Doc Mortis (7 page)

‘Have you seen Toby?' he asked. ‘Toby? No, I don't... Who's Toby?'

‘Toby's my friend. I can't find him.' The boy sniffed loudly and wiped his nose on his sleeve. ‘Can't find Toby.'

‘I haven't seen him,' I said, ‘but if you untie me we can look for him together. How about that?'

He nibbled at another of his fingernails, considering the offer.

‘Please,' I urged. ‘Help me. Get me out.
Please
.'

With a final glance behind him, the boy let go of the door and stepped further into the room. His eyes darted to the straps round my wrists.

‘OK,' he said, and he set to work.

Chapter Ten
THE SECRET HIDEOUT

H
e moved through the hospital like he'd been there all his life, leading me swiftly through a decrepit maze of corridors, offices and wards. Occasionally, he'd hesitate at a door and listen, deciding if it was safe to go through or not. At least half the time it wasn't, and he'd double back and take us down a different route.

‘What are you listening for?' I asked at one of the doors.

He didn't look at me, just said, ‘The bad people,' and then moved quickly on.

Running with his head down and his shoulders hunched, the boy came up to about my waist. On the rare occasions he stood up straight, the top of his head was just below the bottom of my chest. His size made him nimble. He moved fast, but quietly, and I found myself racing flat out to keep up with him.

‘Where are we going?' I asked, as we picked our way through yet another empty ward.

‘Safe place,' he assured me. ‘There soon.'

He wasn't lying. We'd barely turned on to the next corridor when he began to slow down. A sturdy, unmarked door stood in an alcove, set back from the corridor itself. The boy stopped outside it and pulled a fist-sized bundle of keys from his pocket. They were wrapped in a piece of cloth, presumably to stop them clinking together as he ran.

Glancing along the corridor in both directions, he slipped a key into the lock, turned it, then stepped through the door into the darkened room beyond. I hesitated, suddenly fearing some kind of trap. But he'd rescued me from Doc, hadn't he? Even if this was a trap, it surely couldn't be any worse than the one he'd freed me from.

‘Quickly,' he said, holding the door wider. He stepped aside, letting me past, and then quietly locked the door behind me. I jumped as something
buzzed
loudly above my head, then blinked in the sudden glow of the overhead light.

The room was little more than a storage cupboard, about three metres long by two wide. It was cold.
Very
cold. Cold enough to turn my breath to vapour. Three or four large cardboard boxes were stacked in one corner. A crumpled blanket lay on the floor beside them, with a grubby pillow on top of it.

‘You sleep here?'

The boy shrugged. ‘I sleep lots of places.'

I remembered the office I'd taken the food from, with the blanket hidden behind the overturned table.

‘How long have you been here?'

‘Don't remember. Long time. Long time. Since Toby got sick.'

‘Toby, right. Who
is
this Toby?' I asked, before realising I was jumping too far ahead. ‘In fact, let's go back to the start. Who are
you
? What's your name?'

‘I.C.'

I frowned. ‘What? “
I see
?” As in... what? “I see you?”'

‘Nope, as in...' He carefully drew the letters in the air with his index finger. ‘I.C.'

‘Oh,' I said. ‘I see. I mean... right.'

‘What's your name?' he asked. He was wringing his hands together and keeping his distance as much as he could in a room that size.

‘I'm Kyle,' I told him.

‘You're not one of the bad people, are you?'

I shook my head. ‘No, I'm not one of the bad people,' I said. ‘I'm just a kid. I'm just like you.'

The beginnings of a smile curved the edges of his mouth. ‘Promise?'

‘Promise.'

He seemed to relax a little at that. Kneeling down by the back wall, he rummaged below his blanket, then pulled out a bar of chocolate. Two squares had been eaten, leaving four untouched. Just the sight of it flooded my mouth with saliva.

‘This is for you,' he said, holding it out to me. I accepted it gratefully, tore through the paper, and stuffed the first two chunks in my mouth. The cold had made the chocolate hard, but as it melted it became like warm velvet on my tongue. It was so good that, just for a moment, I forgot to be afraid.

‘Eat it all, if you want,' I.C. said, but from his voice and the way he was staring at the last two squares I knew he must be hungry too.

‘No, you have the last bit,' I replied, forcing a smile to hide my disappointment. He took the rest of the bar without hesitation and stuffed it in his mouth.

