CHAPTER 2

HERTFORDSHIRE POLICE STATION

Doyle concealed a car security fob into the internal blazer pocket of his grey three-piece suit after black Mercedes headlights blinked. His slim figure sauntered toward a set of rain-soaked steps leading into the police station while adjusting his black tie knot over a pale blue business shirt. Warm air from the foyer's air conditioner dissipated the chill he felt from outside as he opened the door. He was then greeted by Madison's smile as she eyed his slicked and parted dark blonde hair.

Doyle's moustache twitched as Madison approached him, cutting her off before she could speak, "Not here."

Madison nodded, whispering, "Around the corner, room two."

Doyle proceeded along a stretch of yellowed tile flooring without further comment. His staunch facial expression boasted a poker player's stillness at the sight of a handcuffed drunk being aggressively escorted through the narrow corridor by an officer. Similarly, Doyle's perpetual dispassionate manner sold a narrative of obliviousness to the nearby man crawling on all fours, shouting that he had lost his tooth despite there being no blood or saliva on the floor.

Doyle entered the room, hearing someone say, "Can you please stop that?" Doyle looked from a man sporting a black eye to an officer dressed in a grey suit who tapped his knuckles against a wooden table surface.

"I think you'll find that the echo of that noise would drive even the hardest of felons insane, officer," Doyle commented. "If that's your intention, mission accomplished."

The officer looked over his shoulder to the dapperly attired Doyle, "I take it you're his lawyer?"

Doyle presented a small leather identification wallet from his briefcase to the officer, his stunned silence testifying its contents. Doyle advised, "I'll take it from here. You're excused."

Standing aghast by this untimely intervention, the officer shuffled past Doyle, nearly tipped over his chair.

Sitting opposite Kevin, Doyle slid his identification into his briefcase, "So, you're the proverbial boy who cried wolf?"

Kevin groaned to Doyle, "Something like that."

"What happened?"

"Mate, there's a transcript you could be reading to answer that question. I'm not going through this again! I'm tired, and I'm hungry. I want to go home!"

Doyle raised his right hand and pointed his index finger at Kevin. "What happened?"

"Did you hear a word of what I said? I am not making it up!"

Doyle reached into his briefcase to retrieve a notepad and pen, "Making what up?"

Kevin sat forward with his arms stretched across the table, "There was a girl with blood, scars, and weird welt type of things all over her face. She could barely speak, and when she did try to speak, she sounded like a rabid dog."

Doyle nodded as he messily scribbled onto the pad while listening to Deacon.

Kevin continued, "Ummmm, ok. You could tell she was young, but her face was," he trailed off and used hand gestures to demonstrate a twisting motion. "Her face was all creased up. She had this weird black slime all over her teeth." He paused a moment for a breath. "What else? She was in a hospital gown. Then, there's her eyes that were bulging like crazy! I was so scared I ran inside of the woman's house."

"What else can you tell me about the girl? Anything at all."

Kevin shrugged, "Oh, there was a stink? There was a strange rotting smell. Especially when all of that thick black goo poured out of her mouth."

Doyle tapped his pen against the pad. So far, to Doyle, everything described was consistent with UNIT's investigation involving deceased-looking people in patient gowns. "When you said before her skin was wrinkled, was it aged-looking for more like a person in a state of stress or despair?"

Deacon shrugged, "Almost like something was trying to crawl out of her. Like her skin could have peeled from her body."

Doyle clicked his fingers, "Decomposition!"

"If that's the word for it, then yeah."

"Then there's the black slime," Doyle muttered as he added more notes to his pad, flipping one of the sheet leaves. "Internal bleeding is likely," he murmured.

"You don't look remotely phased by anything I'm saying."

"No room for that in my line of work." Doyle stood up and collected his briefcase, "You've helped to narrow it down." Sliding his pad and pen into his briefcase, before zipping it shut.

"So, you don't think I'm a psycho?"

"Jury's out on that – especially with your employer's culinary standards that are used to pass off your deliverables as pizzas. In any event, you're no liar or common house intruder. I'll see to it that your charges are wiped."

Kevin stood, gripping the table's edge, "What do you mean? What I've just said to you is no different from what I've been saying all night! Now, you believe me?"

Doyle jutted his chin, "I do. They didn't. I'm not them. Get it? You'll be free to leave shortly."

