Halfhead - Страница 42

So he’d been right-they were monitoring his phone. No point lying about it then. ‘He thinks they’ve been injected with something that gives them VR syndrome.’

Ken sagged back against the double doors. ‘I know how it looks, but…’ He stopped and took a deep breath. ‘Will, what I’m gonna tell you can’t go any further. I mean it, man: this stuff is like code-black, OK?’

‘Tell me.’

‘OK.’ Ken lowered his voice. ‘Look, you’re right, we are infecting controlled groups with something that makes them act like they’ve got VR syndrome.’ He held up his hands. ‘I know, I know, it’s a crappy thing to have to do, but we got no choice. We don’t know what started the last set of Virtual Riots. We can’t study it in the wild. And we can’t afford to sit about with our thumbs up our asses waiting for the next outbreak to come along.’

He looked away. ‘I gotta tell you, I hate this. I hate pumpin’ our own guys full of shit and watchin’ them go off their heads, but it’s the only way we’re gonna find a cure before it comes back again. You know how many people died last time?’

Will did, but he kept his mouth shut.

‘Three million. Three million Scottish citizens died. Worldwide the total was like, what: fifty, sixty million?’

‘So you’re giving our own people VR.’

‘Will, we infect controlled groups and keep them under real close observation. We work on what’s goin’ to keep them alive and sane. We work on ways to diffuse the triggers before they occur. We tried using simulations and computer models but it wasn’t working, there’s something about the way the diseased population interacts, a kinda feedback loop you can only see in the wild. Makes the condition a hell of a lot worse.’ He shook his head. ‘All that stuff I told you when I showed you around was the God’s honest truth: we’re doin’ our best and we’re gettin’ there. Next time it happens we’re gonna be ready. We’re not gonna sit back and watch another three million poor bastards die.’

Will had to admit Ken sounded as if he meant it. As if he believed every word he was saying. But Will had dealt with lying wee shites before. ‘What about Allan Brown? He was killing for years: how come you never stopped him? You’re up there monitoring the whole place and he’s out butchering halfheads.’

Ken’s smile slipped a bit. ‘We’re not perfect OK? Like I said: we don’t got cameras in all the flats yet.’

‘He’s been at it for over five years, Ken. You telling me you didn’t notice anything?’

The smile disappeared all together. ‘Listen, all I know is the VRs turned America from a superpower into a third world fuckin’ country. I ain’t gonna sit back and let that happen here. Not again. Will, I’m tellin’ you: this gets out we’re all in for a whole world of hurt.’ Ken stared at him. ‘You gotta understand, man: we’re doin’ what we gotta do. I’m asking you to be one of the Good Guys and just leave it alone. Let it drop. We’ll go on lookin’ for a cure and you and your team can go on doin’ what you do. No one needs to get hurt, OK?’

No one needs to get hurt? The little shite had just threatened him. Will had a sudden urge to kick Ken’s backside up and down the gaming hall. But instead he stuck out his hand and said, ‘One of the Good Guys.’

Ken beamed ‘OK!’ They shook hands. ‘Well, gotta go. There’s this kingdom needs saving from a fire-breathing Dragon and a buncha Goblins. You have a nice day.’

Will said, ‘Thanks,’ but he was thinking about twisting Ken’s head round until his neck went pop.

She’s so excited she can barely stand still. The operating theatre will be ready in just over eight hours. Eight hours. How can she possibly wait that long without bursting?

The automated storeroom gleams like a brand-new pin. She’s polished and mopped and dusted and scrubbed-anything to make the day go faster. Kill the time…

Deep inside her, a need is growing. A need to kill more than time.

She’s taken her medicine today, twice the normal dosage, but the need won’t go away. It’s the excitement; it makes her body tremble.

Eight hours to go.

Eight hours…

She walks round and round the store, straightening the piles of surgirags and skinglue and sharps and sheets and disposals and everything else a large modern hospital needs. She has counted each and every sheet in the pile, every box of nutrient and she still can’t rest.

There has to be a release. There has to be a release soon, or she won’t be able to think straight. And if she can’t think straight she’ll start making mistakes. And if she makes mistakes she’ll be caught.

Justification.

She stops pacing and closes her eyes, pleased with herself.

If she doesn’t kill something, she’ll be caught.

