the gurney as the cart bumped it. He heard the rustle of paper being unwrapped, the click of plastic and glass. One of the orderlies laughs. The other one answers with a snort.
"Gentlemen," Delia says sternly, "you are dismissed."
He hears the orderlies mumble, but after a moment he hears the sound of their shoes squeaking towards the door. The door opens, closes again.
The nurse asks. "Where is the anesthesiologist?"
"There will be no anesthesiologist this time, nurse. Test the restraints."
"Doctor Surridge," the nurse sounds puzzled. "This procedure is never done without anesthesia."
"You have your instructions, nurse. Test the restraints."
He feels the nurse check the leather cuffs at his hands and ankles. Delia moves forward to get out of the nurse's way. He can see her now. She looks pale, tense. He sees her eyes above her surgical mask. She glances up. He follows her gaze up to the observation deck, a sealed glass cage so much like a theatre box, but without the drapery. Behind the glass he sees boots. A uniform. A man leans forward and touches his forehead in a salute to Dr. Surridge. It is Prothero. Delia quickly turns away from the salute. He sees she is upset. She flashes her eyes up to Prothero for a split second then whispers to him so the nurse cannot hear, "He heard you call him a "fat toad". And a "half-wit". I'm so sorry, Five." She looks away as the nurse assures her the restraints are secure.
Dr. Surridge is a commanding presence now, in charge for her audience. He hears her performing for Prothero. "Lift his smock. Yes, there." He feels the cooler air on his buttocks and legs as he is exposed. He kicks, testing the restraints himself. The gurney shakes, the glass and plastic on the cart echo the rattle, but he is bound firmly. He pulls with his shoulders, but he is strapped tight. "Five. Five," Delia soothes. He feels her hand on his shoulder. It burns him. He shudders until she removes it. "Courage," she whispers to him. To the nurse she says, "Make sure the wand is well lubricated. Set the machine on the lowest setting. Let me have a specimen cup." He hears these preparations being made. He closes his eyes. He does not want to watch. He does not want to see her face when she touches him.
He feels the wand slide in, it is huge and he feels pressure and pain; the nurse's latex finger touches his skin. He kicks again, but this time the gurney doesn't even shake. Delia collects him in her hand; her glove is thicker than the nurse's, the latex stronger. He squeezes his eyes and thinks of dead kittens, spiders, sewers, guns, and roaches. It does not help. The nurse turns a dial and the wand vibrates inside him. He cannot stop it from growing, responding to the electric current.
"Cor blimey! Doctor!" the nurse gasps.
"Hush!" Delia reprimands her. "Pay attention to the dials. And the temperature. Tell me if it reaches 40 degrees."
"Yes'm. Sorry, Doctor."
"Next level, please." The wand vibrates higher and Delia's hand on him tightens. He brings back the spiders, the sewers, focuses on them. Grits his teeth. It is not working. He is helpless again. He tenses his legs, squeezing his knees together as the rising level of stimulation begins to take control of his body. Then he feels the burn. He takes in great gulps of air through the gag. His eyes feel as though they will be pushed out of his skull. The pressure and the pain increase with each second. He kicks.
"Good," Delia says, "another 15 seconds, then flip the dial thirty percent. Watch the clock. On my mark. Give me the temperature."
"Thirty-eight degrees, doctor."
"Good. He is almost ready."
He cannot think, he cannot see. Inside him, a buzz and a burn threaten to rip him in half. He tries to scream, but no sound can penetrate the gag. He begins to kick harder and arch his back, every loose inch he can stretch from the restraints is maximized, and the gurney begins to rock with his thrashing.
"Cor! Doctor!" The nurse sobs.
"Steady, nurse," Delia's voice is strangely calm. "Flip the dial on my mark."
"Yes'm"
"Mark!"
He feels like a meat hook has erupted through his bowels as the electric wand touches him inside like a fiery brand. His screams are muffled by the gag. He is bursting with the pain. He feels his hips thrust once, twice, three times and the hot release flows though Delia's hand into her specimen cup, defying him.
"Enough, nurse! Turn it off!"
Delia's grip is tenacious and her long firm strokes make him retch with dry heaves. It's over. Until the next time. God help me, I prefer the lumbar puncture. Hot tears spill over his cheek and down across the gag.
"Very good, Five. Maybe some of these will be alive this time." She praises him like he is a puppy that has gone on the paper instead of on the floor. He hates her; he will not look at her, but his breathing is telling her how he despises her. He breathes hard, realizing he had been holding his breath against the agony. His breathing tells her now how much he loathes her, how much he wishes he had his hands around her neck. He imagines it, plays with it in his mind. It is the only revenge he has, these visions, for the searing pain does not fade. He burns inside.
He hears the nurse sobbing softly to herself as she disconnects him and puts the machine away. He opens his eyes. Delia is writing on the specimen cup. He sees the milky fluid inside, his heart beats in his ears. He is hot all over. His whole body is a bundle of scorching pain.
"Are we finished, doctor?" The nurse whispers, sniffling.
"Yes. Get this to the lab right away. Walk it down there yourself and give it to no one except Dr. Murphy. Do you understand?"
Yes, Doctor." He hears nurse shoes fade away through the door. The latch clicks.
He glares at Delia, ripping her face off with his eyes. She sees him. She pulls down her mask. She rests a latex hand on his head. She is sorry. He doesn't care. He wants to kill her. She looks up at the observation deck. He looks too. He sees the boots stand, then turn and disappear from the glass.
Immediately Delia grabs his arm. She has a needle. "Oh, Five, I'm so sorry." Her voice breaks, "I'm so sorry. He made me do it."
She inserts the needle and a moment later he feels nothing.
He had not passed out this time; this flashback had not shocked him into unconsciousness, although he wished it had. Audrey is here. She is looking at me now. I feel like I have been beaten.
"No. I don't have any children," he said softly. "Not any that I know of." He closed his eyes behind the mask. "And now I never will.
Nightmare 4
Rated PG
Brokencot!V Movie!verse
Disclaimer: characters belong to Moore, Lloyd and WB.
Audrey narrowed her eyes. "Then you know nothing of pain." She picked up her torch and stood. "Do not tell me I do not deserve to die."
V shook his head, remembering. The images from Larkhill had not faded like they always had before. The vivid memory seared his brain, obscuring his visitor and blurring her words. He couldn't shake the vision by moving his head.
"Look at you. Living in this hole," she said bitterly. "If you can call it living," she said, disgust evident in her voice, "I would never live here." V looked up at her. She continued, waving the torch's light across his space, training it on his small cache of supplies. "I'm surprised you haven't used those knives on yourself. This place must be hell in the winter when it rains."
"You have no idea," he said. He got to his feet and put a hand on her arm, ready to steer her back through the crevasse. It is time for this woman to leave.
"You bastard, you can't make me leave," she planted her feet and swung the torch at him. He caught it easily and twisted her wrist until she whimpered.
"Our conversation has ended," he told her, dragging her to the crack in the concrete "Get out and don't come back."
"Why not? Because you will kill me if I do?"
V stopped. She's right. I have no threat I can use. She does not fear me, or this place, or for her life. Without fear she is invincible. He dropped her arm and she rubbed her elbow where he had gripped her. Clever girl.
She was calm now, aware that her ploy had not worked. She took her torch from him. "I will leave. But I will return. It looks like you could use some more things down here. Some blankets. You don't have enough blankets. And food. Would you like some food?"
V frowned beneath the mask. "Why?"
"Because I want to, that's why."
He didn't answer, but pushed her with his glove in the small of her back. The thought of warm blankets and more food was so tempting he could not bring himself to say no, to tell her he would be gone from this place by midnight tonight, that she would never be able to find him again.
"What kind of food?" he asked slowly as she disappeared through the crevasse.
"Hot food. Lots of it. Everything. And tea."
V stood there on his side of the crack, listening to her footsteps echo away from him in the tunnel. Food. Tea.
Larkhill. Midnight. It's very cold.
Very cold, but he burns. The morphine Delia had given him earlier has worn off. She had put a small white pill in his mouth, but he had spit it out as soon as she was gone. He had no idea what it was, and wasn't going to risk it. It could have been codeine, or strychnine. He misses that pill now and wishes he hadn't been so hasty, so defiant.
