Chapter Twenty Six
Questions
Elisabeth checks the results of the latest battery of tests on her plex, and smiles with satisfaction. It's been rather longer than she hoped; but today, at long last, Malcolm is fit to be discharged from the infirmary. Her initial thought that it would be no more than a few more days until he could go home had been scuppered by a vicious infection that had flared up unexpectedly from the insect bite on his shoulder. So deep had been its grip upon him, that, for nearly a day and a half, Yseult had sat clutching his hand and mopping at him with a cool cloth as he tossed deliriously in the grip of a high fever, and Elisabeth had become very concerned that she might even lose him.
His recovery, however, has been remarkable, despite her concerns that the infection might have damaged his liver. Everything is functioning normally again, and she is confident that today is the day that she can finally allow him to return to the home he hasn't seen in nearly five weeks.
"What's the news, Elisabeth?" She looks up to see Yseult in the doorway, her expression hopeful.
"All clear, Max. If he's ready, then I'm happy for him to go home today."
"If he's ready?" Yseult looks a little concerned, "Why, do you think he won't want to go?"
"After he got so roundly clobbered by that infection, particularly as it struck him down just as I was on the verge of releasing him; he seems rather nervous that something else might go wrong. He was full of questions when I was running the tests this morning."
"I think it was a shock for all of us." Yseult admits, "He seemed absolutely fine, and then, in less than an hour, he was unconscious again and we were all frightened he was going to die. Why did it take so long for that infection to hit him?"
"It hid itself in his liver, Max - and that extended its quarantine period. He was very lucky it didn't do any damage when it erupted, to be honest. That said, it's the one organ that can come back from next to nothing. We could have managed his condition while it recovered." She pauses as her plex beeps again, "Why don't you go and sit with him for a bit? I just need to update his records, and then we can talk about getting him home."
Yseult nods, and moves to go, then Elisabeth looks up at her again, "I have to say - he looked very sweet when he was cuddling your toy cat."
She laughs, "I dropped a bit of my perfume on Schmidt so that he smelled of me. I think that probably did it - Malcolm isn't normally one for cuddly toys."
"It sounds silly, I suppose, but I could see it was a real comfort for him when you weren't there."
"You make him sound like he's a child."
"Sometimes, when you're that ill, you feel like one, don't you?" She smiles.
Yseult smiles back, "Yes - I suppose you do."
Malcolm is propped up on the bed, his head turned slightly towards the window, but his attention obviously elsewhere. Yseult watches him for a moment, wondering what he's thinking. From his expression, the thoughts are not particularly pleasant, so she opts not to ask him about it.
"Hey." She says, softly, "I thought you'd like to spend a bit of time cuddling me instead of my toy cat."
He turns and looks relieved to see her, "I could do with some of that." He holds out his hand, and she perches on the bed beside him.
"Elisabeth's just updating the results of your tests onto your records; she'll be through in a bit to discuss letting you go home."
"She mentioned that this morning." He agrees, quietly, but seems oddly unenthusiastic about the whole business.
"I thought you couldn't wait to get out of here."
"Three weeks ago, I couldn't. And then I dropped like a stone. Everything seemed okay - and then it wasn't."
"You've had the all clear, Malcolm. It won't happen again."
"I know. It's just…" his voice fades, and he rests against her. He doesn't need to finish the sentence: she gets it.
"I've brought a grip with some clean gear. That might help?"
The sound of footsteps on the wooden floor attracts their attention, and they both turn to see Elisabeth approaching, "How are you feeling?"
"Better." Malcolm admits, "As long as there's nothing else waiting to jump out at me."
"Your results came back showing no sign of infection - it's all gone. Your liver function is 100%, and everything else is working fine. I think there's no reason to keep you here."
He nods, but seems disinclined to move while he has Yseult so close. She turns to him, "If it's cuddles you need, then there'll be plenty once we get you home. It's not a hospital exclusive."
"Fair enough." It sounds like an admission of defeat rather than an expression of relief at finally being allowed to leave.
"I've got you some clean clothes." Yseult reminds him, "If you want to get dressed, I'll be with Elisabeth in her office. Okay?"
He nods again, though he still looks far from happy.
Once in her office, Elisabeth turns, "Before you ask, Max: yes - physically he's fine. Being felled by that infection was a terrible shock when he thought he was pretty much better - in some ways, I don't blame him for being afraid to leave."
"I know." Yseult sighs, "Do you think that this is to do with what happened to him, as well? Jim hasn't told me much - but from what he has said, Malcolm had a dreadful time."
