Darren J Hale

  Fractured

  © 2020, Darren J. Hale. All rights reserved.

  The right of Darren J. Hale to be identified as the author of this work is asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Except as provided by the Copyright Act 1988 no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any

  resemblance to actual persons living or dead

  is purely coincidental.

  Cover: © 2020 bookcoversart.com

  To My daughters

  Emma, Lucy, and Katie

  I love you very much

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  Epilogue

  Also by this Author:

  Prologue

  Rap… Rap…

  Rap… Rap…

  Ezra Caine rapped his fingernails atop the mahogany synth-wood table. Each beat was in time with his heart. It helped to steady his nerves. His senses were working overtime, bombarding him with their trivial observations; the slick, satin-like texture of the wood beneath his fingertips, the almost intoxicating aroma of polish, and the bitter-tasting bile rising from his throat.

  Come on… come on…!

  He studied the monitor, wishing it on with a scornful glare. A blue haze flowed from the screen like water, dripping down his face like some ethereal fluid and pooling on the desk in front of him. Though it was barely enough to see by, he could still pick out the familiar details of the room – his office – his home.

  So why did he feel like a criminal?

  A progress bar ticked slowly across the bottom of the screen.

  - 37% -

  Why did it take so long?

  Rap… Rap…

  - 38% -

  Rap… Rap…

  ‘Honey is that you?’

  A woman’s voice floated ghost-like down the stairs. He’d left the door to the office slightly ajar. It drifted to him. Through the hall. Through the doorway.

  Dammit – now his wife was awake!

  A light flickered, its amber radiance drifting through the crack between the door and jamb.

  ‘Yes dear. Go back to bed – I’ll be up in just a moment,’ he said.

  ‘Why are all the lights off?’

  ‘…I didn’t want to wake you.’

  ‘Are you coming back to bed?’

  ‘Yes – in just a moment. There’s something I need to finish first…’

  A sigh and the sound of feet padding across a thick pile carpet.

  - 52% -

  Halfway…

  Rap… Rap… Rap…

  His heart was beating faster now. His wife had startled him. It was two o’clock in the morning. On any normal night she slept like the dead. Perhaps he should have waited?

  No – it had to be now! The files were too dangerous. They had to be deleted. Nothing could be left behind…

  Was Kyle right? Was his life really in danger?

  The tapeworm munched its way onwards through the data. This elegant little program would thread its way through his computer’s virtual innards, consuming every morsel of data along with any evidence that it had ever been there. It was one of Kyle’s creations – the perfect predator. But it was so slow! He fancied he could almost see it working, deleting every file, directory, and sub-directory with relentless precision.

  Sweat trickled down his forehead.

  He wiped it away with the back of his hand.

  A muffled thump…

  Dammit!

  She was in a mood – slamming doors.

  No – that wasn’t it…

  Something falling to the floor?

  A book? His wife liked to read.

  Footsteps on the stairs; soft, like the muffled thump of boots in the snow.

  - 89% -

  Come on… come on…!

  Footsteps outside the door.

  ‘Yes… yes… I’m coming – just a minute…’

  Rap… Rap… Rap…

  The door opened.

  Light spread like a tide across the floor, splashing like breaking waves across the furniture.

  Ezra blinked. There was a figure silhouetted in the doorway; a void shaped like a man.

  - 99% -

  The figure raised its arm.

  There was something in its hand.

  A short, stub-nosed something shaped like a gun…

  A flash and the tang of propellant; a host of sensations that might have registered if there had been the time.

  The bullet whispered towards him, quicker than the dawning of realisation…

 

  1

  ‘Ezzzraaah…’

  Ezra Caine’s eyelids fluttered. Light threaded its way through his lashes and smouldered against his retina.

  The light hurt.

  He clenched his eyes shut, diminishing it to a halo-like memory.

  ‘I think he’s coming around…’

  The voice was soft and soothing – female and somehow familiar…

  He tried to raise an arm, but his muscles were like clay and barely registered a flicker of movement.

  Another voice spoke.

  ‘Yes – it looks like it.’

  ‘Can we turn the lights down a bit? I think it’s causing him pain.’

  The light dimmed.

  ‘That’s better.’ The female voice was whispering this time.

  Am I dead?

  No – that could not be it – heaven didn’t hurt.

  And there was that unmistakable ache behind his eyes…

  And the pain burning in his spine…

  Just paralysed then. Perhaps that’s why he couldn’t move?

  He tried to wiggle his toes.

  Did they move? It was hard to tell. He fancied he’d felt something. Not paralysed then. A technicality if he couldn’t move!

  He tried his eyes and managed a squint this time, though the effort was rewarded by nothing more than blackness.

  No – more like a heavy gloom...

  There were shapes standing over him. Shadows hung from them like tattered robes – two figures – one seated to his right and another standing at his feet. He tried to speak but could manage little more than a whisper. It must have been enough. The female voice spoke again.