He lay on the floor of his cell. Shivering, bound in a straitjacket, his ankles shackled. Why? He was usually bound only when he was to be visited, and then freed from the canvas and cuffs when the day was done. He is naked below the jacket, two feet of chain linked his ankles. They want me to be able to move, to go to the toilet. But he is cold. The floor is frigid. His shivering only compounds his misery, every shake accentuating the pain inside him where he had been burned with the probe. That wand had gone over forty degrees. The nurse had lied, had been negligent. She had burned him at the last instant. It doesn't take much. He squirms, tries to stretch the bindings a little more. There is blood between his legs, he can feel it. See it. Smell it. He thinks about that white pill and wants it so badly.
A soft sound quiets his struggles. Sensible shoes. He becomes still as death. She is coming. But she is alone. He hears the sound of a key in the lock, then light floods the cell as the door opens. Delia.
She whispers, "Five?" the door closes behind her.
He bends himself so he can see her silhouetted against the light that comes from under the door. Then she switches on a small electric torch. She is carrying something. He squeezes his eyes shut. Oh God. What now?
"Five." She kneels beside him, trains the torch on his legs. He feels her hands, the medical gloves are smooth and cold. She opens the case and a moment later feels her wiping him, something cold on his skin. An astringent smell fills the cell. He relaxes. No "treatment" tonight. She has no assistants with her. When she is finished, she rolls him carefully onto his back. "Can you sit?" she whispers.
He shakes his head.
She touched his back. "I brought you food."
She bent down to dig in her satchel. "Some tea as well. I have to feed it to you. Will you eat? I have some Vicodin but you can't have it unless you eat first. It lasts longer than the morphine. After I'm gone they will take off the restraints. I'll get three to you every day. It will be enough to make this bearable."
He frowns at her.
"Here." She opens her satchel and pulls out a thermos, then a small package. "It's a bun." She peels off a bite sized piece of bread and puts it to his lips. He smells the yeasty goodness and closes his eyes. Slowly his cracked lips part and he feels her tuck the morsel inside. He lets the bread rest in his mouth before chewing. How long has it been since food actually tasted good? He opens his mouth for more and lets her feed him. When the little bun is gone she puts a hand behind his head and raises him up just enough to allow him to swallow. She places a hard little pill in his mouth and follows it with the thermos cup. Earl Grey, his nose tells him. He drinks it; his eyes remain closed because he doesn't want to look at her. He feels the little pill scratch as it goes down his throat.
"That pig Prothero was told not to interfere with my patients," she murmurs. "I can't have you damaged, Five. You are doing so well. The only one who is doing so well. Keep your mouth closed, Five. Don't speak to him. Don't talk about him. To anyone. He is the Commander. I can only do so much to protect you." Protect me? He coughs. Protect me? "I can't risk having you damaged, Five. You mean too much to me, to this project. You will have to control yourself. Do not speak to Prothero again unless you say 'Yes, Sir". The tea was gone. She packed up her things in the satchel and stood. "The orderlies will come in now and release you from the restraints. Tomorrow there will be a pill hidden on your food tray. Look for it. Swallow it."
He hears the shoes pass through the door, a moment later the squeak of the orderlies' shoes come in. A truncheon is raised in mute warning. The other man kneels to unbuckle him.
V took off the mask. Droped it, rubbed his face with his naked hands. Rubbed harder, trying to rip the memory away. He pulled off the wig and dropped it too, rubbed his scalp, his ears. I would so like a hot bath. He knows he will never have one ever again. Hot food. Tea. How long since he had tasted hot tea? That time in the cell with Delia. That was the last time. Earl Grey. Never again. Darjeeling for me. Or pekoe. Just the scent of bergamot sent him back to Larkhill. Tea. Maybe scones. What if she brings me the kind with rosemary in it, or better yet, apple bits baked inside. Or cake. He began to tremble, thinking of food. He looked around, his lamp turned up high. I am so hungry. All the time.
Hurry, Audrey. He combed out the wig with his fingers. He used a little of his drinking water and the edge of his cloak to polish the mask until it shone white in the lamplight. He put them back on, peered into the bushed steel surface of the kerosene canister. I look…hideous. A grim smile stretched his face beneath the mask. So. Hot food. How long? When did she say she would return? Maybe she won't. The inside smile faded. She may have been lying. He paced the room, back and forth. Hurry, Audrey.
He waited two days. Two days. He had some food, yes. Nicked from dumpsters and sidewalks above. Every week or so he might break into a restaurant or a shop and get away with some quantities, but that was risky, and he never stole anything that couldn't keep without refrigeration or that needed to be cooked.
He was dozing when he heard her footsteps in the tunnel. He knew it was Audrey. He would remember forever the sound her feet made; everyone's footsteps are like a fingerprint. Galoshes and tiny feet. Little tiny feet. But she is moving slowly. Carrying something heavy. He squeezed through the crevasse into the tunnel. Saw her torchlight. Flew to her and took the basket from her arm, helped her shake off the backpack she had across her shoulders. She had been dwarfed by this load. Maybe 40 pounds! He was astonished.
"You can't weigh more than eight stone and you are carrying at least three!"
She laughed. "Take the torch, too, then. It weighs two pounds, four. My wrist is killing me." He saw the twinkle in her eye as she said that to him. He took her torch too and led her to his hole.
He sat her down next to his lantern, then set the pack and basket next to her, too polite to open them, though he was eager enough to be salivating. He sat down on the other side of the lantern, crossed his legs beneath him.
"Go ahead," she invited, waving at the packages. "I want to just sit here and rest a few moments. I've eaten, so don't offer me anything," she added as he pulled the thermos from the basket and raised it to her.
The thermos was opened and the thick smell of a rich Darjeeling curled upward through the mask holes. He felt dizzy and his hand shook as he poured the hot tea into the thermos top that served as a cup. He saw her eyes on him as he reached for the chin of his mask.
"Go ahead." She smiled sadly. "Do you take sugar? Lemon? Cream? I brought them all."
He turned around until his back was to her, and re-crossed his legs. He pushed the mask over his head and brought the cup to his lips, inhaling the scent and flooding his tongue with the tea, after the first long drink, he answered her. "I take them all. But not all at once."
She laughed. "Good. I'm glad I brought them. I brought packages too, if you get some hot water you can have more. I don't suppose you build many fires down here." She looked around. "I brought you a few cans of Sterno, but they won't boil water well, I'm afraid." When the tea was half gone he closed the top, dreading to drink it all at once. He lowered the mask and turned back to the basket.
"Ha…" He blew his breath through the mouth hole, so pleased, so very very pleased. He dug through the basket with his gloves, setting everything out in a neat row next to the lamp. Tins of biscuits, little cakes, he stopped. Pate. "Ha! Ha!" He was speechless. His gloved hand fumbled with the tin. A slender white hand took it from him and opened it easily with an opener she pulled from the bottom of the basket. She took a biscuit and spread the pate on it with a butter knife and handed it to him. He took it gingerly; his hand was trembling so hard he feared he would drop the precious morsel.
"Just lift the mask. I don't care. Eat it." She said as she prepared another h'ordourve. And another.
He turned around again pushed the mask up far enough to get the little square piece of heaven entirely in his mouth. He closed his eyes and took a breath. 'Oh, oh, Oh god. Truffles. Oh God." He sniffed, tears tracked their way down his cheeks. He put his hands over his mask and sobbed, unashamed. His shoulders heaved. He felt Audrey rubbing his back, then heard her little sobs as well.
"I had no idea," she said, "I'm sorry. I was trying to help. Please." She sniffed.
He could not speak, his throat was too tight. Instead he reached for the thermos.
"Yes, have some tea. Or some of this." He heard her behind him opening the backpack. She pressed a bottle into his hand. Thirty year old Scotch. He blinked, looking at the label. This must be ten pounds a shot. His throat tightened some more. She unscrewed the top for him and pressed it like she would lift the bottle to his mouth. "Please take some now." There was a catch in her voice. She is worried about me. Why?
"I'm all right." He whispered. "I was just overcome for a moment. I'm fine now."
"Take a drink, anyway," she insisted, "for my sake. I…I can't bear to hear a man's tears. I can't . I just…I can't."
"You won't. I'm fine. I'm sorry I upset you. It's just I haven't been eating well the last…" he paused, thinking, "several years." He wondered at how he could remember what truffles tasted like, and that he loved to eat pate. She handed him another biscuit from behind.
"Don't be afraid to eat it all. I will bring you more," she said.
"Why?" he took the pate from her and ate it. Slowly.
