Adapt (11 page)

The moonlight reflected off the tip of his boots as he ran. With each stride he would gauge his step, eyes fixed to the ground a few feet ahead. In his lower periphery one foot would appear, then the other, like a hypnotist’s pendulum, a rhythmic repetition in which a trance-like state was succumbing his mind so he thought of nothing. He would occasionally break the trance to look up, scan the surroundings to confirm he was heading in the right direction. Trees for landmarks, each of which looked the same. He was aware of only one thing, put one foot in front of the other.
Keep moving. Don’t look back and don’t go back.
His adrenaline was alive, driving him on. He knew if he got caught he’d go under. Impotent and defenceless in the hands of what he now knew was an enemy. An enemy afraid of a fair fight. An enemy
that will deceive and lead him into a false sense of security then strike.
My guard will not lower next time.

The trees were as still as a landscape painting, no breeze yet his cheeks were like ice. Breathing was becoming heavy and hard but it was an unfit barrier to stand in the way of his determination to evade capture.
Keep moving.

The white light of the celestial body highlighted an outline of each individual tree. The leafless birches were tall and strong. Branches reached out in all directions. Draping twigs would spread further still, like long fingers reaching out for him. The wood was silent, the odd noise of a disturbed nocturnal creature was his only company. A fog slowly rolled in, misty patches among the trees would haze vision, some areas denser than others.

He felt safe in this environment. The fingers of the birches reaching out, a supportive hand on the shoulder. The creatures hiding in the shadows, friends not foes. The hazy fog, a gentle veil for him to disappear into. Safe. The fingers of the ward clawing him. The creatures hiding in the shadows within its walls. The fog of conniving conjured by the doctor.
Keep moving.

Daniel leaned up against a tree as he gathered his bearings, his breath flowing out into the moonlight. The breaths were short and sharp to take in oxygen. Heart pounding, the sound reverberating in his head. He could feel the blood pumping around his body. The iced air smothered his fingers, suffocating the nerves in the skin until they were numb. The blood beneath the surface at war with the cold battling to keep his digits warm. Daniel slowed his breath, taking air deeper, through the nose and slowly exhaling out of the mouth. The energy was wasted exiting his lungs so he cupped his hands around his lips, the warm air bringing feeling back to the tips of his fingers. He began to run once more until he reached the road. Small cottages to his left could be used for cover if needed. Before starting along the road cover was required. A car once again travelling slower than usual along the country lane. He hid in a front garden, pressed up to a bush as the danger passed.
What if the police are there when I get home? They won’t believe me if I tell them. They will bring me back. Maybe they will arrest me and put me in a cell. I will happily sit in a cell
for the night. I would trust anywhere but there, any other hospital, so long as Dr Cribson isn’t pulling the strings.

“Can I have a look around?” the officer asked Dominique.

“Yes, sure,” she replied. The detective walked down the hall to check Daniel’s bedroom. He looked around the room but no sign of the escaped patient. He made his way throughout the property before returning to the kitchen where Dominique awaited news.

“Not in the house,” he said.

“I have been here the whole time. I don’t think he will try to hide,” said Dominique.

“He might be worried that we will return him to the ward,” he said.

“He was desperate to get out of there. They refused to let him out,” she said.

“He clearly was desperate to get out,” said the officer.

“He was. I’ve never seen him like that,” she said. “He looked scared, it shocked me.”

“Does he not have a history of involvement in the mental health service?”

“No, but I can understand why he wanted to leave,” she said, “I was only there for a few minutes and
I
wanted to leave.”

“Well he did a good job of leaving,” he said. “It’s just a matter of whether he will be spooked by a police presence.”

“I doubt he will,” she said. “He may be happy to see the police.”

“It’s an unusual course of events,” he said whilst peering into the garden. “I will check the garage.”

“I will unlock it for you.” Dominique led the way to the garage door. On her unlocking the padlock the officer entered. A weights bench and a few boxes. The detective had a close eye for detail and scanned the garden next.

“Is there a field over the back?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He gazed over the fence. “There’s no way of knowing. I’ve parked the car around the corner so not to scare him off. Logic
says he will come from that direction,” he said, pointing west. “I think he’s avoiding the roads. He may come a different route. It’s longer, but there’s less chance of detection if he heads out and comes back from that way,” he said pointing east.

“Maybe,” said Dominique.

“Which means he will see the car. It’s off-road but he may see it. I hope it doesn’t spook him because the consensus is he can stay here tonight.”

