Guinea Pig (8 page)

“I understand and I'll tell him if I see him.” The pastor accepted his details from him. “But I don't think you have much to worry about. Reginald is a very good man. Dedicated to his patients and his work. Generous to the church and to charity. I'm sure he'll be able to help. And I know that he will try. Even in the middle of this crisis. He has gone out of his way to help us in the past. Especially when we were robbed. He even paid for the private detectives we needed when we couldn't and the police had given up. I suspect they don't consider the theft of holy relics a top priority.”

“Holy relics?”

That caught Will's attention. You didn't hear about holy relics being stolen every day. In fact he'd never heard of it. And he was curious. He needed to be curious. Because just then he didn't want to try and put together the two different pictures of the man in his head. The pastor's near saint like version and the mad scientist Will now knew him to be. Better to distract himself. Besides, maybe his good works would turn out to have something to do with his mad scientist work.

“Yes, a paint brush.”

“A paint brush?”

Why would a paint brush be a relic? Will didn't get that. Nor what the theft of a relic could have to do with anything. But he was curious, and after the last few days he needed to distract himself a little bit.

“It was from the Mileseva Monastery in Serbia and dates back to the early thirteenth century when the monastery was being built. Twelve thirty AD or so.”

“I … see?” Will shrugged to show his lack of understanding. He still wasn't getting it. Just because something was old didn't make it a holy relic. But then again this was an Eastern Orthodox church. Like Catholics, they had saints. Maybe the brush had been used by one of them?

“According to legend when the monastery was being built the call went out from the bishops for some of the greatest painters of the day to paint the frescoes. The famous paintings of biblical events that still adorn the walls to this day. No one knows who the artists were. Not for certain. But they are considered some of the most important Serbian artworks ever painted. And it's said that there's a reason for that.”

“There is a legend that says that the artists needed inspiration. They wanted to paint scenes that would inspire people for thousands of years. And that one of them, perhaps even the artist who painted the fresco of the Angel in White at the Resurrection, prayed for guidance.”

“According to the legend, that inspiration was brought to him in the form of an angel who was sent from God to present him with a brush. The brush that was used to paint the greatest of the frescoes.”

“And that was what was stolen?”

Of course it was. Will didn't know why he even bothered to ask. What else would the church consider a holy relic? But he didn't see the significance. Not to him anyway. To the church it was important of course, though he still found it hard to consider a paint brush as a holy relic. Not even one given to them by an angel.

Will also had a hard time connecting the doctor who had apparently deliberately mistreated him with the same man who had paid out of his own pocket to recover a church's holy relics. Even if the theft had upset him greatly it didn't seem like the two things would be done by the same man. Why would a doctor who had a deep love of a church and presumably a belief in God and his holy relics play mad scientist on his patient? Or put the other way around; why would a mad scientist with no cannon of medical ethics, care about a religious artefact or a church? Will had no idea.

But he did realise that it was good news in one way at least. The Pastor's tale did paint Doctor Millen as a pious man. And a pious man would go to church. There was a good chance he would return. And when the man no longer had a home and the church was the only place he was known to visit, that was important.

“Yes. Sadly, some vandals broke in and stole whatever they could grab a year or so ago. Fairly much everything from the altar table, including the box containing the relic. The police found the rest of it pretty quickly – there's not a big market for large bronze crucifixes and the like – but not the brush. The chances are that the thieves broke open the case, found the brush inside and just threw it away as worthless.”

“Reginald though, he wasn't happy with that, and when the church couldn't afford to pay for a private detective he paid for him out of his own pocket.”

“But he didn't find it?”

“No.” The pastor shook his head sadly. “The bishops were very upset that we should have lost it. Now they're talking about security systems.”

Will shrugged. “Well this is L.A.”

And everyone had some sort of security system. From student flats to shops. So why shouldn't a church have one? At least a camera. Granted maybe churches were supposed to be more trusting, but there were limits.

