Carrion Virus (Book 1): Carrion City (12 page)

‘Magarth and Peterson to be at the LZ in half an hour.’

The airman moved the group out.

Magarth would be fine. He’d get out on the supply bird, but the doctor wondered what would happen to Peterson. He was sure the insidious man brought everything upon himself.

Automatic doors opened with a whoosh. The chill swallowed them up. Dr. Holden pulled his medical coat tight as they set off towards the hospital’s landing pad. It did little to help. A five minute walk usually, but the ferocious weather would extend that time. Beneath their feet lay an inch or more of snow.

***

The panic was instant. The empty waiting area. No fellow travellers waiting for evacuation. Magarth rushed to a large window. Nothing but a whiteout.

Dr. Holden wouldn’t leave without me! Would he?

‘Magarth?’ a timid voice called out.

‘Where are they? I should be with them.’

‘They left.’

‘They can’t leave without me!’

‘The helicopter will be in the air shortly, but they left instructions for you. You are to be at the landing pad in thirty minutes where another helicopter will be waiting.’

Magarth considered venturing out, chasing the group, chasing their escape, but he knew … thirty minutes, then all this would be over. You can do it! Keep calm. He dropped into a seat, twirled his wedding ring. Thirty minutes.
I’m coming home, Maria. I’m coming home.

***

A black Chinook helicopter dwarfed the landing pad. Its twin rotors sent waves of snow in every direction. The rear-loading ramp was lowered.

The airman shouted over the din of the engines as they drew close. ‘Single file. Take your seats and buckle up. Use the earplugs on the seats.’

‘Are you with the DSD?’ Dr. Holden shouted to the airman.

‘Black Aquila.’

‘What is that? Black Aquila?’

‘Private security.’

The airman saw to the raising of the rear ramp. Shudders sounded from the chassis. The Chinook lifted from the ground. Dr. Holden searched for something fixed to grasp as the winter winds toyed with the aircraft. He wanted to ask the airman where they were heading. That would have to wait. For now, his concentration was otherwise busy retaining the contents of his stomach.

***

Martin’s funeral brought a good measure of perspective, and Friday morning brought Eric a sense of rebirth. The strength that Lisa had shown gave him the resolve to save himself, and his family.

Eric rolled from bed, pleased to find his past aches now dulled. The house was silent. If Jacqui was home, she was being unusually quiet. He went from room to room, much like a strategic exercise to seek and locate. Nothing. She was gone. Probably to her mum’s.

There was only two hours until his psychiatrist appointment, the last hoop to jump through for the company.

He dressed. Today would be the first day of driving since his return to Britain. The company had offered a car and a driver, but he refused. Normal activities would do him good, much like the breakfast he had just scoffed down, despite the protests of his grumbling stomach, a hole which was still used to little food and little-quality food. Now, freshly dressed, healthy cereal, keys in hand, here was the opportunity once again to be the master of himself.

***

Finding the office proved to be a less arduous task than Eric thought. He jabbed a finger at the doorbell and waited.

‘Look up to the camera, please,’ came a female voice through an intercom.

He did.

‘Thank you, Mr. Mann.’

A low drone sounded from the door, and Eric stepped inside.

A young attractive blonde with way too much make-up approached. ‘Mr .Mann. I’m Angela. If you will follow me, you will be seen presently.’ She turned with the grace of a ballerina, a feat made more impressive by the considerable heels on her feet. With a rhythmic clip-clop, she walked at a brisk pace. Eric admired the shape of her legs, all the way up to her rear.

A spacious waiting room opened before them. It was opulent, almost to excess. Leather couches and designer glass tables. A large TV mounted on the wall showed the news, muted. There were potted plants and flowers arranged in such perfect pose Eric wondered if they were fake. The floral scent told him otherwise. An older man with thinning, grey hair, sat on a sofa, his arms spread wide as he studied a financial broadsheet.

‘Tea? Coffee? A soft drink, Mr. Mann?’ asked Angela.

‘Tea. White.’

‘Make yourself comfortable.’

Eric sank into the welcoming leather. A time passed and Angela returned with a cup balanced on a matching saucer.

‘They treat you good here,’ the older man said, folding away his newspaper. He crossed his legs and lifted a cup to his lips. ‘Best tea I’ve tasted.’

‘Not bad,’ Eric responded flatly.

‘You’ll be before me I should think, but I’m happy to wait. Not long arrived myself.’

‘Dr. Ironside will see you now,’ said Angela.

The office of Dr. Oliver Ironside was large, far larger than the modest frontage of the building suggested. It was like stepping into the study of a period mansion. If modern appliances were present, they were well hidden. Dr. Ironside stood from his chair and smiled in greeting. He was far younger than expected and sported a dark ponytail. Stubble darkened his angular face and he wore a black shirt with the sleeves rolled high to show his forearms. There was a pen nestled in a fold. He took hold of Eric’s outstretched hand.

‘Mr. Mann, I’m Dr. Oliver Ironside. Please.’

He directed Eric to a chair in front of his desk and then surprised him by pulling a chair to sit close by.

‘Let me begin by saying that whatever we discuss in this room will remain in this room. Whether our sessions together last a week or several months, I want you to think of this place as sanctuary, free of judgement.’

A strained silence followed.

‘Is something wrong, Eric? You don’t mind me using your first name, do you?’

‘I never thought I would be in a place like this.’

‘I can guarantee that everyone who said that to me has left feeling better. I’m Oliver, if you would prefer to use my first name.’

‘You’re young. Real young.’

‘And that bothers you?’

‘I suppose not.’

‘Don’t let the ponytail trick you, and, I have good genes. I’ll take your initial concern as a compliment.’

