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  The door to Purdue’s private room opened and Dr. Patel peeked around it.

  “Sounds like you are doing well, Mr. Purdue,” he smiled with one eyebrow raised. “When did you wake up?”

  “Short while ago, actually, I woke feeling quite frisky,” Purdue smiled at Nurse Madison again to reiterate their private joke. She pursed her lips to hold the giggle and handed the doctor the board.

  “I’ll be right back with some breakfast, sir,” she reported to both gentlemen before exiting the room.

  Purdue pulled up his nose and whispered, “Dr. Patel, I’d rather not eat right now, if you don’t mind. I think the drugs have me nauseated for a while still.”

  “I’m afraid I would have to insist, Mr. Purdue,” Dr. Patel urged. “You have been sedated for longer than a day already, and your body needs some hydration and nutrition before we proceed with the next treatment.”

  “Why was I under so long?” Purdue asked instantly.

  “Actually,” the doctor said under his breath, looking very concerned, “we have no idea. Your vitals have been satisfactory, even good, but you seemed to have stayed asleep, so to speak. Usually, this kind of operation is not too dangerous, has a 98% success rate, and most patients wake up about three hours after.”

  “But I took another day, give or take, to come out of sedation?” Purdue frowned, trying to sit up properly on the hard mattress that cradled his buttocks uncomfortably. “Why would that happen?”

  Dr. Patel shrugged. “Look, people are all different. Could be anything. Could be nothing. Maybe your mind was tired and decided to take a time-out.” The Bangladeshi doctor sighed, “God knows, from your incident report, I think your body called it a day – and for good bloody reason!”

  Purdue took a moment to consider the plastic surgeon’s statement. For the first time since his ordeal and subsequent admission to the private clinic in Hampshire, the reckless and wealthy explorer gave his tribulation in New Zealand some thought. Truthfully, it had not seeped through to his conscious mind yet, just how horrifying his experience there had been. Apparently, Purdue’s mind dealt with trauma in a delayed sense of ignorance. I’ll feel sorry for myself later.

  Changing the subject, he appealed to Dr. Patel. “Do I have to eat? Can I just have some watery soup or something?”

  “You must be a mind-reader, Mr. Purdue,” Nurse Madison remarked as she pushed the silver trolley into the room. Upon it was a mug of tea, a tall glass of water and a bowl of watercress soup that smelled positively wonderful in the otherwise sterile environment. “About the soup, not the watery bit,” she added.

  “That does look very scrumptious,” Purdue admitted, “but really, I cannot.”

  “I’m afraid it is doctor’s orders, Mr. Purdue. Even you just have a few spoonful’s?” she coaxed. “As long as you just have something in, we would be grateful.”

  “Exactly,” Dr. Patel smiled. “Just try it, Mr. Purdue. As I am sure you would appreciate, we cannot continue treating you on an empty stomach. The medication would wreak havoc on your system.”

  “Alright,” Purdue reluctantly agreed. The creamy green dish in front of him smelled like heaven, but all his body wanted, was water. He understood why he had to eat, of course, and so he took up his spoon and made the effort. Under the cold covers of his hospital bed, he could feel the thick padding sporadically patched onto his legs. Underneath the bandaging, it burned like a cigarette cherry being put out on a bruise, but he kept his pose. After all, he was one of the main shareholders in this clinic – Salisbury Private Care – and Purdue did not want to look like a wuss in front of the very staff whose employment he was responsible for.

  Pinching his eyes to fight the pain, he lifted the spoon to his lips and savored the culinary expertise of the private hospital he would call home for a while still. However, the exquisite flavor of the food did not distract him from the curious apprehension he felt. He could not help but be preoccupied by the thought of what his lower body looked like under the padding of gauze and adhesive.

  After signing off on the latest assessments of Purdue’s post-operative vitals, Dr. Patel issued the next week’s prescriptions to Nurse Madison. She opened the blinds to Purdue’s room, and he finally realized that he was on the third floor up from the courtyard garden.

  “I’m not on the ground floor?” he asked quite nervously.