‘'S good,' he said, mid-chew. ‘'S really nice.'

Neither of us said anything for a while after that. We just stood there, half a metre apart, using the tips of our tongues to hunt out any last scrap of chocolate that might've become wedged somewhere between our teeth and gums.

When we'd accepted there was no more to be had, he said, ‘Toby isn't allowed chocolate.'

‘Oh? Why not?'

‘He's not allowed any real food. Not since he got sick. No food. None.'

I.C. leaned his back against the wall, then slid down so he was sitting on the floor, his knees against his chest. ‘I've got to find him.'

I sat directly across from him, my back against the opposite wall. ‘We will,' I said, although even to my ears I didn't sound convincing. ‘Where did you last see him?'

The boy's eyes were fixed on the floor a few centimetres in front of his feet. Although he was speaking to me, it felt as if he didn't even know I was there in the room.

‘He was in bed. Sleeping. He was sleeping and he wouldn't wake up. I kept poking him, but he wouldn't wake up. “Toby!” I kept shouting. “Toby, wake up!” But he just kept sleeping. Kept sleeping. And then the ambulance came,
nee naw, nee naw,
and it took us to the hospital, lickety-split.'

‘
This
hospital?'

‘No. Yes. No,' he said, apparently arguing with himself. ‘It was nicer then. Nicer. Not so scary. But still
a bit
scary, because it was a hospital, and all hospitals are a
bit
scary, and because Toby wouldn't wake up, even when I was shaking him and shouting “WAKE UP, TOBY!” right in his ear.
“
TOBY, WAKE UP!”.'

A feeling of unease crept over me as I listened to the boy talk. ‘What then?' I asked him. ‘What happened then?'

‘They put a
beep-beep-beep
machine in him. Beep. Beep. Beep. And tubes and other things. And Toby's mum was crying and his dad was cuddling her and rubbing her hair and saying “Sssh, it'll be OK, it'll be OK” and stuff like that, but she wasn't listening because she kept crying and crying.
Boo hoo, boo hoo
. And I was going, “Why are you crying? He's just sleeping. Stop being so mental, lady!”.'

I remembered some of what Doc had said when I was strapped to the bed – the questions he'd asked about my “creator” – and I knew exactly what I.C. was going to say next.

‘And his mum and dad – Toby's parents – did they explain to you what was going on?'

He shook his head.

‘Why not?'

No reply.

‘Why didn't they talk to you about it, I.C.?'

His eyes raised and met mine. ‘Because Toby's mum and dad don't ever talk to me. Nobody talks to me but Toby.'

I'd expected it, but the words still came as a shock. I'd known what he was, of course, what he had to be, but having it confirmed like that still shook me up.

I'd told him I was just a normal kid, like him. But that wasn't the truth. I wasn't like him, and he wasn't like me. He was one of
them
. He was someone's imaginary friend.

The question was, did
he
know that?

‘And why do you think that is?' I asked him. ‘Why didn't they talk to you?'

His shoulders raised and dropped. ‘Dunno. They didn't like me. Don't think they liked me.'

I stared at him, searching his face for something to indicate he was holding back, something that would tell me he knew precisely why no one else had ever spoken to him. I searched, but I didn't find it.

‘You really don't know, do you?' I mumbled. ‘You've got absolutely no idea what you are.'

‘What d'you mean?' he asked, his forehead furrowing. His dirty fingernails went to his mouth and he nibbled nervously.

‘Doesn't matter. Not right now,' I said, regretting opening my mouth.

‘Don't know what? What don't I know?'

‘Let's just talk about what happened to Toby,' I said, steering the conversation back on to his favourite topic. ‘He got worse, didn't he? More sick. Lots of doctors started rushing around, doing things to him.'

I.C.'s head nodded slowly. ‘Toby's mum started screaming,' he said, his eyes glazing over. ‘Screaming so loud I thought Toby was bound to wake up, and then the
beep-beep-beep
machine stopped going
beep-beep-beep
, and Toby's dad tried to climb right over the doctors, and he was shouting “I want to hold his hand. I want to hold his hand! Please, let me hold his hand!” over and over, but the doctors were all like, “No, you can't, get lost!” and... and...'

His voice seemed to evaporate. He wrapped his arms round his legs and pulled his knees in tighter to his chest.