“He’ll be so pleased,” she said with her hand on her heart.

“We have arranged it with the ward. Where they go from here is their choice,” he said. “He was there voluntarily but if they now get him sectioned then he has to stay.”

“I hope they don’t,” she said.

“Let’s go back in the warm, you look frozen,” said the officer.

As they closed the door behind them Dominique began to shake. She prepared the kettle for a cup of coffee. The officer stood by the window, peering out occasionally.

“Would you like a coffee?” she asked. “I need one to warm up.”

“No, thank you,” he replied. He looked in deep thought, processing information. Like a cop from a noir classic he questioned everything.

“It’s unusual. It doesn’t add up,” he said. He appeared to want to know more.

“The whole thing is definitely unusual,” said Dominique.

Daniel stopped to catch his breath for a moment. The collective pain of his side, the back of his head, the soreness of his neck all became evident again. Adrenaline had subsided and feeling returned. The laceration was small but was now noticeable.
My heels are aching
. His heels felt like they had been smashed with a solid object.

The respite was brief, he moved again.
Nearly home.
With only a few hundred yards left to go he heard propellers in the distance. The sound travelled through the silence. It was the first time he had looked back. The helicopter was hovering over toward the hospital, a vivid beam flowing to the ground. He continued, a car
in a dirt track caught his attention.
Shit, the police must be waiting for me. It means my family know, I have to let them know I’m okay. Mum will be worried sick.
Outside the front door Daniel took a deep breath.
Here we go.
Daniel entered. Dominique heard the door and flew out of the stool and ran to the door. She hugged him.

“I don’t want anything more to do with those people. I can’t go back. I will go somewhere else if I have to.”

“I don’t blame you,” said Dominique. The officer standing behind his sister smiled at him.

“I apologise for the inconvenience,” said Daniel. “I was hoping I could make it home before the search reached the extent it obviously has.”

“No need to apologise. You’re home. You’re safe. That’s all we were called for,” the officer said.

“I could see you were here,” said Daniel.

The officer nodded. “I thought you might come that way. I hoped the car wouldn’t deter you.”

“I had to get out of there. It’s a long story. But hopefully that’s the worst of it over,” said Daniel.

“You will be fine,” the officer said. “You seem a very reasonable young man.”

Daniel turned to Dominique. “Where’s Mum, Dad and Matt?”

“They’re out looking for you,” she said.

“I radioed over to inform them that you’re home when I heard you come in. Your parents are on their way back.”

“Mr Con.” Dr Cribson greeted the man at the door of his office.

“What name should I call you?”

“You can call me Dr Cribson,” said the doctor. The man smirked and nodded.

“Is it done?” Mr Con asked.

“It’s done,” said the doctor.

“Good.”

“A high dose of iodine so far. His thyroid is fighting for its survival. The radiation will collectively target the area until the thyroid is destroyed.”

“Is that it?” said Mr Con. “No pain?”

“The dose will give him few side effects. He’s glowing, there’s no doubt about that.”

“So he’s not on death’s door,” said Mr Con. He was unmoved by the revelation.

“He will feel close to death in the coming weeks,” said Dr Cribson. The contact’s ears picked up, he could sense there was a new phase about to take place.

“And why will that be?” asked Mr Con.

“I gave him something a lot more powerful the night after he absconded from the ward. He will feel this I’m sure of it.”

“And what will it do exactly?”

“There will be an encyclopaedia of side effects,” the doctor said. “It will last a few weeks. Longer term it will have disastrous effects on any cellular structure it interacted with.”

“Very good.” Mr Con looked out of the window with a smile. The darkness outside couldn’t rival the darkness of his smirk.

“He will feel sick, light headed, as well as have migraines, feel fatigued,” said Dr Cribson. “There’s no way of telling exactly how his body will react but it won’t be positive. Given the mind frame he is confronting already he will feel destroyed, hopefully suicidal.”

“We will make him aware of what he has taken. What did you give him?” asked Mr Con.

Dr Cribson stroked his beard. “I will keep this new phase to myself.”

“I won’t forward the information,” assured Mr Con.

“Indeed you won’t, because I won’t be telling.”

“Very well. We will continue the subliminal, and overwhelm the man who cannot be named,” he said with a smile. “He has the seed planted, he knows he’s the centre of our shots. I am most fond of the way in which attacks have been subtly worded in our papers. The visual medium must be just as soul destroying for him.”