"That's equally possible. I don't know much about what happened, either - I think Jim isn't talking because he doesn't want it to get around the Colony before Malcolm's ready to talk about it himself. There's a lot that we don't know, and the last thing he needs is people speculating or spreading rumours about it."
"Maybe he'll feel a bit better once he's home. At least he's not got a soldier wandering around after him any more. The person who was trying to kill him is dead so that's something, I suppose."
Elisabeth nods, "Tell you what - why don't you come over to ours for dinner once Malcolm's up to it? I think it's about time that I stopped Jim being quite such a coward over socialising with my ex; particularly now that you've closed that door once and for all."
"Only if they're both happy with that. It could be dreadfully awkward otherwise." Yseult smiles at the idea.
The walk back to Malcolm's house is slow, and he says nothing as they walk, though his arm is tight about her shoulders, as though he has no wish to let her go. Now that they're outside in the open air, she can see that he's quite pale where he isn't still a little reddened by the fading remnants of sun exposure, and there are shadows under his eyes: he looks strained, as though holding back a hideous maelstrom that threatens to engulf him.
For a brief moment, Yseult thinks that the grip might fail as they enter his house. His eyes sweep left and right, taking in the surroundings, and he seems to tremble. But instead, he grips his arms more tightly about her, and holds her close, "I dreamed about this." He tells her, "That I'd bring you back here. It kept me going." She doesn't need to know that he did everything he could to avoid thinking of her, as to do so caused him intense misery, and a belief that he would never see her again. In some ways, the lie comforts him as much as it comforts her, as she wriggles about to face him, her arms tight about his neck as he holds her close.
"Do you want me to stay tonight?" She asks, quietly, "It's okay if you don't. I imagine you'll just be grateful to be sleeping in your own bed again."
He wants to say yes. Desperately wants her to be with him as the darkness draws in; but the untruth that he found so comforting is now suddenly a ghastly barrier. He's lied to her - he's said something false just to make her feel better…
"Maybe another night." He says, quietly, "I'm still very tired - I think I'd be dreadful company for you."
Why is he saying that? He wants her to stay; wants to sit down on the couch and hold her close like he did before…before…don't think about it…just don't…
She smiles at him, "That's fine. I understand. I'll be by tomorrow, okay?"
"Of course." Suddenly, from nowhere, he is struck by such a sense of self-loathing that he cannot even bring himself to kiss her. Dear God - he lied to her…
If she is hurt by his apparent withdrawal, she doesn't show it. Instead, she squeezes his hand, smiles, and lets herself out. No sooner has the door closed than he sinks down on the couch, slumps over on his side, and moans faintly as he fights to hold back the tears.
"Where's Max?" Elisabeth asks, as she runs through some results on her plex. While she has no doubt that Malcolm is fully recovered, he doesn't seem to be quite as convinced, and so she has found herself obliged to make a home visit to reassure him.
"She's at work." Malcolm says, quietly, "She'll be back at lunchtime."
Setting the plex aside, she regards him with concern. He still looks tired, and drawn. In the week since he's returned home, he should be recovering his strength - and yet he seems listless, indifferent, "I'm sorry if this comes across as being too forward, Malcolm, but how are things between you and Max?"
"She's fine - she comes over every day for lunch."
"That's not quite what I meant." She says, quietly, "Are things alright between you?"
He sighs, "Is that really any of your business?"
She isn't blind; the rumours have already started - everyone knows that Yseult only seems to come over to his house at lunchtime these days; he never emerges, and she no longer spends the night with him. Yes, it's rather intrusive; but at the same time, it's helpful for Elisabeth. That Yseult and Malcolm have not resumed their former intimacy concerns her - what's gone wrong between them? It must be over what happened to him - but he has not, as yet, divulged to anyone the events that occurred while he was missing. Even Jim has refused to tell her what he knows; making it clear that it's something that only Malcolm should do. To her mind that means only one thing - the experience was highly traumatic, and he has no idea how to deal with it.
"When was the last time you went outside?" she asks.
"The day I came home." He admits, then looks up at her, "What reason do I have to go out?" He asks, defensively, "You've signed me off work for six weeks - what am I supposed to do?"
"Rest - socialise with Max, go for walks. Whatever you want. I haven't imprisoned you in the house."
He wants to tell her, shout it at her…why the hell would he want to go outside, where someone could shove him into an aluminium locker and bury him alive? Or force his head under water as an alternative to killing him with thirst? What about all-but roasting him in a locked metal box? The thought of facing the scrutiny of people who are almost certainly gossiping about him doesn't help…
Or how about the nightmares that routinely shatter his sleep? There's a damned good reason why he doesn't let Yseult into the bedroom, or into his bed. What if he stabbed her with the large kitchen knife he keeps within reach for fear that the horrors in his dream will follow him out of it when he wakes up?