‘And then everything changed,' I said, guessing the rest. ‘And then that hospital became this one.'

He pressed his eyes against his knees, hiding his eyes. ‘I don't like this hospital,' he whispered. ‘Don't like it one little bit. I want Toby. I want to go home.'

Home
. How could I tell him he had no home now? How could I tell him that, to all intents and purposes, he
was
home?

With a loud
sniff
he wiped his nose across his sleeve again, and I saw him properly. Not as some lost imaginary friend, but as a frightened kid who more than anything wanted to escape this hellish place.

Turned out he
was
just like me, after all.

‘Listen to me, I.C.,' I said, leaning forward, ‘we're getting out of here. Both of us. I'm going to get us out.'

His face brightened at once. ‘And you'll help me find Toby?'

I hesitated. His eyes shimmered, full of hope. I nodded. ‘I'll try my best.'

He threw himself forward on to his knees and wrapped his arms round my neck, hugging me tightly. ‘You know what?' he asked, his head pressed against my chest.

‘Um... what?'

He released his grip and pulled away. ‘You can keep the crisps.'

He said it with such sincerity that I almost laughed. Despite the horror of the situation, I almost laughed. That decided it. I
was
getting this kid out. No matter what.

‘Thanks,' I smiled. ‘I appreciate that.' I reached into my back pocket for Joseph's map. ‘Now, any idea how we get to—'

‘Sssh!'

I shut up immediately. I.C. was raised up on his knees, his back straight, his finger to his lips. His head was craned round, his eyes on the door. He looked a bit like a meerkat.

‘What?' I whispered.

‘“Sssh” means “Be quiet”, “Don't talk”, “Shut up”, “Listen”,' he scolded. ‘Don't you hear it?'

I turned my ear to the door and listened. I.C.'s breathing was fast and shallow, even more so than my own. But other than that, all I could hear was the humming of the electric light above our heads.

‘What? I don't hear—'

And then I did hear it. It was so faint as to be barely audible, but I could just make it out. That sound. That sound I'd heard before. The

squeak
,

   
squeak
,

      
squeak
of a hospital bed being pushed

along the corridor.

I leapt to my feet. I.C. was already on his. ‘They're coming,' I said. My voice cracked at the back of my throat and my stomach became a deep, dark hole. ‘It's them. It's the porters, they're coming.'

Squeak.

   
Squeak.

      
Squeak.

‘They pass by lots,' I.C. whispered. ‘Up and down the corridor. Up and down. Keep quiet, like mice, they'll keep moving.'

Squeak.

   
Squeak.

      
Squeak.

The sound was closer now. ‘You sure?' I mouthed silently. I.C. nodded, but he was chewing on his fingernails again, and I could see that his hands were shaking.

Squeak.

   
Squeak.

      
Squ—

The rusted wheels of the trolley bed stopped on the other side of the door. I held my breath, and prayed that the thunder of my heart wouldn't give us away.

Nothing seemed to happen. Not for a long time, at least. I glanced over at I.C., but he was still gnawing on his fingernails, his eyes fixed like a tractor-beam on the handle of the door.

Like a hunting dog, the thing outside began to snuffle at the gap down at the floor. It was a low, snorting sound, exactly like the one I'd heard when the porter was sniffing at my neck. I'd thought Doc had said it to scare me, but he was telling the truth. The thing had my scent.

My lungs began to burn, but I daren't breathe, daren't move, daren't risk making a sound. All I could do was stand, frozen like a statue, rigid with fear, waiting to find out what would happen next.

It lasted for almost a minute, that snorting and snuffling beyond the door. My head had begun to ache with the effort of holding my breath, a dull throb right at the base of my skull. I couldn't do it any longer. I had to breathe. I had to—

Squeak.

   
Squeak.

      
Squeak.

The porter set off without warning, the bed's wheels groaning their way past the door and along the corridor. I covered my mouth with my hand and let my breath out in one big burst.

‘Up and down, see?' I.C. whispered. His mouth was smiling, but his eyes were still filled with fear. ‘Up and down.'

‘That was close,' I replied quietly. ‘I really thought we were going to be in trouble there. That sniffing, I thought he could—'

THUD.

We both jumped as the door was struck hard from the other side. I.C. let out a cry of shock, then clamped both hands over his mouth.