12
Remembrance
The hammer in Celia's hand was cold but it was not the chill that was causing her hand to shake. It was the knowledge of the line she had somehow crossed, the ethics that she had defied and the laws of biology that she had unknowingly subverted. She put the hammer and chisel down again on the tray, trying to take a moment to gather herself. This needed to be done, no question. It needed to be buried and yet... it was him.
It was unlikely anyone would disturb her, not at this time of the night. The wing's guard, Lucas, was a lazy jobs-worth who never came down the stairs to the morgue unless his rounds were being watched by the hospital administrator, who usually had better things to do. No, she could be confident that she wouldn't be disturbed, at least until after the deed was done.
A little recap, yes, that was what the doctor called for, to gain some perspective. She gave herself a little humourless smile at her own weak pun. She would soon be stripped of that title if anyone found out about what she had really been doing all these weeks but it was a risk that she had accepted when she had begun.
It had been a risk for her father to help fund her studies after so many... issues... at the school. Her intelligence was never in doubt but the way she chose to express it, the insidious and violent way she had dealt with her perceived enemies in the past had led to years of medication, therapy and social isolation. She had learned to hide her demons, nothing more, yet still there was always an air of suspicion in those around her. She had been overlooked for promotion for years, firmly embedded in clinical duty as her peers moved ever upwards, snakes crawling up the rod of Aesculapius.
It was while she had been studying her own condition, feverishly devoting all her time off duty to digging deeper and deeper into it, that the accident occurred.
Her brother had always been a risk taker but to drive after so many drinks, assuring their now elderly father that he was fine, was unforgivable. He had paid the price of course, dying on the operating table, yet that hadn't stopped her from beating his corpse in anger when she had seen him in the morgue, having to be restrained as she had been so many times before. He had always been her father's favourite, that much was obvious. With his blonde hair and blue eyes, striking good looks and confident manner, he had been a son every father could be proud of, except for the fact that he had been an idiot, paying the price for his stupidity with his life and their father's. Their father wasn't dead though, not yet, although all were saying it was just a matter of time as his brain was too damaged to recover from the coma.
All her training told her that this was true and in some ways she was glad. Her father had always imparted a strong sense of discipline, which had served her well in controlling herself to some extent, even though his judgements had been instant and harsh whenever she had suffered a lapse. Her brother had acted as a buffer, as their father had always been more calm when the dunce was around, eager to impart his wisdom to the prodigal son, though what wisdom a fisherman could impart was debatable. Now her brother was gone she was alone with him, or what was left of him. He was finally in a position to truly help her without subjecting her to his judgement.
In some ways it had all been too... perfect. She had been studying her own “vaccine”, for want of a better word, a way of controlling her base instinct for violence that always threatened to boil over. It had been years since her last outburst but she could always feel it there, hiding in the shadows, bubbling behind her eyeballs. If she could somehow separate that section of the mind, almost institutionalise it in an absurdly fitting way, then she could be rid of it for good. Success in that goal had been her overriding wish for years, and had been the force that had led her to such drastic measures.
Perhaps it had been sympathy or perhaps it had been guilt but the administrator had agreed to her requests to look into her father's condition herself, even allowing her a sabbatical to undertake the task, although she had needed to fund the treatment privately from her own wages. It had been a small price to pay. She had her father, medical equipment and time alone with him in their own room. The theoretical could become reality.
After weeks of trial and error, secret dosing and studying the resulting electrical impulses, it had become clear that using a coma victim was not the right method of study to create a therapeutic drug. There was no anger, no confusion, no emotion, nothing to measure and therefore no difference to notice. She had needed to cause an emotional, violent disturbance, study its pattern and then work off the resulting data.
She had hit upon the idea of rabies... although he was in a coma and the rabies virus had a variable incubation period, if she injected it directly into the cerebral fluid the resulting symptoms should manifest considerably quicker, hopefully firing up the brain. It had taken a bit of work to manage to get a vial of the contagion from the the research department but there were always ways around protocols if you had the necessary intelligence, the patience to forge documents carefully and the gall to take advantage of your only true friendship.
Dr. Jack Wilkinson was into his fifties but had the mannerisms of a seventy year old, taking her under his wing when no others would, an adoptive grandparent within the workplace. He had lost a daughter a few years ago, a woman who had also been studying medicine whilst battling long and hard against depression, before eventually taking her own life. Celia had never found out what method she had used, not wanting to ask, as the pain had still been just as raw every day, etched into his features for all to see. Maybe he had seen the troubles that Celia dealt with daily, her struggle that she hid so well but that sometimes forced its way out with a look or a cutting word. Whatever it was, he had begun to care for her deeply, helping her any way that he could with her research. He had expressed considerable concern at the use of rabies in her studies but she had managed to persuade him that she taken all the necessary safeguards. If he had known how she was conducting her research, he would have had her struck off.