She sniffed again. There was a long pause. She handed him more pate. "I think that I heard the eagerness in your voice. I heard your need when you asked, 'what kind of food?' I heard that. I heard something that has been missing from my life for two years. Need. No one needs me anymore, Mr. V. No one. I have a pension from my husband's firm. I have my parents' inheritance. I don't need anyone and no one needs me anymore. But…you needed me. I heard it in your voice. I felt something, a thrill when I thought about shopping for you. I thought about the pleasure I could bring you. I felt alive for the first time in many months."
She touched his back. "I brought you food." She pushed the basket closer to his leg.
V paused. Stopped chewing. He swallowed his pate and took a swing from the whiskey. It burned deliciously all the way down. He sighed, pate in one hand, very fine spirits in the other. "I have forgotten many things," he said, bending his head to the side just a little and speaking into the murk beyond the lamp. "I am ashamed to have forgotten some of them. I had forgotten that not everyone is cruel."
"No." She agreed.
"I had forgotten that there could be such animal pleasures."
"There are."
"I had forgotten…"
"And I have remembered for you. Eat. Drink. I will bring you more tomorrow."
Nightmare 5
Brokencot!V universe
Disclaimer: Characters belong to Moore, Lloyd, and WB
"Here," Audrey said, opening the backpack. "I have some hot soup. Eat that next because it will go cold."
V looked with interest inside the Thermos she offered him. He took it from her and turned his back on her, moved the mask over his head again. She tapped his shoulder with a spoon. "You'll need this," she said. "And you can take the mask off. I'm not going to turn you in to the authorities."
"No. You don't understand." He reached over his shoulder for the spoon. The soup was hot. It was good. Barley. He finished it with embarrassing speed.
"I don't? You nicked some costume from some shop or theatre so your victims can't ID you to the coppers. Right?" He heard her unwrapping something behind him. "It's kind of dumb to try to eat with that thing on and it's not necessary. Really. And I want you to kill me later, so I won't be around to witness against you."
"Audrey," he sighed. "I'm not going to kill you. No matter how nice you are to me." He lowered the mask, turned around and handed her the empty Thermos. "So you can stop pretending that I will. Thank you for the hot food and the pate. And the whiskey." He glanced at the bottle.
"Don't forget the blankets. I put them on your cot." She nodded toward the broken cot.
"Thank you for the blankets." He intoned with theatrical seriousness.
She sighed, looked around. "Maybe you will come out and push me off a bridge into the Thames. Or push me in front of a bus or a tram. Maybe put poison in my tea."
"If you knew it was poison, then that would be suicide," he told her gently.
"Oh. Yeah," she said, dejected.
"You need to live, Audrey. You are too young and have too many years ahead of you to give up now."
She snorted. "That's what my psychiatrist says. Hand me that bottle." She extended a tiny hand toward the whisky. He picked it up and gave it to her. He watched as she took a swig like a longshoreman. She swallowed and wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. "Fuck that," she said, "You tell me how sixty more years of this kind of misery is a good thing."
He had no answer for that. Thought about it for a moment. "You need a purpose."
"Yeah?" She took another swig. "Go fuck yourself."
"Give me that bottle." She handed it to him, fire in her eyes. He turned around so he could take a good pull on it, then corked it and tucked it out of her reach.
"Audrey. Listen to me…"
"No. What can you say to me? Living down here. It's like you've died and gone to Hell already. And that mask. Pffft. You should talk. Gimme the whiskey back."
"No." He moved the bottle even further away from her. She pouted, her lip trembling, then she began to cry, covering her face with her hands. V shifted uncomfortably on the hard cement. "Audrey…" He couldn't think of what to say. In a sense she was right and he was foolish to try to talk her out of her plans. On the other hand, he fingered the mask. She is right. I have died and gone to Hell. So what difference does it make? He looked at her, sobbing, her shoulders shaking. She was making little mewling noises like a cat. He touched her shoulder with his glove. "I know what your Doctor told you. What did your Vicar tell you?"
This question brought on a fresh outburst. He waited patiently, handed her a napkin for her nose. She looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes. "He said I need a purpose."
"Did you tell him to 'go fuck himself'?"
"Yes."
"So…I take it you are not attending Sunday services anymore."
She laughed, a little, short, choking kind of laugh. "I'm afraid not. And I think God is angry with me. That's why I can't kill myself. I have to find someone else to do it. And now you say you won't."
"I won't."
"Why? For God's sake! You're a murderer! Why does it matter who you kill and when?"
This stopped him. He blinked, turned around, reached for the whiskey, uncorked it and took a drink, pushing the mask up over his chin, almost losing his hair. He took a breath then another drink. Good God.
"Gimme some." She said.
He passed the bottle behind him, wordlessly. He felt her take it. Heard the slosh as she raised it up, heard the sound she made as she swallowed it. He heard her set it down on the concrete. It was a shaky glove that lowered the mask. He turned around to face her.
"The men I have killed deserved to die," he said slowly.
"Oh? Is that it?" Audrey was the queen of sarcasm. "And you are the judge of that? God, alone, is supposed to be the judge of everyone's Doom."
"Exactly!" He pointed a finger at her. "And God has decided that you will live."
"No! God and I are not on speaking terms right now." She took another drink. The bottle was half gone. V eyed it, glanced at Audrey, calculated just how inebriated she could get before she would pass out. He took the bottle away from her, stood and placed it in a nook high above her head.
She smiled a mocking smile at him. "So God speaks to you about justice? Has He told you about me? Has He explained his actions? His decisions? Has He told you why He chose me to be His modern-day Job?"
This time the flashback was gentle. It must be the whiskey. Oh no.
Larkhill. Morning rounds. Prothero.
V stands as still as he can in line with the others. There had been no sleeping the night before. Or the night before that. He feels hungry, tired, cold. Miserable. Lice are biting him. Their heads were shaved to minimize the infestations, but their bedding is filthy. The lice are there anyway. He will not sleep in those blankets. He lets the others in his ward have his thin blanket. He prefers to stand, or sit by the ventilation hole.
Here comes Prothero. Swaggering, slapping his truncheon against his boot like some Major General on the Crimean front, the fat toad. He lowers his eyes, aware that the smoldering hatred in them will precipitate some kind of public show of force. It did yesterday. And the day before that. The others look at him with awe and disbelief. They do not fight back. They do not spark retribution from their captors. Today he is too tired, and unsure he can physically stand the beating. He rubs his thigh. Black bruises and welts are all over his body, truncheon-shaped marks that are taking weeks to heal. But I can't let them win.
This morning Prothero looks especially smug. This morning is somehow different. He watches from the corner of a lowered eye as the Commander approaches his ward. The Commander takes a step, slaps the boot. Another step, slap. The slap stepping rhythm reminds him of something. He flashes on a memory of an old movie, "Mutiny on the Bounty", of a sailor being flogged. It's the same sound. He snorts. "Captain Bligh," he blurts out. Too late he realizes his error. Prothero stops short. The slapping sound stops. Prothero points the truncheon at him.
"You!"
Shit.
"Step out of line!"
He takes a step forward, he hears the men on either side of him make sympathetic noises.
"That one. I remember that one. Yes. The smart-mouthed one. Take him. That's one. He's the first one for Dr. Surridge."
V touched Audrey's hand. "Sometimes it is not God who does the choosing."
Nightmare 6
Rated PG
Brokencot! V
Disclaimer: Character belongs to Moore, Lloyd, and WB
Audrey whisked her hand as away as though his had bitten her. "Nothing and no one is more powerful than God. He bears the responsibility for this. He could have saved me from this pain. He could have stopped the horror. He could have made everything all right again.
"But He didn't. He watched as my life fell apart. He could have moved his little finger and made it all go away. But He didn't. I can only assume He knows what he is doing and I deserve this." Audrey glared at him, "or that He doesn't care about me at all." She blew her nose in the napkin. "And you. It's the same. One little movement of your finger and all this can go away. But you won't do it. Just like Him."
V marveled at being compared to God. He shook his head slowly side to side, recognizing something dreadful in Audrey's eyes. He had seen it in the eyes of those at Larkhill. In his ward. In the yard. In the cells. When people are faced with horrors too atrocious for the mind to handle. The mind will bend. Has mine bent? I thought it was the drugs, the toxins, the physical trauma that changed me. He frowned. "Audrey," he said to her, "blaming God robs you of your," he reached for the right word, "control over your own life."
"Control? Control? I have no control! I'm out of control! This happened to me, I could control nothing that happened. Nothing!"
Gently, very gently, he continued, "But you have control over how you will respond to what happened. What you are saying to me now reeks of despair."