  “No,” she sang with a puzzled look. “Why? Does it matter?”

  “I suppose not,” he replied, still looking a bit taken aback.

  Her tone was somewhat concerned. “Do you have a fear of heights, Mr. Purdue?”

  “No, I have no phobias, per se, my dear,” he explained. “Actually, I cannot really say what it is about. Maybe I was just surprised that I did not see the garden when you drew the blinds.”

  “Had we known it was important to you, I assure you we would have accommodated you on the ground floor, sir,” she said. “Shall I ask Doctor if we could move you?”

  “No, no, please,” Purdue protested gently. “I am not going to be difficult about scenery. All I want to know, is what is going to happen next. By the way, when will you be changing the dressings on my legs?”

  Nurse Madison’s light greens regarded her patient with empathy. Softly, she said, “Do not worry about it, Mr. Purdue. Look, you had some nasty snags at the horrid…” she hesitated respectfully, desperately trying to soften the blow, “…experience you had. But don not fret, Mr. Purdue, you will see that Dr. Patel’s expertise is unparalleled. You know, whatever your evaluation of this corrective surgery, sir, I am sure you will be impressed.”

  She gave Purdue a genuine smile that accomplished its aim of putting him at ease.

  “Thank you,” he nodded, a slight smirk teasing his lips. “And will I be able to assess the work anytime soon?”

  The small framed nurse with the kind voice gathered the empty water jug and glass and headed for the door, soon to return. As she opened the door to exit, she glanced back at him and motioned to the soup. “But only once you have put a thorough dent in that bowl, mister.”

  Purdue did his best to make his consequent chuckle painless, although the effort was in vain. The delicate stitching tugged at his carefully spliced skin, where the missing tissue had been replaced. Purdue put in the effort to eat as much of the soup, though by now, it had cooled to a pasty meal topped with a cracking coat – not quite the cuisine billionaires normally settled for. Then again, Purdue was only too thankful that he even survived the jaws of the monstrous occupants of the Lost City and he was not about to bitch about cold broth.

  “Done?” he heard.

  Nurse Madison entered, armed with instruments to clean her patient’s wounds and fresh dressing to cover the stitches after. Purdue did not know how to feel about the revelation. He possessed not an inkling of fear or timidity, yet the idea of seeing what the beast in the maze of the Lost City did to him made him uneasy. Of course, Purdue dared not exhibit any traits of a man who was close to a panic attack.

  “It will hurt some, but I shall try to make it as painless as possible,” she told him without regarding him. Purdue was grateful, because he imagined that his expression was not a pleasant one right now. “There will be some burning,” she continued, as she sterilized her delicate implement to loosen the edges of the plaster, “but I could give you a local if you find it too taxing.”

  “No, thank you,” he grunted slightly. “Just go for it and I will deal with the pinch.”

  Briefly, she looked up and flashed him a smile as if she approved of his courage. It was not a complex task, but she secretly understood the perils of a traumatic memory and the anxiety it could produce. Although none of the details of the attack on David Purdue was ever disclosed to her, Nurse Madison had previously had an unfortunate acquaintance with tragedy of this intensity. She knew what it was like to be maimed, even there where nobody could see. The memory of the ordeal never abandoned its victims, she knew. Perhaps this was why she felt so sympathetic toward
s the affluent explorer on a personal level.

  He caught his breath, pinching his eyes shut, as she peeled back the first thick plaster. It made a sickening sound that made Purdue cringe, but he was not ready to satisfy his curiosity just yet by opening his eyes. She stopped. “Is that okay? Want me to go slower?”

  He winced, “No, no, just hurry. Just make it quick, but give me time in between to catch my breath.”

  Without a word in response, Nurse Madison suddenly ripped the plaster off in one jerk. Purdue yelped out in agony, gasping from the instantaneous flight of his breath.

  “Jee-zuss Cha-rist!” he shouted, his eyes wide open in shock. His chest heaved rapidly as his mind processed the excruciating inferno in the localized skin.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Purdue,” she apologized sincerely. “You said I must just go ahead and get it over with.”