It was during the dosing that it occurred...
The cocktail of drugs had interacted somehow, the rabies acting as the catalyst, the agent to spread the effect throughout the cerebral fluid and reptilian brain, firing new life into it. Her father's eyes had shot open and he had looked around slowly, his mouth hanging wide, slack around the breathing tube. Celia had stood back, trying to make sense of what she was seeing. The expression on his face had reminded her of an enraged animal, pure instinct warping the features into strange contortions she had never seen before, making him look like a different person. He had thrown out an arm, wrapped a hand tightly around Celia's wrist and pulled her inwards as a low and horrific moan had shaken his body.
The shock had been emotional rather than physical. Her father had never laid a hand on her in the past, even when he was at his strictest, only ever using words to discipline her, yet his grip was now vice-like, squeezing the bones in her wrist until they screamed out in pain. She could see his mouth trying to bite the breathing tube, gnashing against the plastic, squeezing and crunching. He had started to sit up, his other hand coming round to gain a further purchase on her.
Despite all her mental health issues, Celia had little to no physical health issues. She trained daily, desperately trying to control her mood through the production of endorphins. She was fast and she was strong. She had spotted the danger and managed to wrench herself free, pulling cables and feed tubes with her. Blood had seeped out of her father's arm where she had pulled out his drip. Seeped... when it should have squirted, even a little.
As cold shock had washed over her she had realised the heart monitor had been signalling no heartbeats for... how long? She had no way of knowing. She had been in this room for so many days, sleeping here most nights, that she had developed alarm fatigue. She had tuned them out, but now she could see... he was dead.
Yet he moved...
Maybe it was the isolating effect of her vaccine – sealing away the reptilian brain against the effects of death – or some other combination of drugs that had been pumped into him over the last few weeks. Whatever it was, the effect was terrifying.
She had managed to strap him down to the bed quickly. He had struggled violently but couldn’t resist her, after all, he had been a weak, frail old man. His muscles had protested but they were no match for her athletic, tenacious strength. He had still been groaning despite the breathing tube, somehow managing to squeeze air out of lungs no longer needing air. His eyes were wide, pale, unblinking. He was clearly trying to bite her, a result no doubt of the rabies element. Celia had found it necessary to gag him, to give her some peace, to allow her to think.
After an hour of sitting and watching from the other side of the room with her hands over her mouth in shock, it had become clear that this was no temporary state. Her father was moving, scrabbling around on the bed, trying to get to her constantly, never falling back exhausted, never giving up this singular desire that was gripping him. Part of her mind had been fascinated by this, wanting to undertake test after test, cutting the skin to see if there was any pain, studying the brain scans more deeply, testing the limits of the body's new found life. The monitor had still been attached despite his writhing, and she had been able to see that the reptilian brain was firing wildly, erratically, the basic functions working tirelessly. Of the limbic brain and the neocortex, there was nothing. Her father as she had known him was gone.
After another hour, she had been able to stand it no longer, sense finally prevailing. She had strapped his body down as tightly as she could, restricting as much movement as possible, before throwing a sheet over him. It was a risky manoeuvre but she had to find a way to lay her father to rest.
She had hastily started to clear her various vials and mixtures away, slipping some into her coat pockets and hiding her notes as best she could, yet the body had still moved, her father still refusing the grave. Her hand had been forced. It had been approaching time for the rounds. A nurse could have come in any second, which would have made the situation all the more complicated.
When she had gathered herself as much as she could under the circumstances, she had pushed the bed out into the corridor, the sheet still undulating with her father's body's incessant struggling. She had spotted Lucas at the other end of the corridor, leaning casually against the reception desk and chatting to Charlotte the night receptionist. Their flirting had given her the time she needed. She had turned as quickly as she could down a side corridor, past a couple of other private wards before arriving at the lifts. They always seemed to take an age to arrive, even in less stressful circumstances, and she had fidgeted nervously as she had waited, a vertical mirror to the fidgeting of her father’s corpse. Just as the lift had arrived she had spotted Lucas peering down the corridor towards her. She had kept her face as stony as she could, not wanting to show that she had seen him as she wheeled the body into the lift and hastily pressed the button for the basement, the morgue.