"And I don't deny it. I know despair is a great sin," she blew her nose again, "but so be it. I want it all to be over with now. I am finished with life. I want to see my husband and child."
Despair. Yes. I have felt it; my eyes have watered with its pungent stench. He sighed. And that's when Delia took me to Father Lilliman, after the first injections had robbed me of all my strength, had poisoned me to the point of death and left me quivering in a body no longer my own. I felt despair. She took me to that priest, afraid I would find a way to kill myself. Ruin her data. Destroy her work.
Larkhill. Afternoon. It is warm.
The straightjacket is loose. He doesn't feel the tightness in his shoulders. There is no pain. But I am still so dangerous to them. How is that they fear me, feel they have to keep me restrained, none of them will get within arm's length without this jacket? He cocks his head, listening. Soft shoes. A man's step. They sound confident, unhurried. These are new feet. I don't know this man. The shoes pause outside the interrogation room. He hears the tumblers fall and the door opens. It's a priest. He frowns as the middle-aged man in the black robes approaches, and sits across from him, keeping the long black table between them. He stares, curious despite his loathing. The priest speaks.
"I am Father Lilliman. I have been told that you might need to talk to me."
He turns his head to look at the priest out of the corner of his eye. Who told him this lie? Dr. Surridge?
"I have been told you are depressed. Suicidal. I am here to help."
He is dizzy with astonishment. Are these people completely deluded? They lock me up, beat me into submission, inject me with experimental chemicals, and they are concerned I might become depressed? His astonishment must be plain to see, for the priest continues.
"I know you are not a Catholic," he begins.
"How?" He has to ask. It is such an outrageous thing to hear from a priest.
"You would not be here if you were," the priest looks at him as if that fact were the most obvious thing in the world.
He blinks, unable to process that bit of logic.
The priest said, "I know you are not a Catholic, but I am here to help you see God's will. If you can see that God has a plan for you, for all of us, you might be spared some of your pain. Submit to God and He will bring you peace." Lilliman pauses, waiting for a response.
A now-familiar wave of nausea threatens to rob him of his speech. Nausea from the morning injection or nausea from these words? Either way, I am sick. He wants me to accept this situation, accept this place as God's plan. No. He struggles a little in the straightjacket, shaking his shoulders and notices with satisfaction that the priest startles back from the table. If he had felt despair, it was gone now, replaced with a blinding hatred as he discovers something new. His tormentors are deluded. They believe they are agents of divine will. The nausea threatens him again. He stops struggling. The priest looks up with alarm at the little window in the door. The orderlies are waiting.
"Do you have anything you want to say to me?" The priest asks, making it very plain that he does not want to hear anything more from this prisoner, that even being this close to the man in the straightjacket is disturbing. That perhaps he was coerced into this interview in the first place.
He had no memory of what he said to the priest, or how much longer the interview lasted. He remembered only that Father Lilliman had served his purpose, he had done his duty for them, but not in the way Delia had expected. Because after listening to the priest, he knew that his despair was gone, yes, but now it was replaced with something sinister. Something stronger. He could remember how the desire for vengeance re-energized him. This is what will keep me alive. Just long enough to…he remembered Ahab. Just long enough to "stab at thee."
V stared at Audrey, trying to recall more. It was difficult to remember clearly, for his own subsequent thoughts, stale and overworked during the last two years, mingled irreparably with the chaotic memories of Larkhill. I don't know. I remember only that Delia came to me afterwards. In my cell. She brought me…what was it? Chocolate. She brought me chocolate. Set it on the floor in front of me like I was a dog in a kennel. A bribe? Behave? Cheer up? Accept? V drew in a deep breath, looked around at the food Audrey had brought him. Bribes.
"You can't bribe God, Audrey. He doesn't need you. He doesn't need anything from you. He won't listen if you try to make deals with Him. You've done that too, haven't you."
"I know," she sniffed, "And yes."
"I can't say anything to you that will help. You have to find something inside that makes sense."
"I can't believe I'm being counseled by a murderer in a Guy Fawkes costume."
"Yet you would be counseled by an authority in a vicar's costume."
"Not anymore. Costumes, all of them."
"Yes, the cast gets eaten by the play."
"What?"
"Never mind." His lamp was burning low, it needed to be refilled. He tilted his head. "Are you finished begging me to kill you? I refuse to play that role in this drama."
"No. Tomorrow I will bring you some more things."
"You could bring me all of Harrod's. It would not make one whit's difference."
"It might."
"Audrey," he sighed.
Her eyes were dry now. Some sense had returned to them now that the whiskey had worn off. "I have learned something in the last two years, Mr. V. I have learned that everyone has a breaking point. That everyone has a price. It may not be obvious, it may not even be a matter of degree, but it is there. And I will find yours."
Nightmare 7
Rated PG
Characters belong to Moore, Lloyd and WB
Audrey was finally gone. He had walked her to the nearest access point, helped her climb through the rubble and squeeze through the aperture so she could emerge above ground near a bus stop. She had not known about that hole. "It's more secure than trying to enter at one of the old stations," he had told her. "You won't be seen here because of the alley. Only the rubbish lorries go through here." He didn't mention the junkies and the lusty teenagers. "Don't risk coming back, Audrey. Thank you for the food and blankets. And the Scotch. Good- bye." He had thanked her again as her tiny foot disappeared through the hole. He had heard her voice from above telling him she would be back anyway. Stubborn woman.
And now. What. Do I pack up and leave? Do I find another spot to hide in? He looked around at his space. In an hour I could be gone too. There just wasn't that much to move. He bent down and picked up the rucksack she left him. Something was inside. He carried it closer to his lamp and tilted the bag so he could see what it was. Newspapers. Old ones. He sat down and pulled them out. London Times, only certain sections, he held the first one up to the light. Only the sections about the St. Mary's Virus. He stopped, examined all the papers, carefully put them in chronological order.
The first pages mentioned an "outbreak". He thought that the wild rhetoric of later editions must have whipped the readers into a panicked frenzy as patients started dying and the medical establishment appeared helpless. He turned the pages carefully. The symptoms described were painfully familiar. I'll move tomorrow. He took off his gloves and the mask, turned up the lamp, and read some more.
"Mr. V?"
V jumped, reached for the mask. My God, how long have I been sitting here, reading? Too late. After setting the mask down he had moved himself closer to the light and now the mask was out of reach. Audrey entered through the crevasse and saw him.
He froze, like a prisoner caught in the watchtower spotlight. He blinked at her. The packages in her arms dropped to the ground, the look of shock and revulsion on her face struck him like a truncheon. He dropped the newspaper and brought his hands up to cover himself. From behind his hands he heard the sound of retching coming from the entrance. He rolled, threw himself face down on the ground and covered his head with both arms. No. It can't be that bad, is it?
He heard her crying, then a pause as she retched again, then some gasping. He refused to look up, he kept his face in his arms, feeling the tiny pebbles in his cheek and inhaled the cement dust with every deep breath. He tried to calm himself, but the adrenaline was insistent and his muscles twitched with the forced inactivity. He wanted to flee. He experienced that desperate feeling of wanting to flee…and of being bound. This time not by a straightjacket or shackles or four solid walls, but by his own will. I can't get up. I would not be escaping from anything. I cannot flee the truth. Accept it.
He heard Audrey by the door; her wheezing and coughing were loud in the small chamber. She gasped out between intakes of breath, "Oh God, Oh God."
He felt a twinge of nausea. What have I become? I'm not a person anymore, am I?
Larkhill. Morning.
He wakes up. Sick to his stomach. Dizzy. He brings his hand up to rub his eyelids and when he brings it down again it is smeared with blood. He frowns, touches his forehead with his fingertips, his cheek. Blisters. Even a light touch breaks them and he feels blood and serum trickle to his neck.
He tries to sit up, but a blinding pain strikes him between the eyes. He lies back, panting. What now? What has she done to me now? He will soon find out, for the sound of sensible shoes in the corridor alert him that she is coming. And the nurse too. Nurse Monahan, if my ears are correct. She has little metal taps on her shoes to make the soles last longer. Very efficient is Nurse Monahan, very frugal. The door opens. There are four in the hall. Surridge, Monanhan, and two orderlies. Armed and dangerous. All dressed in protective clothing and respirators. Why? They pause, looking in at him. After a moment Delia says, "I see that the incubation period is over. I need you to fetch me a gurney. He will be moved to the infirmary." One of the orderlies disappears. The other enters with Delia and Monahan, the lights are turned on.
"Well. Let us take your temperature." Delia nods and Monahan touches the thermometer to his head.
