Chapter Nineteen

As ever, links to parts 1-18 in chronological order here.

“Isn’t it a lovely evening,” Tim breathed breathily.

“Yes,” Adric agreed, “I wish we could go for some kind of moonlit stroll.”

“Well,” Tim said, “why don’t we?”

“I don’t think I can walk,” Adric said, “on account of all the stitches and blood loss and such like. That’s why they’re keeping me in for a day or two, anyway. Something about me needing to rest up.”

Tim smiled wickedly.

“Hold on.”

He left the room with a swoosh, and returned a few moments later pushing a wheelchair, much better than the one Bracken abandoned earlier on.

“Easy now,” he said, lifting Adric out of the bed and into the chair.

“Tim, you’re so impulsive,” Adric giggled coquettishly as his partner wrapped blankets around him to keep out the cool November air.

“That’s what you love about me, surely?” Tim said, grabbing the handles of the chair and whirling it to face the door.

“One of the things,” Adric smiled, snuggling down into the covers. He was still in quite a lot of pain, but a mixture of morphine and adrenaline made it mostly bearable.

“I’ll have you back before you know it,” Tim promised, “or more importantly before the staff notice and ban me from visiting you.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Cheeky,” he chided, “we said we’d never mention that again.”

“You said we’d never mention it again,” Adric pointed out, “I never agreed to any such thing.”

They were talking in low voices as they wheeled silently the way Al had led Tim a mere two hours ago, but as they emerged from a fire exit and out into the drizzle they relaxed enough to talk normally.

“The woodland path?” Tim asked softly.

“You don’t think it’s too wet? If the ground’s gotten boggy the wheels will sink and we’ll never get out again.”

“We can always turn back if the terrain looks like a no go,” Tim wheedled. “And if all else fails I’ll carry you back myself.”

“You couldn’t.”

“Try me,” he said, pushing the chair towards the entrance of the woodland path, conveniently situated adjacent to the hospital.

The rustlings in the trees as owls ate voles and snails built their winter nests formed a sort of forest choir as the two men ambled along the path. Tim was careful not to bash the wheelchair against any of the numerous tree roots that reared up out of the path like long woody fingers, and Adric was careful not to say anything about the fact that the morphine was wearing off and some of the stitches in his back seemed to have burst.

“So you think he’ll manage to find the amulet,” Adric said conversationally, to distract himself from the pain as much as anything else.

“I hope so,” Tim replied darkly, “its one of the most dangerous pieces of jewellery in history. The person who owns that thing can do all manner of crazy voodoo.”

“The power of the voodoo!”

“Who do?”

“You do!”

“Do what?”

“Remind me of the babe…”

They smiled at a shared memory of watching Labyrinth at four in the morning, each realizing at the same time that the other knew it off by heart as well. That had been the evening of their first kiss.

“What sort of thing though,” Adric wondered aloud, his thoughts returning to the amulet.

“It can bring the dead back to life,” Tim began, dodging a low hanging branch. “You can distill a very special sort of poison using it – I’m not sure of the exact details. It’s also part of a spell to erase people’s memories.”

“Can it be used the other way? To bring memories back?”

“I honestly have no idea,” Tim said, surprised. “Maybe. I wonder whether anybody’s ever thought to try. The only records about it detail the evil deeds wrought using it, surprisingly enough. Media always want to report the bad stuff.”

A raven croaked, and the men looked up. There was a small child sitting in a tree above their heads. It looked androgynous because it was wearing dungarees and had longish hair, and it glowed ethereally.

“Hello, Dennis,” Tim greeted the figure. “How’s it going?”

“That’s Dennis?” Adric asked incredulously.

“Problem, pal?” Dennis queried.

“No, not at all, just…” Adric paused and looked round at Tim, who shot him a warning glare. “I was expecting someone taller,” Adric finished weakly.

“Aye well, maybe I woulda been taller, one day,” Dennis said, “if someone hadn’t killed me when I was still a kid.”