HERTFORDSHIRE HOSPITAL

Crossing the crescent-shaped office floor, a bald man of average build and height held a tray carrying a tall stainless-steel carafe and a porcelain teapot. Setting it down on the desk, standing opposite Hirst, he announced, "Earl Grey with chilled water. Is there anything else, Professor Hirst?"

He gently brushed his hand over a crimson tie sitting beneath a relaxed-fit navy-blue pinstripe waistcoat with matching trousers as a whiff of incense glazed past his nostrils.

He adjusted the silver cufflinks attached to his white business shirt cuffs as he watched the back of an office chair facing him on the reverse side of a leather-top redwood desk. He eyed the sparingly decorated workspace. It consisted of a computer monitor, a laptop, and a small gold clock.

From her chair, she absorbed the window view of Hertfordshire spanning the width of her twentieth-story office at Lister Hospital. Lining her other office walls were shelves filled with books, antiques, and trinkets. She, who had yet to speak, looked through the reflective window at a ghostly reflection of a man standing to attention. She gazed over her left shoulder, answering in a droll British accent, "Not for now, Regis."

She spun in her chair, slicking back her whitish blond hair, boasting a slick and moist texture - much like her pale skin. Hirst stood to adjust an ivory button on her peak lapel white suit blazer matching her trousers.

"We do, however, need to discuss Miss Jones," she said, picking up her brown coral neckerchief and sliding it around her throat beneath her navy blue collar shirt.

Regis nodded, "Yes, Martha's performance, of late, has been troubling."

She tied the neckerchief while sliding her left and right feet into brown leather stiletto business shoes. Pouring herself a glass of water from a carafe with her right hand, she opened a manilla folder on her desk. "According to this report, Martha's standard of care to Miss James during her distressed state was below the standard of Lister Hospital. Even going so far as to insist that she was in charge?" She looked up from the folder to Regis with parted lips.

"Yes."

Shaking her head, she muttered, "Dear me."

Her fingers then clenched into a fist, punching the desk. Regis' heels jolted. "Then there's this nonsense.

According to a report by Jones herself, a patient was checked in last night, an unidentified Jane Doe, who elicited dual heartbeats. No name. nor any personal particulars – nothing. Two heartbeats. What's going on with her? Did the woman turn up to work stoned?"

Regis' bottom lip quivered, "It seems Martha signed it off from her two subordinates. As you know, I approve these in good faith from the trusted nurses."

Slamming her glass down, Hirst chastised, "So, you blindly approved the sign-off by these two nurses? What the devil are you doing out there? How long have you been my trusted 2IC?"

"Professor Hirst-"

Hirst interjected as she leaned over her desk, frostily glaring at Regis, "It's my Lady."

Regis nodded frantically, "My Lady." He swallowed, "My Lady. You have my complete commitment and support."

"I find myself constantly needing that assurance of late, Regis. We have a fundraiser event in less than twenty-four hours. The Braxiatel program is riding on this, and the last thing I need is my reputation sullied by incompetence. Namely yours."

Regis adjusted his posture to a stiffer stance. "Tomorrow's event has been at the fore of my thoughts, My Lady."

"I should think so. What do you have for me on that front?"

Regis reached into his blazer pocket and took out his phone. He traced his fingers along the screen, "It seems that our prospective investor, Mister Winslow, has been busy outside of family and work."

"Don't be so bloody cryptic. Explain."

Regis smiled, setting the phone down with an image on the screen, and slid it across to Hirst.

"It seems as though Mister Winslow when not at board meetings or attending his daughter's recitals, is a frequent attendee of an exclusive club for private indulgences."

A smile spiked in the corner of Hirst's lips as she dragged her index finger across the screen.

"These were shot on multiple dates?"

"Yes. Winslow arrived in different cars and in different clothing. We have shots of him arriving at the venue, ascending the stairs, and leaving."

"If Mister Winslow values a secret, he'll, without doubt, see the benefits of financially supporting Braxiatel. Otherwise, his private affairs shall be unwelcomed news to his wife."

Hirst looked up, "In that case, you will meet with him at the event." Hirst's jaw locked, and her breath shortened as she clutched her chest.

"My lady-"

"SHUT UP!" She spun on her stiletto and nearly lost her balance as her breathing was reduced to a wheeze while gripping her desk in utter desperation. Turning back to face Regis, she desperately clawed at her desk drawer.

Regis used his right hand to cover his mouth, "It's happening again," as he watched Hirst's eyes turn plum purple.