  ‘He’s awake!’

  Her words were loud and distinct.

  The shadows resolved into objects. He was in a bed. The sheets, heavy with starch, had been folded tightly around him. And there was the faint smell of soap and antiseptic. The figure standing near his feet approached. He was wearing an immaculate white coat and carrying a metal clipboard, the cover of which had been flipped open to reveal three or four pages of e-paper. A graphite stylus was attached to it by a sinuous length of wire. The figure, presumably a doctor, scribbled something in his notes. ‘Welcome back Mr Caine.’ He produced a penlight from his breast pocket and waggled it back and forth in front of Ezra’s eyes. ‘Good… good…’

  ‘Is he going to be okay?’ the woman asked.

  ‘I don’t see why not.’

  There was a machine standing next to the bed. It was about the size of a briefcase. ‘Okay – I’m just going to place these on your arms and legs. You might feel an odd sensation – but it shouldn’t hurt.’ The doctor took some film-like metal bands from the bowl next to the machine and started to apply them to Ezra’s wrists and ankles, moulding them so they fit snugly against his skin.

  ‘Okay – let’s see what we’ve got shall we?’

  Ezra felt a jolt of electricity pass through his right arm. It felt like someone had slipped an icicle beneath his skin and was working it up towards his shoulder. He groaned. He wanted to protest, but the words were stillborn from his throat and the best he could manage was an incoherent gurgle.

  ‘Excellent!’ The doctor moved on, stimulating each of his muscles in turn. ‘It looks like your nervous system is working as it should.’ When he was finished, he removed the bands and slipped them back into the receptacle.

  Ezra’s mouth was dry. ‘Wha…’

  The woman let her hand slip gently across the back of his wrist. ‘Shhhh – you’re going to be fine. You just need to rest…’

  ******

  The next few days passed in a blur. Night followed day and day followed night in an unending parade. Ezra’s window would dim with the rising sun, its photo-active membrane sparing him from the harshness of the day and those awful migraines that came with it. But every once in a while, a well-intentioned nurse would admit the steel grey of the dawn into his room, along with glimpses of the city’s central spires haloed in albino tufts of cloud.

  ‘How are you feeling?’



  The woman was back. She always seemed to be there. He would catch glimpses of her between his dreams; fresh-faced and smelling of perfume.

  Ezra tried to prop himself up, but his arms failed him. He sank back into the mattress. ‘Okay I guess…’

  ‘Here – let me.’ The woman leaned over and plumped the pillows behind his head. ‘Better?’

  ‘A bit,’ he admitted. ‘Who… who are you…?’

  ‘The doctors said you might not remember me at first. But I’d hoped that by now…’ She frowned and gently rolled her head from side to side. ‘You really don’t know who I am?’

  She seemed familiar but…

  He shook his head.

  ‘It’s me – Lorina. Your wife…’

  Her face was plumper than he remembered. She’d put on weight. Her hair had changed as well. It was now a deep shade of auburn and cut into a short bob. Not the long flowing locks that he remembered.

  ‘You’ve changed…’

  She brushed the hair from his forehead. ‘It’s been a long time…’

  He felt a chill. ‘How long?’

  She hesitated.

  He repeated his question. ‘How long?’

  ‘A year…’

  The chill became a block of ice. He couldn’t breathe.

  The woman sandwiched his hand between her palms and gave it a gentle squeeze. ‘The doctor warned me you might not be ready.’

  ‘A year!’

  She said nothing.

  ‘How?’

  He could feel her muscles tensing. She gripped his hand tighter. ‘You’ve been in a coma.’

  ‘The gunshot?’

  ‘The what?’ Now she sounded surprised.

  ‘The shot – somebody shot me. It’s the last thing I remember.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ She looked baffled.

  ‘The intruder… Someone came to our house. They shot me…’

  ‘Nobody shot you silly. You had an operation. Don’t you remember?’

  He frowned. ‘An operation?’

  ‘Yes – to remove a tumour from your brain. According to the doctors, the procedure was a great success. But then you had a bleed – a tiny vessel inside your head. It put pressure on your brain and sent you into a coma.’

  ‘A tumour?’

  ‘Yes. It was only a little thing – and now it’s gone. But it was causing all sorts of problems. It had to be removed.’

  ‘What sort of problems?’

  She was on the verge of tears. She sniffed. ‘Hallucinations… Bad dreams… That sort of thing…’

  ******

  ‘Ezra Caine?’

  The woman sitting behind her desk was somewhere in her mid to late thirties (excepting the frown that creased across her forehead and the tiny crow’s feet pecking at her eyes). But forgiving that sour expression, she was still attractive for her age. The spacious office looked empty despite its furnishings; three chairs, a four-tiered bookshelf, and two cabinets – every piece fashioned from tubes of chrome-like metal and panels of translucent plastiglass with the lustre of pearl. They would have appeared insubstantial in a room of half the size.