“Dennis, I don’t know how many times I have to apologise for this,” Tim said, “I didn’t know you were a kid, I thought you were a gobline.”

“Oh and that makes it alright, does it?”

“The goblins in that quest had given me nothing but grief. They nicked my stuff, they called me names, one chewed off one of my fingers-” he held up a stump where the index finger on his left hand should have been – “they were working for, like, the most evil warlock in the Northern Hemisphere – ”

“Alright, alright,” Dennis replied, “you’ve made your point. Mistaken identity.”

“I’ve struggled with that mistake my entire life,” Tim said, his voice thick with regret.

“It’s true,” Adric backed him up, “he has night terrors and everything.”

Tim nodded vigorously.

“If I could make it right then you know I would,” he added.

“So you say,” Dennis drawled, “but if that’s the case why have you stopped working on the amulet prophecy?”

“What?”

“The amulet of H’garard,” Dennis said. “Shiny blue thing with scary black tentacles in? Made by the thing that invented the kraken? Said to contain the power to bring people back to life?”

“Well yeah,” Tim said, “but only so they can wreak horrible pain and destruction on the world. Haven’t you read up on that thing? It’s all there on Wikipedia… it could bring you back to life, but only in the body you died in, which would remain in exactly the rotten state it’s got into since you were killed. You’d never grow older – in essence you would be a gross, decomposing zombie. And you wouldn’t have your own mind either, all you’d be able to remember is the instructions of whoever brought you back.”

“That’s no kind of life for a little girl,” Adric said helpfully, pulling the blankets closer round his shoulders. It was nippy out here in the November evening drizzle.

“I honestly think it’s better being an angry ghost,” Tim said.

“Well you would think that,” Dennis said angrily, “you’re alive.”

“Come on though.”

“Whatever Tim. If I come across that amulet before your new pal does, I’m using it.”

Dennis then vanished in a shower of sparks, singing the wing of the raven as he went.

‘Krark,” the raven commented grumpily, clumsily flitting away.

“Should I text Al to warn him?” Adric asked.

“Well,” Tim said, “its kind of poor form in this genre for a warning to reach the hero in time for him to do something about it… but there again, he’s a novice, and he has a lot to contend with. Go on.”

“Damn,” Adric said, “my battery’s dead.”

“We’ll send a carrier pigeon,” Tim said, summoning one with a click of his fingers. “Shall we go back now? It’s getting a bit nippy.”

“I don’t mind, Adric said nonchalantly. “It’s bracing.”

“You’re such a liar,” Tim smiled, “I can feel you shivering.”

“Yeah OK, I would quite like to go back,” he admitted. “But this has been nice.”

“One of our shorter dates,” Tim remarked ruefully, pushing the chair back in the direction of the hospital. “But at least you got to meet Dennis at last.”

“Yeah, your dream boy. You think he’ll find the amulet before Al does?”

“Doesn’t matter really, does it.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Well, he’s a ghost. They can’t pick things up, can they. Not corporeal enough.”

“Oh yeah.”

“I think Al’s got more to fear from the clan of the cape.”

“The what now?”

“The clan of the cape. I battled them before, a few quests ago. Remember?”

“Could you give me any more information?”

“They’re a very old family, and they have various nefarious plans for world domination. They were founded by some doctor from the olden days and he got his whole family involved. Passed down the evil over generations, as you do.”

“Not ringing any bells,” Adric said apologetically.

“They used to disguise themselves with capes made out of various animal pelts, hence the name, clan of the cape.”

“That makes sense… But I still don’t remember.”

“Well, it doesn’t really matter. The current head of the clan is a bit of an enigma. We assume that he’s a descendant of the original guy, because it was very much a family operation. But beyond that we’re in the dark really.”

“Is he not on facebook or linkedin or anything?”

“Not that I could find. But of course we don’t know his name, so it’s a bit difficult to type him into a search engine.”

“Oh yeah, I guess.”

“There’s loads of stuff for clan of the cape though. Some of its quite racy.”

“Goodness.”

They were greeted at the door by an irate woman in a nurse’s outfit.