And, most recently, the horrible, insidious sense that someone is entering the house. Every morning, something has been moved - never anything important - just something innocuous that he might even have misremembered leaving that way himself. He never dares to emerge from the bedroom before daybreak - the fear that he might find something becoming an almost ingrained behaviour that he can't control; and in some ways, he's beginning to wonder if he's going out of his mind.
The one thing he wants, more than anything, is to reach out to Yseult, hold her - tell her everything, and let her cradle him as he cries - but he's lied to her. He's broken her trust in him, and that is, to his mind, unforgivable.
He has no idea that he's wringing his hands. Elisabeth watches him solemnly as he does so, but doesn't draw his attention to it, knowing that's probably holding his fragile control together. If only he'd let go of it; but he's too staid - too…too…British, to allow that veneer to break, and start to find a way to heal. How can anyone help him if he won't accept the offer of help?
The front door opens, and they both look up, though Elisabeth's attention is on Malcolm's expression: waiting to see how he reacts to the arrival of the woman he so deeply loves. Oh yes - she's welcome alright; his eyes are absolutely fixed upon her, his expression one of anguished relief. He can't bear not to have her near, and yet still he cannot bring himself to resume the tactile intimacy for which they were becoming rather renowned.
"Hi Elisabeth," Yseult's greeting is friendly, as she juggles a few cartons of food from the market. As he's not using it, she's taking advantage of Malcolm's rover so she can travel to and from her work compound quickly. Otherwise she'd probably have to work half days - which would impact on her working hours significantly, given that she's visiting him every day, "Everything okay?"
"Absolutely fine. Nothing hanging about to worry about. Do you need a hand with that?" she asks, as Yseult tries to close the door.
"I'm good - but thanks."
Elisabeth turns back to Malcolm, who still hasn't taken his eyes off Yseult, "I'll update your records, and I'll drop by in week to see how you're doing. I appreciate that you're getting a bit stir crazy, but you're not going back to work until I say so. Alright?"
He nods, almost vaguely, his attention entirely occupied elsewhere. Just as well Max is distracting him, or he might well try to object. She remembers that he used to deal with problems by over-working until he'd largely forgotten them, or they'd resolved themselves.
"I'll see myself out." She adds, waves to Yseult, and departs.
Setting the plates out on the table, Yseult sits as Malcolm joins her. She isn't a fool - she can see that he's lost weight. This is the only meal that he's eating, and he wouldn't eat this if she didn't bring it, and sit down with him to make sure he finishes it. While he generally picks at it, he does actually consume what's on his plate; and, while he never says a word while he does so, her presence is always welcome once they sit down together for an hour on the couch.
Talk to me, she thinks at him, Tell me what's happening. I can see you're frightened - but I can't help you if you won't let me in.
As always, his arms are tight about her - telling her more than words can express that he cannot bear to be without her; and yet he can't bring himself to go any further. He hasn't kissed her; much less touched her intimately, since just before he left with Robert. It's almost as though he has withdrawn back to that chaste state that marked the first stages of their relationship. Is it because of Niall again? Aren't they past that?
It seems not. Looking at her watch, she sighs: time to go back to work, "I've got to go."
He says nothing, but he tenses, sharply. He always does it - but still, when she offers to stay, he demurs. Always - as though he doesn't wish to be any trouble.
"See you tomorrow?" she offers, quietly.
His eyes absolutely fixed upon her, he nods.
Lucas is standing over him, his eyes maddened, screaming unintelligible words that lack meaning, but do not lack intent. He is on his back, his arms and legs spreadeagled and held firmly, and he cannot move. Lucas threatened this…he's failed, and, as promised, he is being punished. But not with sun, not with heat. Oh God…please God no…no…no…
Clicking, skittering sounds…the clatter of a multitude of pedipalps snapping together…and they come in their thousands, black-shelled scorpions that seek out his skin to sting, to strip the flesh from his body…and then they are crawling, crawling, crawling…crowding over his torso in their droves, scrambling up onto his face…into his mouth…
Thrashing wildly, Malcolm forces himself out of the dream that has tormented him almost every night since he first crawled into the bed in which he lies after Elisabeth threw him out of the only place he considered to be safe. His eyes wide with horror, he snatches at the knife and examines his bedclothes, the floor, the walls; everywhere he can think of that might prove a refuge to those hideous creatures that emerge out of the darkness to cover him in a suffocating coat of arachnids.