"Forty point five degrees, Doctor." Monahan intones. Her voice sounds metallic. He cannot see her eyes for the respirator. He cannot see her face. He sees nothing of her features. Delia is completely covered too, all plastic eye shield and white vinyl. So is the orderly.
"Just like the others. But he is the strongest. See how bright his eyes are. They do not have that dull lifeless look." Delia lifts his wrist, her hand is cold beneath the latex, her fingers like a vice. "One hundred twenty, nurse. Write that down." She looks down at him, like an astronaut, a huge insect, a monster. "You will be getting a new room, Room Five."
"Mr. V. I'm sorry, I'm sorry." Her voice was thick. He didn't want to listen to it. He covered his ears with his arms, cradled his head. He heard her coming toward him. The galoshes slap the cement with a rubber sound. Little feet. Childish feet. She paused when she reached him, he felt the draft on his arm as she descended to a crouch beside him.
"Here. I have your mask. Take it." She pressed the hard mask into one of his hands. He recoiled as the metal and porcelain face touched his skin. In that instant he saw a vision of Delia, her mask floating above his head. Plastic, cold, protected. Yes. Protected. Protected against me. As though I am a contagion. That virus. I had it. I survived it. A surge of anger welled up from within. Anger at Delia, at the world, at God…and at Audrey. The muscles that had been twitching like a coiled spring released their tension with a violent retort. He lifted himself from the ground and backhanded the mask with such force it flew from her grasp and crashed against the wall, dust and shards of cement flew back into her hair and fell on them both like ash.
"I don't want it!" he roared at her, making her cower down, trembling at his feet. "You don't tell me when to wear it and when to take it off!" He turned his back on her, sucked in the air until he felt his head clear. He stomped to the other side of his space and picked up his cloak. He felt suddenly cold, and like a child reaching for a security blanket, he knew he needed it. He flipped the yards of cloth deftly, making the cashmere spin in a circle before it settled around his shoulders and brushed his legs and boots. Enveloped, he was safe. Putting on the cloak erased him, covered him, protected him. The mask was something else. "Get out." He said to her when he could speak in a normal voice.
"No. I am sorry. I am. I was shocked. I didn't know. You must forgive me." She remained crouched low on the ground, bowing down, almost like a supplicant, her eyes on her knees.
"No, I do not. God does the forgiving, not me."
"Please, Mr. V." She turned her head, careful not to look at him, and pointed toward her packages. "I have brought you more supplies. Some wire this time. Some books."
"Books?" He paused, feeling his anger drain way like her words had pulled a plug.
"Just a few. They are heavy. The government is going house to house, searching for books on the list. They have big fires in the intersections once a month."
"The 'list'?" V sat down, tucked his cloak around him.
"Some books are now forbidden. I had some of those. I brought them. They have not come to my street yet." She still kept her eyes lowered. "I'm sorry I was frightened when I saw your face…"
"You were not 'frightened', Audrey, were you? Admit it. You didn't feel fear." It was revulsion. I saw it.
"No..." Her voice shuddered and he knew she was remembering that moment.
He whispered, "Is it that bad?"
She nodded, glanced up at him briefly, then her eyes fled quickly back to the ground. She made a choking sound when she inhaled, "It must have really hurt you, you know, when it happened."
V did not welcome the memory she invoked. Immediately before the explosion he had put one arm across his eyes, the other between his legs, hunched over, his back to the fuse, instinctively protecting what he considered his most valuable body parts. After that, the memory faded. He had regained consciousness moments later into the kind of hell she would never know, even if God had sent her there himself. But now his anger was gone. He felt deflated. She brought me books. He looked at the packages by the entrance to his hole. I am susceptible to bribes after all. Like Delia and the roses.
"I have to go now," Audrey said. She got up and ran to the crevasse and was gone. He was relieved. He leaned back against the wall and sighed. He relaxed, pushed his boots out straight in front of him and pulled the cloak tighter around his shoulders. I have healed my skin. I have healed my body. My heart, though? Gone. And my soul?
After a long moment he turned his head to the side, glanced down. He looked at the little tin box nestled among the supplies by his elbow. His most precious possession. He stared at it; remembering, then he picked it up and held it before his eyes. A trembling finger unlatched the hinged lid and gently pushed up the cover. Inside, neatly rolled and wrapped in plastic, was a tiny piece of paper lying in a bed of dried rose petals. Toilet paper. He reached inside.
Nightmare 8
Rated PG
Disclaimer: Characters Belong to Moore, Lloyd and WB
V dug around in the canvas book bags, lifted out each volume one at a time and read the titles. Audrey had brought him Animal Farm, 1984, Brave New World, A Clockwork Orange, ….Catcher in the Rye? He turned that one over and read the blurb on the back. Why would the government not want citizens to have this book? He shook his head. Probably because it is a story about an individual thinking for himself.
He sat down next to his lamp and opened Brave New World. A folded piece of paper slipped out and floated to his lap. He unfolded it and read.
"Mr. V. Everyone must die. It is not a matter of determining "If", only "When". Surely you must see that this is true. And if I want to be the one who decides "when" shouldn't I have the right? It is my life after all. My life does to belong to you or to my neighbor or to the Minister of Public Health, or to my Vicar. No authority has the right to force me to live against my will, just as these same authorities should not have the right to kill me if they did not want me to live. They have laws against killing, but not against forced living. Think about it. Audrey."
V became suspicious, opened Clockwork Orange. Sure enough, another note fell out. "Mr. V. Violence is only a crime when the government says it is. When the Generals put a gun in the hands of teenagers and send young men to war it is no longer a crime. In fact, if a soldier refused to shoot whoever the General pointed at, that soldier would end up in prison. Who is determining life and death now? Some authority? Some stranger? Killing is either wrong all the time, or it is relative to the situation. Once you have made your choice, you cannot pretend you are suddenly morally opposed to killing. I am willing. It would not be murder. It would be euthanasia. Audrey."
He tipped 1984, ruffled the pages. This time several photographs spilled out into his lap. Photos of Audrey and her family. A handsome man, tall, dignified, a small child. Another of Audrey holding a baby and smiling into the camera. No note. None was necessary.
Catcher in the Rye had note paperclipped to the front cover. "Mr. V. The censors have not come to the house yet. You can come and I will show you my husband's library. He was a law professor at King's College. There are more than 5000 books here. You can have what you want. Take what you want. I don't want them. I don't need them. Audrey." Then at the bottom was a neatly printed address. Just a few miles away. He clutched the note in his hand and looked up at the ceiling. Inside, his heart quickened. I feel myself coming alive again.
It was after midnight. He checked the address on the slip of paper he held tightly in his hand. Audrey lived in a very nice house. Large narrow windows greeted visitors from the front garden. V knew better than to enter from the front. Around back there were fewer lights. Up on the third floor one of the windows was illuminated. She is waiting for me. She knew I would come. He slipped past the wooden gate. A dog barked at him. He moved quickly to the back door, tried the handle. It was unlocked. She knew. He let himself in and closed the door behind him. The dog stopped barking. Audrey met him at the bottom of the stair.
"You came tonight. I knew you would."
"Yes." He swung his head to look left and right, trying to see through the narrow eye slits of his mask. Paintings hung in the foyer, the staircase curved gracefully to the second and third floors above him. Her house smelled of vanilla and roses.
"Come, Mr. V.," she held out her hand to him. "Come and see the library." He allowed her to approach him and lift his hand, leading him forward and into another room. He could not take his eyes form the paintings on the walls, the elegant wooden furniture, the various doorways which hinted that more treasures lay beyond. This is like heaven, he thought, and she wants to leave it. She led him past an open door which housed a piano and another which beckoned him with sculpture and a warm fireplace. Finally she stopped at a tall doorway and stepped aside for him to pass. "The Library." She made an expansive gesture with her hand and bowed him into the room.
He brushed past her. She touched the wall and the room sprang to life from the many tracklights along the walls and ceiling. Bookshelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling filling every space. He lifted his hand and yanked off the mask so he could see better. He dropped the metal and porcelain face into the seat of a green wingback chair. Audrey shrank back behind him. He heard her small voice with just the edge of his ears. "I'll be in the drawing room if you need me." He nodded absently. To his left the bookcase proudly displayed Greek philosophers and mathematicians. He stepped closer, reading the spines. Then it seemed the subjects moved chronologically. An interesting way to arrange a library. The owner, John was his name, he remembered, must have had a real grasp of history. This is how you arrange a private library. When you are the only person likely to use it. You remember the historical date; you know where to find the book. He shook his head. John must have been a formidable intellect to catalogue his books by their copyright date. He would have to remember when each work was published…or at least the decade. He touched the spines as he walked along. All of human history lay spread out before him in a long timeline. A long line of minds, the legacy of the human race, silent, waiting. Waiting for anyone to reach up, he reached up, pull a book down, he pulled down a copy of Peter Abelard's letters, I am in the twelfth century now, and we can look into their minds. We can look back into history and these minds live again in ours. It's the only way to communicate across the centuries. He sank to the floor and opened the book reverently. His eye landed halfway down the page.