“And this Mr. Simons is a church.” Pastor Franks fixed him with a slightly irked stare. And maybe he had a right to do so. Maybe Will was too cynical. Jaded from having lived for nearly seven years in the city. Back home after all, many of the country churches were left open day and night. Or at least they had been when he'd been a child. It was considered that a church was an important part of the community. It should be available to anyone who wanted to worship. Will knew better than to argue with him about it. It was an argument he wasn't going to win.

“Of course Pastor. I'm sorry.” It was the second time he'd apologised to the man in five minutes, and Will was suddenly worried he might say something else to annoy him. He didn't need that. He needed the pastor to carry a message for him.

“I should be on my way.”

He didn't want to go. Partly because it was peaceful here. And partly because he had the insane or desperate hope that the doctor would miraculously walk in just then. But he had to go. He had a flat to repair, food to cook, flatmates to say farewell to as they were both talking about leaving, and though it was hard to accept, a life to live. The Pastor was right, the loss of his body hair shouldn't stop him trying to live his life. He needed to remember that. And though he was angry with the doctor he needed to remember that anger would not help him. But most of all he had to remember that there were many others in this very city who were much worse off than him.

He was being selfish. Thinking of himself when he should be thinking of others. Letting his fear rule him. And this was a church, the one place where those sorts of thoughts should not be tolerated. Not even by him.

Chapter Nine.

The sound of the kettle whistling as the water in it bubbled away made Will feel happy. At least he could boil water. He had to be happy about little things like that, because there wasn't a lot else to be happy about.

There was still no electricity and no official word on when it would be returning, so the only means he had of cooking anything was the little camp stove he'd set up on the kitchen counter. The stove immediately beside it was completely useless, as was the fridge behind him. He'd emptied it out the week before as the food in it had turned bad. Naturally the microwave and the dishwasher were also completely useless. In the end the entire kitchen, a large farmhouse style affair, was about as much use as a newspaper was to a blind man. All it could do was store dry goods while he cooked cans of beans on the camp stove.

His flatmates had both left and he was missing them a little. They had packed up and gone home, and both of them were from out of state. That had been a week ago.

It was probably for the best that they had gone. He was sure they were safer where they were, and after the ice storm he didn't really know if L.A. was so safe any more. He kept checking the skies every so often just in case. Like everyone else. Still, he sometimes wished he had a friend to talk to. But there was nothing for them in the city any more. The university was closed with no word on when it would re-open. The buses weren't running, the roads were still mostly not fit for driving on and most of the shops were closed. There was no power to cook with or wash clothes. No hot water either. And most of their friends had gone as well. They were better off somewhere else. Still, the flat seemed empty without his flatmates. Too quiet.

But that wasn’t what was bothering him just then. It wasn't even the changes in his health that were troubling him. And there were more problems. He'd discovered nausea whenever he smelled certain things. He felt sick whenever he smelled meat cooking. Stomach cramps seemed to be plaguing him of late as well and his stomach wouldn't stop gurgling even when it wasn't hurting. He was suffering significant weight loss and there was even a slight change in his skin colour. They were all probably minor things, but in the light of what he already knew, frightening things. But just then even they didn't weigh quite so heavily on his thoughts.

What was bothering him instead as Will poured the boiling water into the mugs, was that he was making coffee at all. He was sure he shouldn't be. Or at least not two mugs anyway. He only needed one for himself.

But for some reason Laurel had come over claiming she wanted to check on how he was doing in the aftermath of the storm – and while he should have sent her packing given the pain she had caused him just a month before, instead he was now calmly making coffee for her. Why? Was he stupid? Completely pathetic?

Where was the anger he should still be feeling? That he had known? She had ripped his heart out barely a month before, dumping him like a load of trash as she took up with her lab partner, and he'd been angry and hurt. Yet suddenly she was back – he didn't know why – and he was making her coffee, just as if she was an old friend who had dropped by. As if he wanted to see her.