“Where have you pair been?”

“Just went for a little walk,” Tim said, “the patient needed some air.”

“You are so banned from visiting,” she said angrily. “This hospital does not need another law suit on its hands.”

“Don’t worry,” he whispered to Adric, “I’m a master of disguise. They can’t keep me out.”

“I feel sick,” Adric said, trying not to follow through by throwing up.

He failed.

“You, piss away off,” the nurse said, pointing at Tim. “You, back to bed before you catch your death.”

She took hold of the chair.

Tim blew him a kiss and headed off into the night, as was his wont.

“And now,” said the woman in the nurse’s outfit, “it’s time to take you home.”

She jabbed a syringe into Adric’s side, and he squeaked in surprise before sinking quickly into unconsciousness.

“Who are you,” he slurred as his eyelids closed.

But he never heard the answer.

Chapter Fourteen

Parts 1-13 here!

Nicky was lying uncomfortably on a rickety trolley provided by Bert.

"How old is this thing," he grumbled, more to himself than to his strange companion.

"Oh, bout a hundred and something years," Bert said cheerfully, "the boss likes period pieces."

As he spoke he was covering Nicky from head to toe with musty smelling sheets with the assured precision of a surgeon. It could have been his medical background, or he might once have worked as a chambermaid making beds in hotels - perhaps as a summer job during his studies. It really wasn't important - the main thing was that Nicky was disguised. As a cadaver.

Nicky wrinkled his nose distastefully. He'd had better smelling costumes. Like when he went to a school fancy dress party as a bunch of flowers, and his mum had sprayed the roses with rose water to make it more realistic.

He frowned. That didn't seem right. Mum never helped him with school stuff. And if Steve had seen him dressed up as a bunch of flowers, he'd either have dissolved in fits of laughter or skelped him. Steve was not a man of half measures.

"Are you ready?" Bert was asking from the relative comfort of not under an ancient sheet.

"As I'll ever be," Nicky replied through his nose, even though it sounded clichéd.

"Good. Now remember you will have to stay very still, and not speak or get up or sneeze or do a wee until I give the word."

"I'll remember," promised Nicky, although he doubted that such a promise was going to have much of an effect. He'd seen enough movies to be pretty convinced of their imminent capture and subsequent horrible murder. Not that he'd ever seen any evidence of actual violence with his own actual eyes, but the place just had that aura about it.

Bert nodded, then realised Nicky couldn't see him. He winked instead.

"You'll be alright, son," he said with confidence. It felt nice to be a dad, he thought. "Now, if we meet anyone of the other side of the door, I might say some things that sound a bit odd. But I need you to trust that I know what I'm doing. Can you manage that?"

Nicky thought he would probably find this quite difficult. There again, what choice did he have? Sit in the blue walled room waiting for something to happen, or take his chances with the crazy old guy. It was one of life's classic dilemmas, like daddy or chips.

"Yeah," he said eventually, "I can do that."

"Great," Bert grinned with a painful sounding crack of his jaw. "Ow," he added, rubbing it with his crinkly fingers. He had some ibuprofen in the car, it’d be fine.

He opened the door using a swipe card with a picture of a blue and white cat on it, and maneuvered the trolley out into the corridor. Nicky couldn't see this of course, but his new surroundings were made entirely from intricately sculpted, highly polished marble. There were even ornately carved Greco-roman pillars outside of Nicky’s cell.

"Three," Bert said in a low voice, swinging the door closed behind them, "two," he punched in a security code that exploded the alarm system in a shower of sparks, "one! GERONIMO!"

He took a run up and jumped on the back of the trolley, sending it hurtling down the corridor at the speed of a puma.

"Wheeeeeeeeeeeee," he exclaimed with enthusiasm.

Still unable to see what was going on, Nicky clung to the sides of the trolley, closed his eyes, and prayed to Richard Dawkins for his survival.

“WHAT,” came a predictable voice only seconds later, “do you think you are doing, Doctor Sprinkler?”