"We call the intention good which is right in itself, but the action is good, not because it contains within it some good, but because it issues from a good intention. The same act may be done by the same man at different times. According to the diversity of his intention, however, this act may be at one time good, at another bad."
He turned the page, but now he could no longer see. He looked up and caught the tear on his finger before it could land on the paper. His heart swelled within him as he closed the book. From his place on the floor he scanned the entire room, estimating how long it would take him to carry this library back to his hole, say, twenty books at a time. A year.
With a library like this a man would never be lonely again. What friends! Swift! Addison! Shakespeare, Plato, Byron, Shelley, Hugo, Voltaire…he began to hyperventilate, feeling dizzy. He stood shakily and placed Abelard back into his slot in the twelfth century, then turned to look at the door. Audrey is gone. She doesn't want to look at me. He turned back to the shelves. "You don't mind, do you?" He said aloud to the leather and cloth and paper. You see who I am. You see me as I am. My cover is tattered, but my words are not. He touched Chaucer with the tip of his glove. There is a price to pay for this, though. Clever, clever woman. He looked at the expanse of shelves, fingered the pommel of a knife on his belt. All this can be mine. All of human history, all the heights of our achievement,; everything is coded in text. I can never have enough books.
He looked down at the toes of his boots. I will have to cut her in the bath. Shall I leave her there? Will she want me to carry her body somewhere else? She is so small. I can put her anywhere. Will she want me to do it in the house? But not until the books have been moved.
"Audrey," he called to her just before he replaced the mask and tightened the straps. He waited. Soon he heard the sound of her tiny feet on the polished wood floor of the hall. She paused at the threshold. "Audrey." He put a command in his voice. It is time to negotiate. He would begin from a position of power. He saw her peek around the doorframe, her eyes went first to the seat of the wingback that had held the mask. The mask was gone, so it was safe to look up. She took a step inside and tilted her head at him. She smiled a tentative smile. She had one hand behind her back.
"Mr. V. You like the library, I see. You can have it. I'll give it to you."
"I like it. I want it."
"Good. This is a good start."
"I can't carry it back."
"No, no. I'll hire men to pack it up and deliver it to a storage facility."
"And the price?"
"You know the price." Her hand came out from behind her. She was holding a small black case. "Come see."
He obeyed, curious. She waited until he was bending over her, towering above her and leaning close before she lifted the cover. Inside, nestled in black velvet lay a glittering stainless steel syringe. The old fashioned kind, large, with the circular finger grips. He sprang back as though it had struck him. "Mr. V!" she cried, "It's just a syringe." He staggered back, felt the wingback behind his knees too late. He fell over the chair, hit the floor and sprang unsteadily to his feet. Still off balance, he crashed into the bookcase, knocking a volume of Proust to the floor.
"God, you are shaking like a leaf. Mr. V! Let me get you some water or scotch or something. Oh no. Oh no. Wait here." She fled the room, taking the case with her. V put both arms out in front of him, and leaned heavily against the wall trying to breathe normally again. Audrey returned a few minutes later with a glass of amber fluid. She pressed the rim to his mask. "Lift it up, lift it up. Here. Drink this. God. I'm sorry, I'm sorry." He pushed her hand away.
"No. I'm fine. No. I don't need that."
"But?"
"Leave me be, Audrey. Just give me a minute." He lowered himself slowly to the floor, concentrating on keeping his focus. He felt himself slipping away. Already the room was spinning.
She straightened up and drained the glass herself with the confidence and swift motion of someone who has been upending scotch for a long time. "It was my father's syringe," she said after taking a breath. "He was a doctor. He inherited it from my grandfather, also a doctor. It has quite a history Mr. V. I have some pentobarbital to put in it. It will be easy for you to use. Don't be afraid."
Her words faded, the bright room went dark.
Larkhill. Night.
Delia holds a huge syringe in the air over his chest. She has just injected him with something. Nurse Monahan is on his other side. The nurse reaches across his chest and takes the needle from the doctor. Now Delia has stuck him again in the center of his arm with another needle and is siphoning his blood into a clear plastic bag. He watches calmly as his life pours out at her command. Monahan has one latex hand on his shoulder, the other on his thigh, holding him steady against the gurney. He is not bound, not shackled. There is no truncheon held over his head. Things have changed. Now he is fed four hearty meals a day. He can walk in the garden. They have given him shovels, fertilizer, hoses, water, soil, and roses. He spends all day outside, all night in the infirmary. He does not fight them. He has not kicked or bitten anyone in weeks. Monahan squeezes his shoulder. "He is getting larger, Doctor, putting on weight. Look at this deltoid."
"Yes," Dr. Surridge answers absently, tapping the clear tubing, making sure the blood flows unimpeded.
"And his biceps. And look," Monahan lifts his tunic to expose his abdomen. "Beautiful. Look at these washboard abs. And yet he has not been in the gym, has he?"
"No. Just in the garden."
"Is this development a result of Batch Five? How strange. All the others are dead, yet he seems to be thriving on it. He is gorgeous. Well, except for his face."
He moves his eyes to Monahan. He is used to them talking about him as if he were not there. She doesn't see him look at her. She avoids looking in his eyes. They all do. He wonders what they see in his eyes. He wonders if Delia will answer.
Surridge pulls the needle from his arm, presses the little red hole with a finger. "I'm very pleased, Monahan. He is everything we had hoped for. And his blood is the key." She holds up the pint bag to the light, as though admiring a glass of Cabernet. "Gorgeous." She lays the ruby bag on a steel tray. "Take him back to his room. Give him some orange juice."
Delia is the only one who is not afraid to look in his eyes. She bends over his face. "Very good, Five," she says to him as though her words are a reward. "If you only knew how you are helping your country."
V sighed as the lights came on around him again. He leaned hard against Audrey's chair. My blood is the key, she said. I survived the virus. A chilling suspicion gnawed at the back of his mind. "Helping my country". The records from Larkhill. Her research, where would it be now? It could not have been destroyed in the fire. Copies must exist elsewhere. He stood up, braced himself against the door as he remembered one of the articles in the newspaper. Viadoxic Pharmaceuticals. His knees felt weak again. He forced them to lift him up and hold him steady. To walk. His ears burned; Audrey was saying something to him. Their archives. He brushed past Audrey, heading for the back door. He heard her calling to him even after he was quite beyond the range of her voice.
Nightmare 9
Rated PG-13 for adult concepts.
Disclaimer: characters belong to Moore, Lloyd and WB
V had anticipated great difficulty in securing the information he desired. He was stunned to find that while it took him three days to observe Viadoxic long enough to be confident enough to break in and steal a file, it only took him twenty minutes to find what he was looking for. The information was now a matter of public record. Not Larkhill. Not the detention center. Not the testing of bioweapons on prisoners. No. Not that information. He suspected that information would be hidden forever.
The information he wanted was published in Lancet. He merely had to find a public computer and do a simple search. An all-night cafe, the simple clothing Audrey had brought him and carefully placed wig and sunglasses were all that was necessary. He didn't look too out of place. The only other patron at 2 AM was a man in a trenchcoat, probably looking at porn. No one bothered him. The waitress avoided him after the first cappuccino. He still left her a generous tip.
After the St. Mary's virus had done its damage to the population, there were kudos and accolades for the several physicians and chemists who had produced a cure. They wanted to trumpet their triumphs. British science had saved the world. Memos, letters, reports, press releases, he had read them all.
V sat hunched in his hole. Sick. Not with a physical illness. His ailment went much deeper than blood or bone. His lamp had gone out and he had not refilled it. He sat there in the dark a long time. Long enough to feel hungry, and then famished, and then faint. He knew the familiar progression. If he waited long enough his stomach would go numb. He would no longer feel the walls of his hole. He would no longer smell the damp condensation or the filthy sewers. He would be senseless.