Sometimes it made no sense being a man in the twenty first century. Especially when there was a woman involved. Or maybe it was just being him that made no sense.

Still, it was probably better than trying to work on his thesis without electricity. Writing with pen and paper simply wasn't something he'd done much of in many years, and his fingers had actually forgotten how over the years of typing. At the same time there was no light, so the evenings were mostly for eating barbecued meals by the light of the fire, and sleeping. There was of course no telly to watch. No computer to play games on. No music to listen to. And perhaps worst of all since the temperature after the ice storm had plummeted and had not recovered for some reason, no heaters. Which was why after Mark and Richard had left, he'd taken to sleeping in the small lounge by the fire. Still, he was better off than many. At least he had a roof over his head and a fire to keep him warm at night. And the little portable camp stove to heat water on was a luxury. Until he ran out of gas.

“There's no milk.”

Will called out to her across the island bench letting her know the limits of his hospitality, and maybe trying to summon the hope that she'd be upset and leave him in peace. He wanted that. Both the peace and for her to leave. There was actually some milk. He just couldn't be bothered opening up one of the packets of powdered milk the emergency services people had supplied. After all it didn't really seem to dissolve well in hot water that well and it didn't taste that good either. There was some sort of taste that made it difficult to swallow. A faint stench perhaps that reminded him a little of the bad meat. Not even sugar could cover it up. Besides, after what she'd done she didn't deserve milk.

“That's all right.”

Laurel smiled at him from the lounge as if they were friends. Were they friends? He wouldn't have thought so. When she'd dumped him so cruelly not a month before he'd wanted nothing more than to hurt her as she'd hurt him. To beat her senseless for her betrayal. While he'd controlled his anger, he had still hated her more than he had ever hated anyone else in his life. They were surely enemies if anything. But something had apparently changed since then. He didn't know when, save that he hadn't really thought about her in ages. He hadn't seen her in nearly a month. And he hadn't planned on seeing her ever again. He'd figured that it was best that way. Move on. Forget her. Forget his pain.

Laurel obviously had other ideas. He'd gathered that when she'd shown up at his door that morning with a strange smile and a pathetic apology for hurting him. And why he wondered was she wearing that outfit? That tight woollen top that showed all her curves so clearly and the skin tight jeans? Her make up on and her hair down? She was dressed to kill, and he had a strange feeling he was the prey. It made him nervous.

She was even saying nice things. Complementing him on his sun tan. Telling him he looked fit and healthy. It was almost as though she was flirting with him again. Despite the fact that a month ago she'd dumped him like yesterday's news and told him he was boring and a pathetic loser with no future.

Of course a lot had happened since then. Maybe this was all in his mind. After all other things seemed to be. The nightmares which were always the same and never ending. They seemed to have become less terrifying of late, but as if to make up for that they'd started happening while he was awake. When he was simply day dreaming. And to add to that there was something strange with the world around him. He didn't quite know what. But every so often he seemed to see the world around him differently. Not with his eyes, but with his mind. As if he was understanding things in a whole new way. He didn't like that. And he didn't like this either.

Will brought the mugs through and handed her the one with the sugar in it, before collapsing back into the worn out chair opposite. The lounge was fairly typical for a student flat. The carpet was threadbare, the furniture worn out, the wallpaper hanging off the walls in places. But none of them had much money and the landlord had offered them a good deal on rent if they mowed the lawns and didn't complain. They'd taken it naturally enough.

“So you're here all alone now?” She took a sip of her coffee.

“Mark's gone back to his family and Richard's gone travelling as he heads home. He might come back.” But Will was pretty sure he wouldn't. Neither of them would. Los Angeles was the place everyone wanted to leave these days, and he couldn't blame people for that. It was after all a disaster area.