Moaning softly, he sets the knife aside and clutches at the covers as though that might perhaps offer him some comfort. Lucas is dead - or so he's been told. He didn't see it happen - he has no memory of it - but Max has told him about the grave that sits well away from those of the colonists interred at Memorial Field. Maybe that's why he can't accept it. He saw Robert's body, knows that the hate-filled botanist is permanently gone - but Lucas just keeps on rising again. And even now he is ever-present; a taunting ghost that refuses him the refuge of sleep.
As dawn comes, he turns over and stares hopelessly at the bedside clock. He should sleep - he knows it's important that he do so, but the fear of dreaming again is so intense that not even his encroaching exhaustion can defeat it. Maybe a lie-in?
But even that, he cannot do. No - doubtless his nocturnal visitor has returned. Perhaps everyone is trying to make him feel better by telling him that Lucas is dead. Perhaps he isn't…and if he isn't…then he is still a wanted man. Still a…what did Lucas call him? A valuable commodity…
His eyes wide and fearful, he opens the bedroom door and looks out, tentatively. At first, there is no sign of anything being different, and he sighs with relief. Maybe a cup of coffee might help.
Reaching for the coffee pot, he sets it ready while he opens the kitchen cupboard…
Did you think I was gone?
The words are inscribed on the inside of the cupboard door, picked out in a brown substance that could be dried blood. His eyes wide with horror, Malcolm stumbles backwards, away from the hob, the coffee pot…and the dread accusation. It's not happening…it can't be happening.
"You're dead!" he demands, looking about in all directions, "You're bloody dead! Leave me alone!"
If the words are bad, the silence that follows is even worse. But what does one expect from a dead accuser?
But what is he being accused of? Being unable to effect the impossible? The terminus was beyond repair - it was Lucas's obsessed determination to defeat his father that drove his conviction to the contrary.
"There is no such thing as a ghost." He says, firmly, "I am a rational scientist. There is no evidence to support the existence of ghosts."
Nonetheless, he slams the cupboard door shut with startling violence before he flees to the shower. Ten minutes later, he emerges, still miserably tired, but now in clean clothes and with damp hair. Tentatively, he approaches the door again; this is ridiculous. Ghosts do not exist…it was a trick. Someone's put it there…
He opens the door, only to find it clean. Oh, dear God - did he imagine it? Was he seeing something that wasn't there? What the hell is going on? Shaking violently, he huddles on the couch, too afraid to return to the bedroom, too afraid to call for help. Now he's seeing things…his mind really is starting to go…
The sound of the door opening shocks him out of his contemplations, and he looks up to see Yseult, who has arrived, as always, with her daily delivery of lunch. Where the hell has the morning gone? Did he fall asleep?
She sets the cartons on the counter, and looks across at him with a mild frown, "What's wrong?"
He wants to tell her. So much…but he lied to her, and that lie still stands in his way; an insurmountable barrier that he cannot bring himself to overcome.
"It's okay. I got woken up in the night by something outside; probably a passing pterosaur. I couldn't get off again."
This time, as they sit together, he clings to her with the desperation of a drowning man. The nightmares are crippling; and it seems to him that he is losing his mind - he is imagining that Lucas is haunting him. He has to be imagining it - ghosts don't exist…
As she always does, Yseult checks her watch, "I have to go."
As he always does, Malcolm fights with himself not to beg her to stay - and always he lets her leave. Once she's gone, he resumes his endless brooding until he looks up again to find that darkness has fallen, and he faces another night of misery alone.
Jim looks up from his 'desk' at Boylan's, "Hi Max. How can I help you?"
Yseult draws up a chair, "Tell me everything you know, Jim. Who was involved in what happened to Malcolm, what you know about what was done to him. He's breaking apart, and I haven't a clue how to reach him - if I have at least some idea, then that might help."
Jim looks at her in surprise. While he hasn't seen Malcolm at any point since he disappeared off to the infirmary, he assumed that it was simply because he wasn't seeing him when he came out of the house - not because he wasn't leaving it, "What, Malcolm? He doesn't seem the type to have a breakdown."
"Is there a type?" Yseult asks, pointedly.
He has the grace to look embarrassed, "Look, I don't know a huge amount, okay? Most of what happened, I didn't see happening. Most of it's gonna have to come from Malcolm; but I'll tell you what I can."
Yseult sits quietly as he relates the minimal amount of information that he has. Her eyes widen in horror at his explanation of the aftermath of Robert Stanley's planned revenge, and the discovery of some of what happened at the encampment, which he was able to glean from one of the survivors.