Retrieving a sharp-tipped opaque black pen-shaped injector from the drawer, she stabbed herself in the throat. Initially, her breathing intensified. Gradually, her eye colour corrected itself. Hirst gritted her teeth mid-recovery, ordering Regis, "Get your house in order."

Regis nodded, "Yes, my Lady."

She threw the emptied syringe toward Regis. He narrowly ducked its pointed end. Hirst screamed, "GET OUT!"

Regis power walked toward the office entrance, nearly tripping into the oval-shaped coffee table and surrounding furniture. Upon his departure, Regis walked over to the wall cabinet, where a mirror was affixed along the wall.

She muttered to herself, "Two hearts." Her expression darkened in the mirror, echoing to herself. "Two heartbeats," followed by thrashing her right fist into the mirror.

Glassy fissures patterned along the mirror surface while thick, sticky orange blood swelled beneath her knuckles.

HERTFORDSHIRE HOSPITAL - KITCHEN & WARD

Martha dragged her feet along the squeaky floor of the hospital corridor while rubbing her temples. A slice of cheese slapped against her chest as Martha entered the kitchen. She caught it before it dropped to the floor.

Sighing at the sight of a barefoot patient hunched into the open fridge, dressed in a blue patient gown, Martha announced, "Excuse me, but this section is off-limits to patients. If you're hungry or need anything, I'm more than happy to help you."

The male patient turned around with beady eyes. He ran his hand through his flopped-down hair, pushing it into soft, spiky whisps. "Satellite five! I know I sent Rose home from Satellite Five. She's ok, isn't she? Tell me Rose is ok!"

The strange man shouted before his attention snapped to a vase on the table. "Bad wolf! Look at the rose petals! They're morphing into the bad wolf! The big bad wolf!"

Martha stood back, alarmed, and nodded sceptically at the vase. In her eyes, it was nothing more than a vase with flowers. To Martha, the object didn't remotely resemble the image being described by the rambling madman. "I hadn't noticed, actually," she muttered slowly.

She gently guided him away from the fridge and placed the cheese slice on the fridge shelf. Martha turned to face him, "Sir, I need you to-" she was cut off as he spat milk onto the floor and tossed the carton across the room.

"You know, in all my years of time travel, not once did I think to go back and meet the first person to drink cow's milk! I want to meet that person. Were they drunk? Was it a dare?"

Disgust and shock crossed Martha's face as milk sprayed across her scrubs. "OK, you need to settle down! Don't add to my already shitty week by making me call security. What's your name? We still don't have an identity on you."

"Poor thing," scooting toward a nearby paper towel dispenser, he bunched some sheets in his hand and dabbed the milk from Martha's scrubs. "Look at you with milk all over you! Poor baby. Poor baby!"

Martha widened her arms as the man dried his medical garment and muttered, "You're going to get me into even more trouble."

He shushed Martha as he continued to dab her scrubs. Martha breathed inward and stepped back. She slammed the fridge door and pointed her index finger at him, "LISTEN!"

He stood with the stiffened stature of a cactus at the sound of Martha's stern tone.

Martha continued, "Like I just told you, this isn't the week to try my patience! Thankfully, it's about to end. So, here's how it is going to work. You let me take you back to your ward, and we forget this ever happened. Alternatively, I can call the police to report that someone has escaped the asylum. Please don't add to my difficulties."

Each of Martha's words was met with an almost childlike series of nods.

"Good," her tone calmed as he gently took the paper towels from her hands. "I'm going to dispose of these, and then I'm going to take you back to your ward." She dumped the paper towels in a nearby bin, and they exited the kitchen together.

"I was hungry," he said as they walked down the corridor.

Martha chuckled, "I could tell. When's the last time you ate?"

"I have no idea."

"Do you know your name? We couldn't find any identification on you."

"I don't. I actually don't know who I am anymore," he whispered.

"Amnesia. You've obviously suffered some kind of trauma. Whatever it was, it's knocked you flat. You were found in the middle of a park all alone. Do you remember any of that?"

He shook his head.

Martha stopped and faced him, assuring him, "We're not going to let you leave without you knowing who you are and what transpired last night. Ok? I'm not going to let go. I'm here." She gripped his hands, whispering, "I know it's scary. Just trust me, ok?"

Nodding reluctantly, he answered, "Something about this is vaguely familiar. I just wish I knew what."

Martha lowered her voice, "We're going to take it slow. Got it? SLOW."

"Jelly babies."

She smirked, "Pardon?"

"Jelly babies. I like jelly babies."

Martha sniggered, "I'll see what I can do, kiddo. Come on."