That had been around an hour ago. If Lucas had suspected anything he would have arrived by now, so she could afford to take the time she needed to complete the deed.
Again she tried, lifting the chisel over his head as his jaws strained furiously at the gag that was restraining him. This time... this time she would do it. The hammer was heavy in her hand but she gripped it tightly, raising it high. This thing, whatever it was, needed to die... truly die. This would not be her legacy. No one needed to know...
“Celia? Celia, dear, put the hammer down.”
The voice wrenched her heart in half, as she looked up into the eyes of Jack, his greying hair pressed to his head in such a way that she could tell he had been sleeping. He was wearing the old brown trench coat he had worn every day since Celia had first met him, its faded fabric a stark reminder of just how long that was, almost ten years. Behind him, peering over his shoulder was Lucas, his eyes narrowing as he saw more of the scene.
“Don't try and stop me. This has to be done,” she said firmly, trying to raise the hammer again but finding her hand weighed down by the emotional pull the situation was creating. There was no way out of this that would end well for her. Lucas pushed past Jack, almost knocking the older man into a trolley in his haste.
“Dr. Perrin, put it down and come back upstairs. We just want to talk about it,” he said as firmly as he could manage, though Celia could see from his nervous glances to the bed that he had never dealt with a situation like this before. Well, who would have? He was edging his feet across the floor, trying to get closer without obviously charging into her. Celia raised the hammer in warning but it was Jack who pulled the guard back a little.
“Lucas, please, I told you I would handle this,” he said imploringly.
“Can't let you do this alone Dr. Wilkinson,” replied Lucas, trying to gently but firmly prise Jack's hands off his sleeve.
“At least let me talk to her first, please,” continued Jack.
“Don't talk about me as if I'm not here, I hate that!” yelled Celia, weeks of anger and frustration bursting out of her as her hands started to shake from adrenalin. “The doctors always used to do that when I was a child as if it would put me at ease, as if being treated as a non-entity could pacify me. Don't you dare treat me like that, you of all people should know better than that, Jack.”
She could feel a ‘moment’ beginning, as her mother had always referred to her tantrums when she was small, smashing plates or tearing grass out of the lawn in blind frustration. She always knew how to sooth Celia, her strong will and sensible fairness the perfect medicine... but then she was taken by cancer at the age of forty two, leaving her to a father that she loved, hated, respected and feared. She had gone, as they all had, and now Celia was being forced to send her father away. All she had left was Jack, and soon he'd be gone too. It was all gone, dead and buried. Everyone always left.
“I can see your father is still alive,” said Jack slowly. “If we get him back on the ventilator as quickly as possible he should hopefully be all right. I can see he's suffering.”
“I'm going to put him out of his suffering! Can't you see that...” but what could she say that would make them believe in her father's hideous rebirth? If she didn't convince them and they pulled out the gag... it didn't bear thinking about. She again tried to push herself to bring the hammer down but it was still too much, all too much.
“Celia, sweetie, please,” said Jack, his voice softening as he pulled out a familiar dark burgundy file from inside his jacket. “I've read your notes, your... stories.”
“What business are they of yours?” she said, trying to sound aggressive, to warn him away, yet feeling herself crumbling inside.
“They worry me, I'm worried. You aren't well, I mean, we've known that for a while, but this is something new... I mean, these characters, the images, the violence... and the dead...”
Lucas charged forwards, acting suddenly in the attempt to surprise her. He grabbed her wrist as she brought the hammer down desperately, his action forcing hers. She only glanced the chisel, causing a small cut in her father's forehead before the blade slid out of her hand. She wrestled with Lucas for a few seconds, starting to get the upper hand due to her physical conditioning, before Jack suddenly joined the guard, both of them forcing her backwards.
She had no idea what her head had struck but it must have been one of the morgue drawers, half out of its home. The impact was heavy, shocking, almost forcing her to black out there and then. Her vision swam in front of her eyes as she crumpled to the floor with the two men on top of her, the back of her head taking another impact on the tiles. She felt she was lying in a warm pool. It reminded her of when she and her brother had played in a green plastic paddling pool when she was five or six. They had wanted to do it in all weathers, so when it was rainy or cloudy, their father would boil a kettle and mix it with the cold water to create...
“Celia? Stay with me.”
… a beautiful pool of warmth for them both. They had put three or four bricks in the pool, and pretended it was an island, isolated...
“Lucas, move! Here, just... get some help, I can't stop the bleeding for God's sake, I think she's...”
… from all of mankind, just her, her brother and her father. Just the three of them. Just three. That was all she had ever needed.