“Bert Sprinkler?” Nicky thought, “that’s a weird and unusual name.”

“Sorry,” Bert said, catching his breath cheerfully, “I have always wanted to do that.”

Nicky could almost hear the stranger’s eyebrow raise.

“Who’ve you got on the trolley?”

“McCracken.”

“Which one?”

Bert showed no hint of surprise, although he was actually quite shocked.

“Come on man, which one? We have got three, after all.”

Nicky bit the inside of his mouth very hard, drawing blood. He swallowed it with a quiet grimace.

“Nicholas,” Bert replied evenly, smoothing first his tie and then his hair, because he felt he ought to be doing something with his hands.

He hadn’t known there even were three McCrackens. Was he father to them all?

“And what might you be doing with the unconscious body of Nicholas McCracken,” the other voice asked suspiciously. “He isn’t due in the chamber for at least another week.”

“Had word from her that it was time to speed things up,” Bert said ominously. “And you know how she reacts when you keep her waiting.”

“Don’t I just,” the voice said bitterly. Nicky decided it must just be one of the guards. Ha, just. Like they weren’t modeled on the Kathy Bates character in the film Misery. “You know how she likes her coffee at exactly 10:03? I once went in at 10:04, because my watch battery was running slow. She threw it in my face.”

“What, your watch?”

“No you crabstick, the boiling coffee.”

Bert examined the woman’s face. It bore signs of angry purple scarring underneath the eye mask that the guards were all forced to wear.

“That looks painful,” he said sympathetically.

“It was,” she reported. “Very.”

A look passed between them. Nicky tried very hard not to cough. It was the kind of look that might result in another subplot if things got too boring and he didn’t want to spoil the moment. Even though he couldn’t see it.

“Well,” she said, reddening slightly in a not completely unattractive way, “I’ll let you get on.”

He smiled sadly.

“Thanks,” he said, “I think.”

She swayed empathetically.

“Do you ever wonder whether what we do here is…” he began.

She started to say something in reply, but then looked up suddenly and a shadow passed across her brow.

“- in the name of science,” she cut across him instead, a warning note in her milky voice.

Bert turned, to see a familiar mink cloaked figure behind him.

His blood went cold, like that of an alligator, snake, or other reptile. Because he was a mammal, this was uncomfortable to him and made the hairs rise up on the back of his neck and the top of his head as if he had plugged himself into the mains.

“Does she ever wonder whether what we do here is…?” The figure repeated darkly. The weird voice box that he or she used to disguise his or her speech could not render his or her tones completely emotionless, Nicky noted. Apparently Bert’s doubts about the operation were a matter of concern.

“Go on, Bert. Finish your sentence.”

“Oh, I can’t remember what I was saying now,” Bert said airily, forcing a short laugh.

“Seeing you unexpectedly like this has completely put it out of my mind. I’m getting old, you see,” he added hopefully, knocking the top of his head in a comic fashion as if to suggest it was empty of thought.

“Yes,” the big boss agreed, “you are old. But not forgetful. It’s clear to me that you’re trying to hide something, and don’t think for a second that I’m not going to find out exactly what that is.”

Bert smiled coldly. His heart was racing like the clappers, but he maintained a calm outer exterior.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he replied demurely, accidentally fluttering his eyelashes. He made a mental note to stop watching BBC adaptations of Jane Austen novels to help him get to sleep at night. It worked, but there was some form of mental conditioning that went along with it which led almost exclusively to embarrassing consequences.

“You know exactly what I mean,” the caped authority snapped with an angry swish. “But never mind that now. Take Mr McCracken and go, before he wakes up.”

Bert narrowed his eyes. He didn’t have permission from the head honcho to take Nicky anywhere.

“At once,” he replied, bowing his head as if before royalty.

Nicky felt the trolley start to move, much more sedately this time. He did his best not to exhale too big of a sigh of relief. They weren’t out of the woods yet, metaphorically speaking as it were, and now would not be a great moment for the sheet to go flying off him and for them to see he was awake.