“He was most disturbed when he explained seeing it on your channel. He knew he was being targeted but he didn’t know why,” said Dr Cribson. “He was perplexed, I think he was hoping for some official help. Maybe he thought we would open an investigation with authorities.”

“Ha.”

“Indeed. Once I saw him sign over to my care I was rather excitable. It was written in the fabric of time that he would end up in my hands. I couldn’t have planned it better.”

“Neither could we,” said Mr Con. “We were hacking his phone at the time. We’ve been hacking him since the site was taken down by Life’s Journal. Using his phone speaker we heard his parents call yourself in the background. We heard the sheer concern they had for their son, the fact he thought that the media were targeting him. You could hear how worried they were. That’s when we began arranging with yourself.”

“They waited for hours, enough time for us to share information. They persuaded him to talk it through with someone. They came with him, I used their concern against them. It was easy to convince them their son’s mind had fractured, the second he mentioned the media. Manipulate their worry to gain control
over The Man Who Cannot Be Named, as you have called him.”

“As soon as anyone working within Robert McLeod’s media circle uses that title everyone knows exactly who is being referred to. It’s even our cue.”

“Cue?” the doctor queried.

“Yes we have his connection to our channels trigger an alert system. We know when he is watching one of our news channels,” said Mr Con.

Dr Cribson stroked his beard and smiled, “Marvellous,” he said, “devastating.”

“Our entertainment channels are pre-recorded so we can’t capitalise on his viewing, but if he does tune in they are cleverly done,” said Mr Con. “It would be impossible for him to prove it in court, but he knows who we are insulting. The cue to our news presenters is The Man Who Cannot Be Named. They know who is watching and then use notes supplied to them to target him. It’s subtle, a simple look as they say something. It’s subliminal. He will pick up on everything now. Other viewers will not even register with their conciseness that anything is out of the ordinary. It’s genius. The brilliance of our media empire. Robert McLeod’s empire.”

“Indeed. Little wonder he was looking for help,” said Dr Cribson.

“You have no phone on your person I hope?” asked Mr Con.

“No.” Dr Cribson pointed to a phone on his desk, the battery and SIM card lying beside. Next to the phone was a laptop with the battery taken out. “I am aware now of how walls have ears, I have definitely learned a little about the spies we carry on our person. No one enters this office without me so you can rest assured there is no secret audience.”

“Good. I cannot be too open with this, things could become complicated shall we say,” Mr Con said.

“I would face a more thorough questioning than yourself if I am not cautious,” the doctor said. “I have created a human cancer time bomb. When this bomb is detonated I wish to take no responsibility. Unless of course the intelligent use of subliminal language can drive him to take his own life. Keep pushing him, Mr Con. Keep pushing.”

“We won’t relent. We have received no fines thus far, not even a warning. The only people who know the situation are our news presenters, editors and a select group of journalists. Yourself and your care team. And let’s not forget the few at the pinnacle of our industry. And our target, Daniel O’Neal.”

“Be careful, you said that name,” Dr Cribson said with a smirk.

“So long as he has no support from anyone we can do as we please. If he convinces one person to corroborate his outlandish story the pendulum may change direction. He is our toy, and we will abuse our toy until it breaks,” said Mr Con.

“He has support from his family, I might add, but I can divide them,” the doctor said.

“His family are oblivious to reality,” said Mr Con. “They must think what Daniel is suggesting is ludicrous, impossible and outright sadistic. So long as we maintain our high level pinpoint sniping through language, his family, and the law for that matter, will have no inclination as to the very real world our toy faces.”

“Splendid,” said Dr Cribson as he caressed his goatee. “I trust my team. My care co-ordinator and a group of nurses are all in this together. One nurse had a night of fun with my patient when he so kindly agreed to stay on my ward for his own safety.”

“Yes, that didn’t work out to plan, did it?”

“An unexpected turn. He caught us off guard,” said Dr Cribson.

“He made you look amateur.”

“It won’t happen again. When he is back within my domain, measures have been put in place to assure it can’t happen twice. Better security and better sedatives.”

“It would have been the perfect habitat to brainwash him, especially if you had a TV on the ward. He would believe he really was crazy,” said Mr Con.

“To make the clinically ill believe they are psychotic is impossible. He may be in shock and confused but he has the mental agility of any of us. To make him believe he has psychosis would be a tall order.”

“Then we will develop our mental acrobatics to rival his agility,” said Mr Con. “Your understanding of mental health is better than mine, but is the idea not to convince the target he is psychotic, but rather convince others that he is mentally less well?
Isolate his own reality from those around him.”