  “I-I know-w w-what what I said,” he stammered through mild recovery of his breathing abilities. He never expected it to feel like interrogation torture or pulling nails. “You are right. I did say that. My God, that almost killed me.”

  But what Purdue never expected, was what he would see when he looked down at his wounds.

  4

  The Dead Relative Phenomenon

  With haste, Sam tried to unlock his car door while Nina wheezed wildly by his side. She had learned by now that it was futile to question her old comrade on anything while he was focused on serious matters, so she elected to catch her breath and hold her tongue. The night was freezing for the season and his legs felt the burning chill of the wind curl in up under his kilt, with his hands equally numb. From the direction of the pub, voices were clamoring outside the establishment like hunters poised to commence on the tracks of a fox.

  “For fuck’s sake!” Sam hissed in the dark as the point of the key kept scraping the lock without finding its way in. Nina looked back at the dark figures. They did not advance away from the building, but she could discern an altercation.

  “Sam,” she whispered in hastened breaths, “can I give you a hand?”

  “Is he coming? Is he coming yet?” he asked urgently.

  Still perplexed at Sam’s flight, she answered, “Who? I need to know who to look out for, but I can tell you that so far that nobody is trailing us.”

  “Th-th-the…the fu—,” he stuttered, “the fucking bloke that attacked me.”

  Her big dark eyes scanned the area, but still, as far as Nina could see, there was no detectible movement in the space between the fight outside the pub and Sam’s jalopy. The door creaked open before Nina could figure out who Sam was referring to, and she felt his hand grasp her arm. He flung her into the car as gently as he could and pushed in after her.

  “Jesus, Sam! Your stick shift is hell on my legs!” she complained as she made the arduous shift onto the passenger seat. Normally Sam would have some quip to the double entendre she uttered, but he had no time for humor now. Nina rubbed her thighs, still wondering what the fuss was about as Sam started the car. Performing her habitual locking of the door came just in time as, no sooner, a loud thump against her window started Nina into a cry of terror.

  “Oh my God!” she shouted at the sight of the saucer-eyed man in the trench coat, suddenly appearing from nowhere.

  “Son of a bitch!” Sam seethed as he threw the stick into first and revved the car.

  The man outside Nina’s door was shouting furiously at her, slamming on the window with rapid blows. While Sam was getting ready to speed off, time slowed for Nina. She took a good look at the man whose face was distorted in intensity and recognized him at once.

  “The virgin,” she muttered in astonishment.

  As the car leapt from its parking space, the man screamed something at them in the red glow of the brake lights, but Nina was too shaken to pay attention to what he was saying. Agape, her lips waited for the right explanation to give Sam, but her brain felt scrambled. Through two red lights they sped in the late hour of the high street of Glenrothes, heading south towards North Queensferry.

  “What did you say?” Sam asked Nina when they finally got on the main road.

  “About?” she asked, so flabbergasted by it all that she had forgotten most of what she had remarked on. “Oh, the man at the door? Is that the keelie you are running from?”

  “Aye,” Sam replied. “What did you call him back there?”

  “Oh, the virgin,” she said. “Been watching him in the pub while you were in the bog, and he does not drink alcohol, I have noticed. So, all his drinks…”

  “Virgins,” Sam surmised. “I get it. I get it.” His face was flushed and his eyes still wild, but he kept a firm eye on the winding road under the high beam lights. “I really have to get a car with central locking.”

  “No shit,” she agreed, wiping her hair back under her knitted hat. “I would have thought that had become evident to you by now, especially in the business you are in. Getting your arse chased and accosted this much would require better transportation.”

  “I like my car,” he mumbled.

  “It looks like a bug, Sam, and you are loaded enough to afford something in keeping with your needs,” she preached. “Like a tank.”

  “Did he say anything to you?” Sam asked her.

  “No, but I saw him go into the restroom after you. I just did not think anything of it. Why? Did he say something to you in there or did he just attack you?” Nina enquired, taking the moment to brush his black tresses over his ear to clear his hair from his face. “Good God, you look like you have seen a dead relative or something.”