A cold draft pinched him. He tucked his head between his knees. Winter is here. He wrapped his arms around his head; his ears would be warm, his face protected. Let the icy air scorch me. I care not. Nothing exists anymore. A few more hours and I won't feel even the coldest blast. He would sit and sit. He would turn his mind off. He would wait for death. Already he had been waiting for days. Perhaps weeks. There was no way to tell.
The Lancet paper listed six doctors and chemists as co-authors. All were strangers to him. All but one. D. Surridge, PhD, MB BCh. He knew her.
His body began to protest the lack of nourishment after the first four days. He knew the hallucinations would come again soon. They were the only thing he feared, for nothing would prevent them from invading his mind, form tearing that frail membrane of sanity which had only faintly cloaked him. Now he knew they would come full force and take him again and again. His only defense was weakness. Not strength. Any strength he could rally for the onslaught would be utilized by the enemy, taken from him, turned around and become a bludgeon against his mind. He had seen it happen at Larkhill.
It will happen here again. I must fade to a shadow before the visions return. I must become nothing. He opens his knees just enough to drop his head down further between them, folding himself into a ball. His eyes are tightly closed, though he knows darkness is not a shield against the images. He holds his eyes closed against himself. Against the word outside of him. Against everything. But mostly he tries to close them against the children who buffet his eyes with their faces. Little faces, blue eyes, brown eyes. Big innocent eyes. Blonde hair, brown hair, black and red hair. Pig tails, crew cuts, and ruler-strait parts. Freckles, glasses, braces. Knickers, skirts, backpacks and apples. Children who will never return home to their mothers. Mothers' eyes. Red from weeping, arms empty. The images parade behind his closed lids, mocking his attempt to squeeze them out. He presses his palms against the lids until he sees flashes of light, bright elusive phantom lights generated by his optic nerves. But those bits of light fade quickly, and the faces return. Their mouths move and he hears them say to him, "Where is Mum? Why hasn't she come to pick me up? I've been waiting for her for days. Years." He sees them line up in the school yard with their book bags and lunch boxes, peering anxiously down the empty street. Waiting. Waiting for mothers who will never come. The sky darkens and it begins to rain on them. Now they stand shivering in little groups, whispering, fretting. Hungry. Cold. They turn to him and ask, "What have you done with our mothers? Why won't you let them come for us?"
He has watched them waiting for days. They always ask him with sad eyes, "Will you call my Mum for me? Tell her I am waiting? Please, mister. Call my Mummy."
He cannot bear it. He cannot lower his head any further, squeeze his eyes any tighter, pull at his ears any harder. And he has no more tears. He has only a fierce pain that had started as a dull ache in the very center of his body, but which has grown stronger each day until it has become a wrenching agony that nothing will alleviate. He tries to breathe. He begs for unconsciousness. Soon the pain will take over. He will decide when he has suffered the punishment he deserves. Then the knives will come out and he will end this travail. He allows a finger to touch a blade. Just the tip. He had taken the sharp daggers and set them against the wall. Lined them up like the little children in his mind. Soon they will deliver him. Soon. He can feel the distance closing in on him. Touching the knife gives him comfort, warms him. He feels eager. Perhaps the time has come. Perhaps it is now. He feels joy. Yes. It is now. He grips the pommel. The weight sends a thrill through the glove and up his arm. Yes. I am ready.
He brings the knife to his eyes and opens them. It is too dark to see the blade. He sees it with his mind. Eyes are useless at a time like this. He sees the friendly steel, the cold comfort of its hard proficiency. The confidence of its conviction. He lifts it up and down a little, admiring its perfect balance. I can become one with this blade. I can share in its proficiency, its balance and its masterful abilities. I can merge…he closes his eyes. I don't need eyes anymore. The blade wants him, he wants it. With an almost sexual longing he brings the long knife to his abdomen. The only honorable death. Seppuku. One hand lifts the tunic, slides under to draw the line across his belly, his guts will spill over the severed muscles onto his lap. I have no second to behead me. No matter. If I do this right, I will bleed out in minutes. And it cannot possibly hurt as much as those eyes on me. Those little voices calling for their Mums. He drags the tip across his belly, measuring, practicing. Yes. Right here. The pain inside him calls to the blade. He will merge the two of them, bring them together, they will merge and obliterate each other. He takes a final breath. Puts two hands on the pommel. Merge.
He thrusts as hard as he can but the blade is gone. Empty hands press against his belly. Impotent. Instead he hears a high keening wail. His hands come up to cover his ears. No! What has happened? The moment has shattered like ice, too thin, too thin, the skater has splashed through…he rolls on the cold ground, clutching his stomach, then searches the ground in the darkness for the saving blade. Where are you? He calls to the blade. Why haven't you come to pick me up?
"V!"
Pain all around, his ears burn. Someone is calling him. It is not the blade.
"V!" Hands are on him, hurting him, slapping him. He feels the mask coming off and cold air hits his face, his eyes, his cheeks burn with it. Little hands are on his face, little hands cup his cheeks and a little voice calls him. "V!" A child has called him. No. Not one of the children. They are silent. Their anxious eyes are looking down the empty street. Waiting for their mothers. It is Audrey. He blinks, his hole is filled with light from her torch. She is weeping, her tears fall in his eyes and burn them with a salty sting.
"V! Can you hear me? God, you are thin. You are so cold. V! Can you hear me?"
He sees her now. Big blue eyes. Like a child's. Wavy blond hair and shining lipstick. She slaps him. Her hand arcs up to slap him again. He stops her. Grabs her wrist. She sees me. The mask is gone. She does not flinch.
"V! Speak to me! Right now!"
"Audrey." He means for his voice to be loud, masterful like his blade, but she had stopped him before he could merge. Instead he sounds weak, faint. He draws breath to try again, "Audrey." He hears himself dry and rasping. His throat is too tight.
"Oh my God, V!" Her weeping is louder. It fills his ears. It hurts him.
"Why did you stop me?" he asks her. His heart is breaking; he feels it break inside him. He was almost there. He was almost here. "Why?"
"You can't die, Mr. V. I need you."
He stretches out, embraces the ground, tries to breathe. She doesn't know. I cannot tell her. The irony. The source of her anguish lies on the ground before her. Two more seconds and she would have witnessed the finale. She would have emerged from this hole victorious, a witness to justice.
Justice.
He rolls over onto his back. Justice. Audrey is looking at me. She is not revolted by what she sees now. I see fear and something else. Something I have not seen in Audrey's eyes before. Compassion. He extends a gloved hand to her, too weak to sit. "Audrey."
She bends down over him, takes his hand. Her eyes are worried, frightened. He looks into them a long time. If he looks long enough he can see her son and her husband in them.
"Mr. V. I had no idea…your eyes…they are so blue. My son's eyes were blue, too. His eyes were blue like that. So sad. I see his eyes when I close my own. I see his eyes searching for me. I hear his voice calling to me, 'Mummy! Mummy! Where are you? Why are you so late? Come and get me Mummy, don't leave me here alone!' I hear him, Mr. V. I see his eyes whenever I close my own. And you make me see them again." She put a hand on his forehead. Touched his scars. Touched him. "You are ill, V. Let me take you home."
He tries to sit up, but cannot. He pants with the effort, falls back. Audrey disappears, then reappears, covers him with blankets. "Lie still. I can't get you home like this. You are too heavy for me to carry and it's too far for you to walk. Climbing up through the hole is out of the question when you are in this condition. It has been two weeks. It took me two weeks to find you. Why did you move house?" She smiled sadly. "Move hole, I mean. I have your books ready. I came to tell you and you were gone. I've been looking for you every night."
He cannot answer. He feels her press a cup into his hand. "Drink, V. You are very ill. It's tea. It's my tea. I've come to take you home. When you can walk I will take you home."
Nightmare 10
Rated PG
Disclaimer: Characters belong to Moore, Lloyd, and WB
I am cold. He wrapped the blankets tighter around his shoulders. He shivered, heard the crack of the cot's weak leg as his movements snapped the support. The cot shifted, tilted and spilled him out into the ground. He lay there, still wrapped in his blankets. He was still lying there hours later when small hands lifted his head and put a cup to his lips.
"V. Drink this tea. Open your mouth. Open."
The words seem far away. A woman's voice. "Five, Drink this. Open your mouth."