Eric shrugged.

‘Let’s begin. Treat this the same as the usual psychologist visits at Black Aquila when you return from operations. We simply like to make sure everything is clicking away properly up here.’ He tapped at his temple. ‘After your unfortunate circumstances, management wanted you to undergo a deeper analysis.’

‘Unfortunate circumstances?’

‘Yes, well. So here you are with a psychiatrist rather than a psychologist.’

Eric was stuck. He didn’t want to be here, but here he was. So, he thought, he might as well get things rolling. ‘There’s a lot going on with me. A lot I don’t understand. A lot I feel like I can’t control.’

‘You don’t have to be a psychiatrist to know that one doesn’t walk away from these things unscathed.’

‘I guess not.’

‘Why don’t you tell me about the things that you don’t understand, things that you feel you can’t control.’

‘It’s difficult to function with my wife, my kids. People. I lash out. Throw accusations around. I’ve not been kind to Jacqui.’

Ironside scribbled down notes. ‘I understand you lost a close friend in Iraq. Shall we talk about that?’

Eric leaned back in his seat. ‘No.’

‘Does it bring pain?’

‘I’m not talking about that.’

‘We need to explore these feelings, Eric.’

‘I don’t want to.’ He’d talk about his marriage, his kids, his brother, his dark hours, his drinking, but not Martin.

‘It’s the only way for you to regain control of your life. Talking about these issues will empower you to make correct choices and decisions. Martin was a very close friend of yours, am I right?’

This doc was insistent, a little too much. ‘Aren’t you supposed to let this stuff come out when I’m ready?’

‘Sometimes, a little bit of encouragement is necessary.’

‘So you’re saying, if I talk about the worst I’ve seen in this world, I can save my marriage?’

‘All relationships.’

‘All?’

‘We can only try.’

Eric blew out a loud breath. He didn’t quite agree, but he thought of Lisa Martin and her strength. He thought of his little girl not wanting to look at him. He thought of those new shrubs in his garden. He’d give it a go.

‘You better be good.’ Eric sat forward. ‘Martin was more than a friend. He was like a brother, someone I trusted completely, who I knew I could depend on with my life, and I did, on several occasions. Losing him feels like a huge part of me is gone, ripped away.’ He motioned to his heart. ‘Right here. I don’t know how to stop the hurt. I don’t know how to fix things. With Jacqui. With Jason. Everything.’

‘Together we can figure this out. Tell me about Iraq.’

An hour and a half later Eric walked from the doctor’s office.

***

When a knock sounded on his office door, Dr. Ironside looked up. Ben Williamson entered without comment. He folded his newspaper beneath his arm and took a seat.

‘What went on in this office was not psychiatry, nor was it beneficial to the patient, my patient. What I forced from him should have been drawn out in a measured process, and he knew it. God, I could lose my licence for this.’

‘You got your answer?’

‘I got
your
answer. He suffers PTSD. Expected after hearing what he went through. He was about to reveal something to me, but withdrew at the last moment. Perhaps after a proper series of sessions, I might get to the root of the problem.’

The older man formed a triangle with his fingers. ‘Perhaps, when you have gone through an ordeal like he has, things don’t just slot back into place.’

‘Why so much concern for Eric Mann? It’s the first time I’ve seen you take a personal interest in one of your employees.’

‘I’ve invested heavily in him.’ Ben Williamson stood from his chair. ‘You should keep to sorting sick people’s minds and stop questioning those who employ you. Good day, Oliver.’

***

The bar reeked of stale beer and cigarette smoke. Football scores poured from a wall-mounted TV. Eric downed his first shot of bourbon, top shelf stuff, and nodded to the young barman for a refill.

‘Hard day?’

‘Not the hardest.’ He downed the second in a flash. Eric may have enjoyed the tea made by the painted Angela in the shrink’s office, but it didn’t possess the medicinal qualities of a fine bourbon.

The barman didn’t need further prompting. The glass was refilled again.

The session with Dr. Ironside had been a journey of anger, frustration, and surprisingly a measure of acceptance, as minute as it was. Dr. Ironside drew out more than Eric would have volunteered. The unburdening felt good, but it troubled him that the psychiatrist had been so persistent and intense in his attempts to get him to talk. He thought shrinks allowed clients to open up in their own time.

‘Eric.’ The voice belonged to the gentleman from the doctor’s waiting room, his folded newspaper tucked neatly under his arm. ‘Mind if I join you?’

‘You know my name?’

‘I’m afraid we met under false pretences.’ He made himself comfortable on a neighbouring stool. ‘Another of the same,’ he said to the barman. ‘Forgive me. I’m Ben Williamson.’

Eric knew the name all too well. Benedict Williamson was the CEO of Black Aquila. A name and nothing more in Eric’s experience.

‘My boss. Then this one’s on me.’

Williamson was stocky, despite his advancing years. He maintained a powerful frame tainted only by the glimpse of a protruding stomach. He kept his hair short, the fringe smoothed back neatly. Why was he here? When Black Aquila business was required, one of the many administrative personnel dealt with it.

‘Let me tell you how pleased I am at your safe return. I just wish we could have got everyone back. What happened was tragic.’ His drink arrived. ‘I suspect you’re curious as to why I’m here.’

‘You could say that.’

‘I’ve taken an interest in you since your transition from security to field operative. Are your injuries healing?’

‘Well enough.’

‘How did you feel about the psychological evaluation?’

‘Why are you here?’ The question was posed far bolder than Eric intended.

‘With an offer. Dr. Ironside informs me that he wishes to treat you with twice-weekly sessions.’