  Sam looked at her. “Why would you say that?”

  “Just a manner of speaking,” Nina defended. “Unless he was a dead relative of yours.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Sam scoffed.

  It dawned on Nina that her companion was not exactly adhering to the road laws, what with a million gallons of neat whiskey in his veins and a helping of shock for good measure. She gently ran her hand from his hair to his shoulder as not to startle him. “Don’t you think I should rather be driving?”

  “You don’t know my car. It has…tricks,” Sam protested.

  “No more than you have and I can drive you just fine,” she smiled. “Come now. If the cops pull you over you will be in deep shit and we do not need another sour taste from this evening, hey?”

  Her coaxing was successful. With a soft sigh of surrender, he pulled the car off the road and changed places with Nina. Still agitated by the incident, Sam combed the dark road in their wake for signs of pursuit, but was relieved to find the threat absent. Inebriated as he was, Sam did not sleep it off on the drive home.

  “My heart is still pounding, you know,” he told Nina.

  “Aye, mine too. You have no idea who he was?” she asked.

  “He looked like someone I once knew, but I cannot put my finger on it,” Sam revealed. His words were as confused as the emotions coursing through him. He ran his fingers through his hair and softly raked his face before looking at Nina again. “I thought he was going to kill me. He did not lunge or anything, but he was mumbling and shoving me, so I got pissed off. Bastard did not bother with a simple ‘hello’ or anything, so I took it as a nudge for a brawl or thought maybe he was trying to rib me in the shitter, you know?”

  “Makes sense,” she agreed, keeping her eyes keenly on the road before and behind them. “What did he mumble, though? That might clue you up on who he was or what he was there for.”

  Sam recollected the hazy incident, but nothing specific came to mind.

  “I have no idea,” he replied. “Then again, I am light years away from any cogent thought right now. Maybe the whiskey washed away my memory or something, because what I recall looks like a live action Dali painting. Just all,” he burped and made a dripping gesture with his hands, “smudged and jumbled in too many colors.”

  “Sound like most of your birthdays,” she mentioned, trying not to smile. “Don’t fret, pet. You can sleep it all off soon. Tomorrow you will
better remember that shite. Better yet, there is a good chance Rowan could tell you a bit more about your molester, since he served him all evening.”

  Sam’s drunken head spun to leer at her and lolled to one side in disbelief. “My molester? Jesus, I am sure he was gentle, because I do not remember him molesting me. Also…who the hell is Rowan?”

  Nina rolled her eyes. “Oh my God, Sam, you are a journalist. One would imagine you would know that the term has been used for ages to imply someone who accosts or annoys. It is not a solid noun like rapist or violator. And Rowan is the barman at Balmoral.”

  “Oh,” Sam sang as his eyelids drooped. “Yes, then, yes, that mumbling fuckwit molested the shit out of me. I have not felt that molested in a long time, I tell ya.”

  “Alright, okay, lay off the sarcasm. Stop being daft and stay awake. We are nearly at your place,” she instructed as they passed along the Turnhouse Golf Course.

  “Are you staying over?” he asked.

  “Aye, but you are going straight to bed, birthday boy,” she directed sternly.

  “I know we are. And if you come with us, we will give you a peek of what lives in the Republic of Tartan,” he announced, grinning at her in the passing yellow lights that lined the road.

  Nina sighed and rolled her eyes. “Talk about seeing ghosts of old acquaintances,” she murmured as they turned into the street where Sam resided. He said nothing. Sam’s bumbled mind was on autopilot as he swayed in silence with the cornering of the vehicle, while far away thoughts kept thrusting back the blurred face of the stranger in the men’s room.

  Sam was not much in the way of a burden when Nina laid his head on the fluffed pillow in his bedroom. It was a welcome change to his wordy protests, but she knew that the night’s sour event along with the alcohol consumption of a bitter Irishman had to have taken its toll on her friend’s demeanor. He was exhausted, and as fatigued as his body was, his mind was fighting against rest. She could see it in the movement of his eyes behind the cover of their lids.