‘Although,’ he thought to himself, ‘I could always shut my eyes and pretend that I really was unconscious.’

He smiled. Maybe, if he kept his wits about him, escaping wouldn’t be so hard after all.

“Right Nicky,” said Bert very quietly and almost without moving his lips, “slight change of plan. I’ll have to actually take you to The Chamber right now, and I will need to leave you there alone for a bit.”

Nicky had no idea what that meant, but he guessed from context that it was bad.

Another door opened, and the trolley stopped.

He was alone once more, but this time he was also in the dark.

Chapter Ten

Uncle Nicky awoke, as he had done every day for the past two weeks, in an uncomfortable bed in a small, windowless room with blue walls. It smelled of antiseptic and fear, with a hint of llamas.

Groaning loudly, he pulled himself into sitting position and gently rubbed the back of his head. The welt that had been there since poker night was almost completely healed. Nicky wondered whether it would leave an interesting scar that he could make up exciting tales of derring do about to impress ladies. Then he remembered that if he ever got out of this place, the real story of how he got it would be quite an interesting tale to tell, even without adding embellishments involving ninjas or sharks.

He stood up quickly, because he knew that if he didn’t move fast he wouldn’t get up at all, and then there'd be trouble. He waited for the head rush to subside before pulling his neatly pressed uniform off its brass hook. He put it on with a grimace, breathing in to suck in his tummy. It was too small, and he was glad nobody could see him wearing it.

"You put me in mind of a bag of porridge," his captor had said when he first put the thing on. "but it'll have to do for now. We haven't got anymore after-"

He or she stopped short. Nicky had no idea of the gender, nationality, or even favourite TV show of his host. Said host was always covered head to toe in a cloak of crushed mink, and when appearing in public he or she wore a series of masks, each more elaborate than the last. As to the voice, it was always disguised using some sort of voice box disguiser thingy, like they use on X-Factor but better.

There was a knock at the door. It would be one of the guards, Nicky knew - they always came round to ensure he was awake, although he wasn’t really sure why. They never let him out of his tiny blue room.

"McCracken, Nicholas," a gruff voice said from the other side of the door.

"Present," Nicky replied.

"Present, what?" the voice asked with a hint of annoyance.

"Present, sir," Nicky corrected, inwardly cursing his poor memory, lack of coordination and hairy back.

"That's better," the guard said, although he still sounded pretty annoyed.

Nicky waited till he heard the footsteps clicking away down the corridor before allowing himself to exhale.

The guards weren't as frightening as their leader in all that freaky carnival gear, but they were still pretty intimidating. There again, they probably had to be. Their hob, after all, was to prevent him - and maybe many others - from leaving some kind of under the radar prison organisation. Nicky was 99% sure he hadn't done anything that would get him this kind of treatment at the hands of official UK authorities, so this lot had to be something else.

Something altogether more sinister. Ergo, it made sense to employ big frightening bastards than namby pamby liberals who believe in free higher education and eating organic food.

As a general rule, a guard would do this preliminary visit, then leave Nicky to his own devices until around lunch time, when he would be given the first of two daily meals. He tended to use the time to imagine ingenious escape plans, but so far none of them had been very plausible.

It was difficult, he felt, when there was so little in the way of tech available – no paperclips for lock picking, nothing to use as a weapon, no possibilities for disguise other than ‘ghost’ (and even then we’re talking ghost as in ‘sheet over your head like a kid at Hallowe’en). Even if there had been materials to aid him in a MacGyver style break out, he had no idea what lay beyond the confines of the blue room. On the only occasion he had been allowed to leave, they had drugged him first and laid him on a trolley with a cover over his face.

Today, for the sake of advancing the plot and of course giving Nicky something a bit different to do, the usual routine was interrupted by a second knock on the door, hours before meal one was due to be delivered on its plastic tray.

“Er,” Nicky said, “come in?”

“Don’t mind if I do,” said an old gentleman, bounding into the room with the endless vitality of someone who subsists entirely on a diet of tea and werther’s originals.

