The Invisible Assassin(5)

He walked along the narrow corridor, panelled with dark oak, the wood adorned with old paintings showing an England long past: hunting scenes, old countryside celebrations, all of it looking backwards. It hardly went with the image the Department of Science liked to present, as thrusting boldly into the twenty-first century. Though the public would never come this far, never see these pictures or the dark oak panels. They’d be kept at the lower levels, the second floor and below, where it was all chromium lighting, modern prints and small abstract shapes, models of molecular structures and large plasma screens.

Jake arrived at Gareth’s door, knocked, and went in to be met by Gareth’s assistant, Janet.

‘He’s ready for you,’ said Janet, ushering Jake smartly over to an inner office.

Gareth was sitting behind a huge desk that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a James Bond film. There was very little on the desk, except two telephones and a photograph in a silver frame showing his wife and sons.

‘Jake!’ Gareth greeted him, the usual broad smile. He waved him to a chair. ‘Well done, Jake. Damn good stuff yesterday! For a trainee, you did a magnificent job under difficult circumstances. You did absolutely the right thing, getting on to me. Averted what could have been a mass panic.’

‘What about the man?’

‘Which man?’

‘The building worker. The one who . . . you know . . . turned into that thing.’

Gareth frowned.

‘Are you feeling all right, Jake?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ said Jake. ‘Obviously a bit shaken up. I mean, it’s not every day you see something like that . . .’

Gareth got up from his chair and came round the desk to Jake, a look of concern on his face.

‘Did you get yourself checked?’ he asked. ‘By the medicos, I mean.’

‘Well . . . no,’ said Jake. ‘If you remember, you ordered me to come back here to deal with the press because you sent Algy to take over control of the press at the site. You said the situation called for someone with more experience.’

Gareth shook his head apologetically.

‘I’m dreadfully sorry, Jake. I was terribly lax. Trying to stop it turning into a media circus. I think you’d better go and see the quack and get yourself checked out.’

‘But the man who tuned into that . . . thing,’ insisted Jake.

Gareth gave Jake a hard look.

‘It didn’t happen,’ he said firmly. ‘There was some sort of leak of toxic gas which gave everyone the heebie-jeebies and made them see things.’ Then his expression softened. ‘I’m sorry, Jake. After all, as your immediate boss I have a duty of care to you and everyone in my department. So, go to the medico department and get yourself checked out. It could be you’ve still got traces of the gas, whatever it was, in your system. Get fixed up now. Then we’ll talk afterwards.’

Gareth gave a smile and patted Jake on the shoulder, then he picked up his internal phone and tapped out a number.

‘Infirmary,’ he said, ‘Findlay-Weston. One of my department needs a check-up as a result of this gas leak that happened in Bedfordshire. Yes, he’s still suffering the after-effects, so I’m sending him along to you. His name’s Jake Wells. Give him a full once-over, and any treatment he needs. Bill my department. Quote my name as reference.’



Fifteen minutes later, a semi-naked Jake was in the basement of the building, being prodded and poked by a doctor in a white coat while a nurse stood by and made notes. It was a thorough examination, no doubt about that. Blood pressure. Blood sample. Urine sample. Weight. A lung test, blowing into a funnel connected to some machine. Eyes tested, lights shone into them; followed by a standard optician’s eye test.

At the end of it, when Jake had dressed, the doctor handed him a prescription.

‘You’ll need to take these three times a day,’ he said.

‘Why?’ asked Jake. ‘What’s wrong with me?’

‘We’re not sure,’ said the doctor. ‘You’ve apparently been exposed to some kind of toxic gas, but there’s no indication of what sort of gas it is, what the constituents are. All we know are the symptoms, a kind of hallucination.’

It was on the tip of Jake’s tongue to say, ‘It wasn’t a hallucination! I saw a man turn into some kind of heaving mass of vegetation!’ but he decided against it. It might make the doctor send him for psychiatric reports, and who knew what that might unleash?

Jake took the prescription.

‘So, what are these things?’

‘They’re anti-hallucinogens,’ said the doctor. ‘You should be back to normal in a day or so, once they’ve cleared through your system.’ He scribbled on another piece of paper, tore it off a pad, and handed it to Jake. ‘This is a sick certificate for twenty-four hours. Come back and see me on Thursday and we’ll check you over again. Make an appointment with the nurse on your way out.’