“That’s the idea,” said Dr Cribson. “He can know everything we are doing. I doubt that he does, but if he did, who would believe him? An irrational man spouting nonsense of media conspiracies, medical cover ups, abuse on a ward, a blood-thirsty psychiatrist. Police would lock him up for the public’s safety, solicitors would avoid him. He would be as amusing to them as he is to us.”

“With enough people willing to collude anyone can be portrayed as entirely, insanely, psycho,” said Mr Con.

“You bring up a valid concern of mine, willing being the operative word. The organisation you work for is gargantuan. How can you be sure that you have no whistle-blowers in your midst?” asked Dr Cribson.

“There’s no way to be sure,” said Mr Con. “The original hacker who sent us the software and a wealth of hacked material may have a loose tongue. I believe everyone on board wants to see Daniel O’Neal suffer. You know he was looking at rape footage for his personal pleasure. Trial or no trial he’s guilty in our eyes. No one will shed a tear for this man or his family. The secrecy here is secure in that we are all united against him.”

“Indeed. We all want him to suffer. But I worry that information may be passed to the wrong people.”

“We are all taking a risk, we are all suspects,” said Mr Con. “Anyone who has partaken at any level is liable. Harassment law suits, libel claims, even subliminal messaging is illegal. We all know what you are doing to the man’s body, that’s conspiracy to murder in front of any judge. You won’t find too many people coming clean on these types of allegations. It’s not our level of secrecy that’s to worry about, it’s if Mr O’Neal gains support from somewhere. It’s paramount that it doesn’t happen.”

“You understand my concern, I am giving out medical records so the media can target my patient,” said Dr Cribson.

“Given the fact you have abused the man and exposed him to radiation, I’m surprised you’re most worried about patient privacy violations,” said Mr Con, laughing as he spoke. Dr Cribson ground his teeth. “How long until the damage shows?” Mr Con asked.

“There’s no answer to that, the radiation will begin a chain reaction in his body. When cells mutate, I’m afraid is anyone’s guess. It’s not exactly polonium we’ve used. We have increased his chances of developing cancerous cells within the next few years.”

“Good,” said Mr Con. “To ease your fears of medical notes escaping our umbrella I would say no journalist will hurt their own profession. We bring people down, that’s why we own three bestselling daily newspapers. Other papers can only dream of the amount we sell. They can busy themselves with global affairs, politics and investigative journalism, or focus on articles about men who pose a real threat to human life around the world. It’s good, it’s needed. But it’s not what we are about. We destroy people. We were planning on destroying him in print.” Mr Con scratched at his temple. “Life’s Journal for whatever reason removed the profile of Daniel O’Neal, went straight to the courts and got an injunction. Why? I don’t know. They have gagged us. We can’t destroy him in print.”

“Indeed.”

“The law can’t stop us, we will get him with a new method. The government want to regulate the press. We can’t give them reason to do so. Anyone who blows the lid off of this can of worms will eat away into our freedom. No one working for us would do that because it would be used to impose regulation on us that we don’t want.”

“I see, it’s most interesting,” said Dr Cribson.

“If we want to hack someone, we do it. If we want to attack someone, we do it. We are bigger than the courts or the law. We own three newspapers, two news channels and four entertainment channels. We are an empire more powerful than ministers.”

“The ship’s tight then,” said Dr Cribson. “With no leaks this ship can sail right over him, drowning him in the process.”

“We have done the hard part. We have set the trap. If you wish to catch something, disturb a medium that your target will detect. A fly will sense disturbances in the air. Apply pressure through this medium from all sides and your fly changes course and heads for the trap. Our fly was Mr O’Neal. Our medium was media, our trap was you.”

Dr Cribson smiled. “With that apt metaphor I think we should call an end to this meeting, Mr Con.” Dr Cribson passed Mr Con an envelope.

“Always in paper form, I would never want to receive medical notes via email,” said Mr Con.

“I would never want to send one,” said Dr Cribson. “You apply the pressure through your programing and papers. The very second he says that the media are referring to him I will have him sectioned. He won’t get away again.” The pair stood up and walked to the office exit. Dr Cribson opened the door and shook the hand of Mr Con. “Take care until our next meeting.”

“May the hunt continue,” said Mr Con as he walked out.

Dr Cribson turned off the light and stood by his office window, staring out into the dead of night. “I hope you are ready, Daniel O’Neal,” he said to himself. The moonlight beaming into the room, creating a shadowy scene. “We are coming for you.”