Half the city was in ruins. The national guard were patrolling the streets, keeping order. Looting was rampant and at night too often he could hear the sound of gunfire. It wasn't that distant. In fact it had replaced the missing traffic noise. He didn't go out at night for obvious reasons. The only food they could get was what FEMA's trucks brought in, most of which was canned or dried and probably designed to last a thousand years. And though he had a pantry full of it, he didn't want to eat it. It tasted like cardboard. Still, he couldn't really complain about it when it was charity.

Worst of all was the news. According to the little wind up radio he'd been provided with, the death count had risen to over twenty thousand as the inspections of the houses continued and more bodies were pulled out. And it would keep rising. Everyone knew that. There simply weren't enough people to inspect all the buildings yet. Sometimes he wished the damned thing would play some music, but it was only tuned to one station – the emergency broadcast channel. They didn't provide entertainment, just continual announcements.

“And you?”

“A few more months. I've just got to finish up and then I'll go back home.”

Finishing up though would be difficult. The university was still closed, the library included. There was no power and few students or lecturers. His supervisor was in the wind like half the city, dead or fled as they said. His laptop was in a sink hole and his desk top didn't run without power leaving him with pen and paper to write on. He was just lucky he had a bike and could ride to an internet café a mere eight miles away where there was power and he could access e-mail and a printer.

“You?” He asked though he didn't really want to know. He really just wanted her to go away and leave him in peace. But for some reason the manners drilled into him since childhood kept forcing him to say things he didn't mean.

“Another year and a half to go. Hopefully we'll have power back by then.”

She was only half joking he realised. Already two weeks after the ice storm there was no sign of the return of electricity. The substations and the lines had been all but destroyed and according to the radio it might be months before the services were working again. It might be even longer.

“At least the flat's in good shape. Better than this.” Laurel managed to give his flat a disdainful glance, something that briefly annoyed him. The flat didn't deserve her scorn. Not when it kept him dry and a little warmer than outside. It was doing the best it could after it had been nearly destroyed. But mostly he just didn't like seeing that look on her face when she dismissed it. It was much the same look she'd given him when she'd kicked him to the curb. As if he wasn't good enough.

But he also knew that she had a point. He'd done his best. The patches he'd painted on the roof were holding and were actually water tight, while inside he'd cleaned away as much of the debris as possible. He'd even nailed a few cross braces into the roof hoping to make it more solid. But still the damage from the ice bombs was extensive, and everywhere you looked there were huge holes in ceilings and floors. The house creaked alarmingly in the wind and sometimes seemed to sway as well. At night in the dark if he had to go to the bathroom he had to walk very slowly and carefully down the hall, not wanting to fall down into one of the holes. When he had the money and the hardware store was open he was thinking about boarding them up. At least the ones on the ground floor. The landlord wouldn't object he figured. Not when he like so many others was simply missing.

“You know, there's room for you there. And it'd be warm.”

Laurel caught him completely by surprise with her offer and for a few long seconds Will didn't understand what she was saying. That she wanted him back. That she wanted a flatmate. Which? Why? And how could she even think he'd accept after she'd tossed him aside so brutally? Did she think he was that pathetic? And then it finally clicked.

“Martin's gone hasn't he?”

Of course he had. And suddenly having kicked out her old flatmate to move her boyfriend in she was finding herself alone. She didn't like being alone. Plus, if her landlord was still among the living and in the city, she was probably being hit with the full rent for her little flat, and she needed to share costs. Mr. Moneybags wasn't paying his share any more.

“He ran back to Montana. He says the ice they get there is in the lakes not the sky.” She sounded upset but not devastated. But then he guessed it was her pride that had been hurt not her heart. And suddenly he understood that she was a woman of pride not love. Pride in being beautiful. Pride in being able to wrap men around her fingers and use them as she wanted. It was never about love for her. It never had been.

Why hadn't he seen that before? But he knew the answer, embarrassing as it was. She had a pretty face underneath her honey blonde curls, and he'd thrown away his judgement because of it. Two long years wasted because he'd had all the intelligence of a teenage boy just learning about girls. He wasn't sure whether to laugh at his stupidity or mourn for the wasted emotion.