"He's had it bad, Max. I don't think he's had to face that kind of trauma before; it's not the same as what happened when he was a kid - these were serious, overt attacks on him, and he went through hell. He didn't see Lucas die, so he's having to take our word for it. Given the number of times we thought Lucas was dead, I imagine that's something he's having trouble believing."
"Can you come over today? I always take some lunch to him at midday, sharp. Perhaps if you carry out some form of investigative interview - say, you need to know if you need to bring charges of any kind against the Phoenix survivors. If we can find some way to get him talking, maybe I can then deal with the rest."
Jim's expression is one of mild consternation. He doesn't like Malcolm all that much, and tends to deal with him only when he must - and that hasn't really changed since Yseult came into his life. Their combative relations might have long since lost their edge, but that hasn't been replaced by a friendship. Is he really the right person to go in there and try to persuade a traumatised man to open up?
His conviction that he's probably not the right person increases almost exponentially the moment they arrive at his house. From his uneducated standpoint, as far as Jim's concerned, Malcolm's barely hanging on by a thread. The man looks ready to explode, for God's sake - it should be Elisabeth doing this…
"Jim." He says, quietly.
"Malcolm." Jim responds, "I'm sorry to bother you - but, you need to know that we brought in some survivors from the encampment. They're in the process of being matched up to posts within the Colony. After what happened, I need to know if any of them should have charges brought against them, so I'm afraid I need to interview you."
Malcolm goes rigid, his eyes fearful, "I'm sorry…I can't."
Yseult crosses to join him, and takes his hand, "It's okay, Malcolm - you don't have to do this alone. If you're not ready, then that's fine; but the longer you leave it, the harder it's going to be."
They stand together, their eyes fixed upon each other, for nearly ten minutes. Watching them, Jim shuffles, uncomfortably. It's almost as though they're having a telepathic conversation. Yseult's hand rises to rest upon his cheek, and he looks at her painfully, but then nods. "Alright."
Jim sets his recorder down, "Before I start, I promise that this is for my purposes. No one'll hear this - not even Commander Taylor if you don't want him to."
"How much do you know?" Malcolm asks, tensely.
"Very little." Jim admits, "What I have, I've picked up from witnesses. You don't have to tell me about what Robert did to you if you can't do it. Mira mentioned it."
"Mira?"
"She helped us get to the encampment."
He shakes his head, sharply, but then starts, "Has Commander Taylor told you about a woman called Allison Jones?"
Jim nods, "I know about that - and that it was nothing that you did."
"You'll know that Rob thought otherwise? He was the one who compromised the structure of the building that collapsed, and he washed out the glassware in the labs with acetone."
"Both of those attacks failed, though…" Jim muses.
"They were meant to." Malcolm says, quietly, "I was supposed to be so spooked by them that I'd want to get out of the compound; and he had a project that I could work on, so I took the bait completely. He'd been planning the whole thing for the best part of a year."
"A year?" Jim stares, incredulous.
"God, I thought that I was safe when I heard the sound of the rifle shot. But I wasn't."
"Lucas." Jim agrees, and notices Malcolm shudder violently at the name.
"He wanted to take my rover - but Robert had sabotaged it, so we walked out of the forest. He had a rhino waiting at the edge of the badlands. He knew his way through those forests better than anyone ever has. Even that idiot Fickett." For a moment, there is a spark of mild venom over the impostor scientist that had so delighted in insulting him, as though he is his old self again. It doesn't last.
"Lucas put me to work on the wreckage of the terminus. Nothing I could do would persuade him that it wasn't possible to get it working again. He'd become utterly fixated on forcing a time fracture to connect to a previously open portal." He pauses, his expression pained, "Needless to say, I couldn't do it; so he…punished me." His voice cracks slightly. Almost at once, Yseult is holding him even closer.
"What did he do?" Jim prompts.
"Denied me water, and locked me in an aluminium crate out in the full sun."
"That's crazy - why do that? I thought he wanted you to repair that damned terminus?"
"Like I said: Fixated." Then Malcolm looks down at the floor, "Can we not do this? I really don't want to think about it."
Jim nods, understandingly, "That's okay - it's a start." Then he pauses, "Sorry to ask this - but, if Robert was setting up accidents to get you out of the compound, why did he release the scorpion?"
"He said that he didn't."
"He didn't?"
"Having me die of asphyxiation was his idea, yes - but he was furious when he found out that someone else had nearly got there first." Malcolm resumes his perusal of the laminate flooring.
Jim stares at Yseult, who returns his look with worried dismay. If Robert Stanley didn't release that scorpion. Who did?