“Who are you?” Nicky asked, not really expecting an answer. Or at least, not a truthful one.

“My name is Bert,” said the old man, “but that’s not important right now.”

Nicky shrugged.

“If you say so. Bit hard for me to judge, mate.”

Bert looked around the room.

“Minimalist,” he observed.

“Yeah well, I just hate clutter, y’know,” Nicky told him sarcastically.

“I’m the very opposite,” Bert told him conversationally, perching on the end of the bed and swinging his legs too and fro. The rubber soles of his shoes kept scuffing against the floor, creating a high pitched squeaking noise. It was deeply irritating.

“Gonnae no dae that,” Nicky said sharply.

Bert stopped, surveying him thoughtfully.

“So,” he said eventually, “what are you doing in this place?”

Nicky frowned.

“I don’t know,” he replied, “waiting for death?”

“My my, what a pessimistic world view you have.”

“Well excuse me for being kidnapped on my way home from poker and not being told anything that’s going on,” Nicky responded with a petulant pout, “I’ll make a note in my diary that I must try harder when people ask me stupid questions.”

“You were kidnapped,” Bert said interestedly, “that’s interesting. Who by?”

“How should I know?” Nick was incredulous, and slightly angry. “You? Your boss? Who do you actually work for, Bert? Do you even know?”

“Well, how much can any of us ever really know of anything, in truth,” said Bert, attempting to appear sage like. He was more oregano, in truth. A little herb joke for you, there. Just to see who’s still paying attention.

Nicky tutted, and leaned back against the wall without saying any more.

“Tell me about your relationship with your muzzer,” Bert said in a slightly strange accent.

“My what?”

“Your mother. Apologies, I go a bit European sometimes. I’ve been trying to curb it by watching lots of American movies.”

“Why do you want tae ken aboot maw,” Nicky asked, suspiciously. “Do you know her?”

“As a matter of fact,” Bert said, “ I think I do. I have reason to believe that I am your long lost father.”

“I find that pretty unlikely,” said Nicky, “given I grew up knowing my dad. He used to take me every weekend to do fun stuff whilst mum painted her nails and acted like a strumpet. That’s my words, not his.”

“That was only the man you thought to be your father,” Bert said, “but you see, he was sort of right about the strumpet thing. She and I were planning to run away together, but when she fell pregnant with you she called it all off. I wasn’t ready to have children, not at the tender age of forty-two and three quarters. But she didn’t want to lose her chance to be a mother. She tried to convince – Steve, was it? – that you were his. I think he believed her, mostly.”

“Say for the sake of argument that I believed you,” Nicky said, “although I categorically do not – why are you here now?”

“To rescue you,” said Bert, “and to set things right.”

“I don’t care about the absentee father thing,” Nicky said, “ Steve was a great dad. One time he took me bowling. And another time, he let me stay up past my bedtime to watch the football.”

“I don’t mean that, Nicholas. I’ve made some professional faux-pas’s over the past few years and they’ve led to some pretty dire consequences. The establishment of this facility, for one.”

“What even is this place?” Nicky asked.

“I can’t go into that right now,” Bert replied darkly. “But it’s bad to the bone.”

“And what is it that you do that led to the establishment of an organization that kidnaps innocent people as they’re on their way home from poker?”

“That’s the least of what they’ve done,” Bert told him, sidestepping the question so smoothly that Nicky barely even noticed.

“Such as,” he prompted the older man gently.

“It’s too much,” Bert asserted, “we have to get you out of here. I’ll explain everything later.”

“And how are we going to do that?”

“I am a doctor,” Bert began, “I have official access to most of the building. We will put you on a trolley and I will transport you to the exit, where a horse and carriage are waiting to whisk us to freedom. If anybody questions me I will dazzle them with my official looking ID and rapier wits.”

“Hm,” Nicky ruminated, “seems a bit thin to me.”

“Trust me,” Bert said with the misplaced confidence of a man who thinks he is always right despite a frightening catalogue of evidence to the contrary, “it’ll be fine.”