He opens his eyes instead. Delia. He closes them quickly. I don't want to see her. "Five," the voice softens just a bit. "I saw you open your eyes. I know you are awake. It's just water, Five. I promise. Just water." Latex hands lift his head. Large, strong hands move him and press the rim of a cup to his mouth. "If you won't drink I will have to start an IV. He hears the snap of plastic being ripped open. The latex finger prods his inner arm. He opens his mouth. No more needles. The cup returns to his lip, he feels the metal rim. He drinks the water. "You can look at me, Five. It's all right. Open your eyes. Let me see them. Blue eyes. Let me see them."
He opens his eyes. Delia is there. No mask. No respirator. Not even a lab coat. She smiles down at him. She is wearing make-up. Her hair is styled loosely around her face and she is wearing diamond earrings. He frowns, thinking he is dreaming this. He moves to sit up on his bed, she helps lift his shoulders. She is still smiling. "I thought I would check on you before I go, Five. Monahan says you aren't eating and drinking like you should. She says you are dehydrated. She thinks you are spending too much time outside. She tells me you are working too hard." Delia takes the empty cup and refills it.
He blinks at her, "Not too much time outside…" he says quickly, no. They can't make me stop. I'll drink the water. He reaches for the cup. Her fingers touch his as he drinks.
"Tonight I am going to a presentation, Five. You have been instrumental in our work. My work. You have done so much for your country and you will never know. I wanted to come here and th…" She looks strange, puzzled, like she was going to say something and thought better of it. He sees something pass behind her eyes, something troubling. She looks down at him. Purses her lips, she is wearing lipstick. Peach. Her eyes are softer than he has ever seen them. She almost looks human. "I…" but she doesn't finish her words. Instead she eases him back down on his pillow. "Go back to sleep. Drink all the water, Five," she indicates a pitcher on his nightstand, "and Monahan will leave you alone." He hears the snap of the latex gloves coming off. She reaches over him with a bare hand and touches his cheek; he shudders. "Go to sleep. You've done enough."
He watches her as she goes to the door. He can see now that she is wearing a blue suit, a straight skirt and heels. The sensible shoes are no more. He realizes he has never seen her without the lab coat. She stops there, staring at the door for a minute. Then she turns around to face him, her hand on the lights. She whispers, almost like she doesn't want him to hear, "Thank you." And then she is gone.
He waits until the sound of those heels fade away down the corridor. Under his pillow is a small rolled up cylinder of toilet paper. He holds it in his fingers, strokes the paper. He doesn't need to unroll it to read the penciled words on the fragile paper. He knows every one of them. Tomorrow, Valerie. The timing is right.
"V? Open your mouth. God, how long have you been on the floor? It's freezing down here. I need to get you home and in a warm bed. V? Can you hear me? Open your eyes. I'll get you home, you can sit by the fire." He hears her laugh. "But the books are all packed up and in storage. I'll have to buy you some more while you are recovering. Would you like to read by the fire? I'll bring you hot soup and you can read your book. I'll pack you in blankets. Would you like that?"
He opened his eyes. Audrey was above him, a thermos in her hand. "Audrey?"
"Yes. I'm here. Have you been up? Can you walk?" She set the thermos down and helped him to sit. "I need to get you home as soon as you can walk. You're just skin and bone, V. What happened? Can you tell me? You left the house so suddenly. Was it the syringe? I put it away. It's gone."
"I…I thought of something I had to do." He looked around as if seeing his hole for the first time. He felt a twinge of panic. His eyes landed on the small tin box. Relief. "Would you bring me that box?" He pointed.
"Certainly." She got up and retrieved his box, brought it to him and pressed it into his hand. He fumbled with the latch. The gloves were too thick and his fingers would not listen to him. "Let me help you," she said. She took the box from him and opened it easily, her little fingers played along the lid. He smelled the aroma of the rose petals as she lifted the lid and took out the tiny scroll. He reached for the paper, but she held it away, her eyes on it as she sat down beside him. He was too weak to keep his hand raised for long. He dropped his arm back to the blankets, but his eyes remained on her face as she read.
"Oh." Her blue eyes drifted down to him when she was finished. "Who's Valerie? Was she your friend?"
"No. I never met her." He lifted his hand for the scroll again.
"Then you just found this somewhere?" She put it in his hand. He closed his fingers over it and brought his fist to his chest.
"Somewhere. Yes."
"Do you think what she said was true? That there was a prison for Lesbians?"
"Yes. A prison. Not just Lesbians."
"Well, I know there are women's prisons. How did you get into a women's prison? Were you a guard?"
"Ah," he closed his eyes against the nausea that gripped him. "No. Not a guard." A parade of faces marched behind his eyes. All the guards he had ever seen, the big ones, think ones, ugly ones, mean ones, stupid ones, the ones with truncheons, guns, rifles, straightjackets, cuffs, chains, and billy clubs. He forced his eyes open and they disappeared. He knew it was temporary. They would be back. Will I never be free of them? Will they haunt me the rest of my life?
Audrey was looking at him. "You were an inmate, then, weren't you? I see it in your face." She sighed. "What were you in for? Murder?" She shook her head, "No. You weren't. I can tell. You didn't become a murderer until you were released. "Justice. You are always going on and on about Justice. I see now. You were unjustly interned, right? This is seriously messed up, isn't it? The just are imprisoned, the laws protect the wicked and we must rely upon ourselves to dispense Justice where it is required. You deserve better. We both do. Everyone does. Can you walk, V?" She tugged at his blankets and then at his arms. "If you can walk I will take you home tonight. I'll get you strong again and you can go on dispensing Justice." She smiled a sad smile, "Try to stand up." She steadied him as he lurched to his feet and swayed against her. "My husband often spoke about the vagaries of the system. Many times he was angry and frustrated. He never picked up a knife, though. Never took the law into his own hands. He used to say, 'That way lies tyranny'."
She held him as he collapsed, bringing him down slowly. "Not yet, I see." She looked at the broken cot. "I guess you will have to stay on the ground. At least it is dry here. Let me go then. I'll come back tomorrow with some more food, V. As soon as you are able I'll get you out of this hole. Try to eat what I've brought you. Try to sleep. Are you in pain? Do you need more drugs?"
He shook his head. Drugs didn't keep the visions away. She squeezed his hand. "Hold on, V. I will save you." He heard the tiny feet shuffle away.
She had left a light with him. She had refilled his lamp with kerosene. There was food and tea by his elbow. He looked around. This hole is too much like a prison cell. I am back inside a prison. But I put myself here this time. He pushed himself up and ate the food and finished the tea.
He blinked, expecting the children to return. They did not. They come only when I am weak. I am feeling stronger already. He ate a bagel and the grapes she left for him.
He waited for her, thinking of the books. Which one will I read first? This was a game he played for hours in the hole with his flickering lamp. He remembered the spines of the books in a row, the comforting presence of their words that waited for him.
It must have been a day. He looked at the lamp. He had become skilled at marking the passage of time by the level of fuel in his lamp. She has been gone at least a day. His stomach told him it had been a day. The hunger had returned as soon as he had put food in his mouth. Now he seemed to be always hungry. Just like the first few months in the tunnels. He waited some more, stretched his legs, balled his fists. I need more food. I feel so much better. In the bottom of the knapsack was a tin of biscuits. Sweet ones. He ate those too. Still she did not come.
He waited for her, thinking about Delia and the other scientists. Which one will I kill first? I will save Delia for last. I want her to see her colleagues disappear one by one. I want her to feel the fear I felt when I heard her footsteps in the hall. Each death will be like one footstep coming ever closer to her. How long before she hears my step on her threshold?
He found a tin of almonds. Pulled the ring tab and ate those. And Prothero. He will be a challenge to kill. He has bodyguards. Perhaps killing him is not the answer. There are worse things than death. He touched a gloved finger to his temple, tapped his head. Yes. Worse things.
He waited for her, thinking of Lilliman. There is a man who does more harm than good.
He felt a warm fluttering inside when he imagined the clergyman's death. Not the knives for that one. No, something much more appropriate for him. He is poisoned inside, he is warped and twisted. He needs something warped and twisted. I want him to twist himself like his words. Bend himself like he bends meanings.
The last crumb of food was gone from the knapsack. He looked around for more. The water was gone too. The thermos long since dry. It must have been more than a day. Perhaps she is having trouble finding me again. Or she tried to carry too much.
He tested his legs, used the wall to stand up and take a step. Yes. I can walk. He felt the strength flowing back into his body. Hiding in a hole is not the answer. I have work to do. A purpose. He felt a tiny thrill. Food, books, company…where is Audrey? I am ready for her now.
He picked up the torch she had left for him and entered the tunnel. I will find her.
The rest of this story is wrapped up at the end of Adagio in a little bit of crossover.