She grabs a fresh blade from a pack and slips it into her orange and black jumpsuit. This is the last day she will ever wear this nasty polyester uniform. After tonight she’ll be back to her elegant best. Perhaps, once the swelling goes down, she’ll stroll down Sauchiehall Street and burn a hole in someone’s bank account. That will be nice. A manicure and a facial and a lovely lunch down at the Green. What could be better?

Then afterwards she’ll pay Assistant Section Director William Hunter a visit and congratulate him on his promotion.

Dr Westfield pops some supplies in the bottom of her wheely-bucket and saunters off towards the exit. There are a lot of people in Glasgow Royal Infirmary, many of whom will live to a ripe old age. And one who isn’t going to live to see tomorrow.

As the storeroom door slides closed behind her she wonders who it will be.

‘What’s up with you?’ Jo appeared in the Comlab Six canteen where Will was busy nursing a half litre of imported lager and a foul mood. She stood in front of his table, hands on hips, hair hanging slightly damp round her face. On her it looked good.

‘Nothing.’ Will forced a smile. ‘Nothing’s wrong.’

DS Cameron raised an eyebrow. ‘Bollocks, nothing’s wrong. I’ve interviewed thieves and murderers remember? I know a lie when I hear one.’ She dumped her kitbag on the table and sank down into the seat opposite. ‘Spill the beans.’

‘Honestly, there’s nothing-’

‘William Hunter, if you expect dinner, dancing or anything else this evening you’ll come clean. Understand?’

‘“Anything else”?’ This time the smile was genuine. ‘And just what did you have in mind?’

‘Talk.’

After a moment’s silence he nodded and said, ‘I bumped into an old friend when you were getting changed. Told me to keep my nose out of the PsychTech files, told me to stop digging for information on him and his boss. Said if I played nice, “no one would have to get hurt”.’

‘He threatened you?’

‘Yup.’

‘But you’re a Network Assistant Director!’

Will just shrugged.

Jo frowned. ‘Why the hell would someone care if you went rooting about in a defunct, debunked, psychology programme that died years ago?’

‘No idea.’ Will stood. ‘I’ve got to go see Doc Morrison at Glasgow Royal Infirmary in forty minutes. Would be a shame if I accidentally hacked into the PsychTech files while I was there. Want to tag along?’

‘Just how dangerous is this “old friend” of yours?’

‘That’s what I’m trying to find out.’

Jo hauled on her jacket. ‘What we waiting for then?’

She walks through the wards like a diner examining the menu. There are so many to choose from: some that no one will miss, others that will leave a family in mourning. Some are young, some are old and none of them look as if they’re going to put up much of a struggle. She likes that best of all. This is no time to take any unnecessary risks. A quick, clean kill and then a little bit of post-mortem fun. She’s not due in surgery till half eleven: she can take her time with the remains.

But first she has to get them downstairs.

The dumb-waiters are no good, they’re only designed to transport things up from the automated storeroom, not down. Being inside one when it collapses into the wall and starts its rapid descent back to the basement would be…messy. Nothing left to play with. Nothing but mush and a few broken bones. Where’s the fun in that?

She pulls her mop from its bucket and spreads some disinfectant over the floor. It’s a mundane task, but it helps her think. When she has her real life back, whether it’s in the New Republic or Asia Major or even the Colonies, she’s going to have the cleanest home in town.

In the next bed a small child cries. It can’t be much more than four or five years old: too small to be any real sport, though it would just about fit in her bucket if she snapped its arms and legs. But its head would stick out of the top, someone would see…

She drifts through to a more grown-up ward.

There are a few other halfheads working the room. One manoeuvres a floor-polisher back and forth across the scuffed terrazzo; another pushes a disposal buggy from one bed to the next, picking up the patients’ wastepaper baskets and emptying them into the big box on wheels. She stops for a moment to watch him-or her-work. Pick up the bin, tip it into the buggy, put the bin back. A nice un demanding job, just the thing for a surgically edited mass murderer. Or rapist. Or hedge-fund manager. Or whatever it was the thing in the orange jumpsuit had done to deserve half its face being cut off.

A nice big buggy, just the right size to take a fully grown adult. Perfect.

She crosses to the end bed. The man lying beneath the crumpled white blanket is wearing stripy pyjamas and a VR headset. His hands are above the covers, so whatever fantasies he’s living out can’t be too rude.