  The orderly guided Ezra’s wheelchair into the room and parked him next to the desk.

  ‘That’s me,’ Ezra replied. ‘But you have me at a bit of a disadvantage – Miss?’

  ‘Sophie McAndrew. Doctor Sophie McAndrew,’ she said as she studied a single sheet of e-paper. ‘Please – take a…’ Sparing him a quick glance she noticed the wheelchair. ‘Oh – I’m sorry. Busy day…’ She laid the e-paper on the desk in front of her. ‘I wasn’t aware that you were still in a chair?’

  Ezra shook his head. ‘I can manage a few steps, but my nurse insisted that I come down here in a chair. I think she was afraid that I might fall.’ He barely noticed the orderly leave. His footsteps had been swallowed by the thick carpet on the floor.

  Dr McAndrew forced a smile. ‘Very sensible. It might be some time before you’re properly on your feet again.’

  ‘Not too long I hope?’

  ‘So – Mister Caine – what can you tell me about yourself?’ she said, ignoring the question. Her expression remained frozen to her face.

  ‘That depends. What exactly do you do?’

  Using a finger, she pinned the sheet of e-paper to the table and slid it to one side so that it was no longer laid between them. But not so far as to prevent her from consulting it when necessary. ‘I’m sorry – I thought this had been explained to you. I am your clinical psychologist.’

  ‘My psychologist?’

  ‘That’s right. You’ve been away from the world for quite some time. People have changed. Things that were once very familiar to you are going to appear very different. You’re going to need someone to help you fit in. Someone to guide you through this very difficult transition. And that’s where I come in.’

  ‘So, what exactly do you want to know?’

  ‘Anything… Tell me something about yourself… The first thing that comes into your head...’

  This one was paid by the hour. He could tell by the way she so skilfully evaded the point.

  He hesitated.

  ‘Let’s start with something simple. Tell me your name and what you do.’

  ‘My name is Ezra Caine. I work in the gene-tech labs.’

  ‘So modest.’ Her lips parted in a fair approximation of a smile. ‘You are the lead researcher for the development of biomimetic gel technologies.’

  Of course she knew. She could probably tell him where he used to shop – and what he liked for breakfast. Information that might have come in handy three weeks ago.

  ‘What else can you tell me?’

  ‘What else do you want to know?’

  ‘How about the last thing you remember from before the operation?’

  ‘I can’t… I don’t remember any operation.’

  Dr McAndrew pursed her lips in thought. ‘Okay… Perhaps you can tell me a bit about your wife?’

  The memories came easily. He started to describe her. ‘Her name’s Lorina. She’s thirty-four… No wait… She must be thirty-five by now. She has long black hair, blue eyes, and a killer smile.’

  Dr McAndrew cocked her head to one side but did not say anything.

  Ezra corrected himself. ‘I’m sorry – I’d almost forgotten… She’s dyed the hair. And she’s had it cut into this bob thing.’ He raised his hands to his head, outlining an imaginary hairpiece.

  ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘Nothing really. I just want you to feel comfortable.’

  He hesitated. ‘It’s okay – I guess. But to tell the truth I preferred it as it was.’

  Ezra was not sure how long they talked about his wife and his home. Many of the details were distressingly sketchy. Dr McAndrew seemed to notice his frustration, and, after teasing out a few memories, she would move on to another question. He remembered that his wife had cereals for breakfast… Two slices of toast and a glass of orange juice. But what brand of cereal? Brown bread or white? Juice with the pulp or without? She liked perfumes and flowers, but despised pink for being too “girly”. He loved her – as far as he could remember…

  ‘Now why don’t you tell me about the nightmares?’ The preamble was apparently at an end. The nightmares were supposed to have stopped. Wasn’t that why he’d had the operation? That’s what they’d told him. A sweat broke out across his brow.

  ‘The nightmares?’

  ‘Yes… You’ve been getting nightmares again, haven’t you?’

  He nodded.

  ‘What can you tell me about them?’

  The nightmares had been with him every night. He was in an office… In a house... The surroundings felt familiar – as if he belonged there. He was working in the dark. He was doing something important. He was in a hurry. He was anxious. His heart was pounding. He heard his wife calling to him. Her voice was soft and soothing – like a balm. A sound… Light washing over him… A man always on the edge of distinction… A flash… Oblivion... And he would awaken with his sheets drenched in sweat. He told her everything.

  ‘And what about the man? Can you remember anything about him?’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Do you remember what he looked like?’

  ‘No,’ he replied. ‘Is it important?’

  She nodded. Her russet-coloured hair was tied back in a ponytail. He could not help but notice the way it bobbed up and down with each lilting turn of her head. ‘It might be. Nightmares are the windows into our deepest fears. Perhaps something happened far back in your childhood… Something you haven’t let go of? If the event was traumatic, you might have suppressed it, incorporating it into your memories as part of your “ego” if you like?’

 

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