She pauses and makes a noise that could almost be mistaken for laughter. It is rough and it hurts, but it feels so good! She leans in so close that her eyelashes sparkle with his tears.

‘WOULD YOU LIKE THAT, STEPHEN?‘

The sobbing is louder than ever, his grimace opening up the smooth edges of the wound, making it bleed.

‘MUMMY’S HEAD IN A BOX.‘

But he’s stopped listening; he’s lost in his world of despair. He’s just sentenced his wife and her unborn child to death, and that’s something he’ll have to live with for the rest of his life. Dr Westfield glances back to the clock again. Which will last exactly eighteen minutes, give or take thirty seconds. She wants to be out of here in plenty of time to avoid the rush and prying eyes.

Speaking of eyes…

She climbs up onto the operating table, straddling Stephen’s groin. With gentle, rhythmic motions she rocks back and forth, trying to get an erection out of him, but he isn’t playing. Shame. But never mind: she’s got something that’ll take his mind off his poor dead wife.

She twists the top off a tube of skinglue and runs a thin line along the top and bottom lids of both his eyes. With gentle fingers she pulls them open and sticks them down. He looks like a startled cartoon character.

She leans forward and tries to lick his right eyeball, but her tongue is too unruly, too swollen to comply, and all that comes out is a stream of spittle. It spirals down onto his cornea and pools in the deep red folds underneath. Her left hand reaches out and plucks the surgeon’s wand from its holder. With a hot buzz it comes online and she eases the hair trigger back and forth, feeling for the right level. She wants this to be nice and gentle.

‘Yyyyy hvvvvvv awwwwways hddddddd boooooffflllll eyyyyyyyssssssssss.’

The wand’s nozzle comes to rest over the pupil of Stephen’s left eye and she opens her mouth slightly, trying not to pull the muscles too hard. She takes a breath: it tastes of antiseptic and recycled air and Stephen’s sweat.

Her finger caresses the trigger.

Now the air tastes of eye.

23

‘Sometimes, William, I think you’re hell-bent on destroying your career.’ Director Smith-Hamilton made a big show of massaging her temples. Her office was nice and warm, in contrast to the day outside, rain hammering against her panoramic window. ‘Do you really think I’ve got nothing better to do than run around cleaning up after you?’

Will kept his mouth shut.

‘Why must you always be so difficult, William? Why must you always cause trouble?’

‘At no point did I contradict any of your standing orders. You said to steer clear of Sherman House and that’s exactly what I’m doing.’

‘Then why did I have Ken Peitai on the phone this morning telling me how much he enjoyed your little chat yesterday? Oh he was full of lovely words about you William, “what a solid agent he is”, “fine head on his shoulders”, “credit to the Network”.’

That didn’t make any sense-why would the slimy little bastard call the Director with a glowing character reference? ‘I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’m confused: did Mr Peitai complain about any aspect of my behaviour?’

She scowled at him from under the razor-sharp edge of her fringe. ‘No, but Governor Clark did. Again!’ Director Smith-Hamilton sank back into her executive chair and went into the head massaging routine again. ‘Why were you speaking to him at all? I told you to stay away from Sherman House!’

‘I did!’ Getting irate wasn’t going to help, so Will took a deep breath and tried to sound reasonable. ‘I was at Comlab Six on a teambuilding exercise with DS Cameron when Mr Peitai approached me. He told me to stop digging for information on him, his boss and the PsychTech programme. Said it was a matter of national security.’

‘National security?’ Her mouth stretched into a thin line, turned down at the edges.

‘I managed to get into Glasgow Royal Infirmary’s main computers and-’

‘William! What have I told you about unauthorized data access!’

‘Peitai and his boss both worked at the hospital six years ago: Kikan was a halfheader, Peitai was a PsychTech data-monkey. Whatever they’re up to, it’s got something to do with the PsychTech programme. I’ve got profilers and analysts going over the files and-’

‘I’ve told you time and time again not to go traipsing around in other people’s computers without my express permission! Do you have any idea how much trouble you’ve got us into?’

‘Turns out Alastair Middleton wasn’t the only killer Doctor Westfield built. I’ve got proof that-’

‘Ah, I see.’ She settled back in her chair, arms tightly crossed across her chest. ‘Now we get to it.’

Will pulled a datablock from his pocket and slapped it down on Director Smith-Hamilton’s desk.

‘These are the files I got out of the PsychTech programme. They prove Colin Mitchell was another one of her ‘little projects’, and so was Allan Brown. All three of them turned into killers by that murdering bitch. She-’

‘This is all about you getting revenge isn’t it?’

‘What? No. Peitai and Kikan are-’

‘Don’t think I can’t see the connection. Doctor Westfield scrubs toilets at Sherman House, so you can’t stay away. One of your own people gets killed because of your obsession-don’t interrupt-and even though you’re told not to go back again, you do. Then you go gallivanting off looking for files from the project she was in charge of and Detective Sergeant Cameron suffers severe head injuries!’

She slammed a hand down on the desktop, making the holo of Mars jiggle. ‘And now Services tell me you were running around yesterday trying to arrest halfheads. Half-heads! And you sit there trying to justify your bizarre behaviour with a spurious tale about some big conspiracy!’

‘That’s not true! Peitai and Kikan-’

‘Work for some very important people, and I won’t have you interfering with their project!’

Will played his last card: ‘They’re giving people VR syndrome.’

Her eyes widened. She hadn’t been suspecting that. No matter how much political pressure she was under, Director Smith-Hamilton still knew right from wrong. Hopefully.

She sat there with her mouth hanging open for a moment, staring at him. ‘You have proof?’

Will nodded. ‘We’ve got two corpses in the mortuary, both with traces of a chemical residue in their brains. It mimics the effects of the syndrome perfectly. George has sent samples off for analysis.’

She leaned across her desk and picked up the datablock with the PsychTech files in it, turning it over in her hands. ‘I don’t like this, William. I don’t like this one little bit. You should have informed me right from the very start. How dare you go behind my back and set up a major investigation without my knowledge!’

‘I-’

‘Your behaviour has gone rapidly downhill ever since Doctor Westfield died. I checked with our counsellors, you haven’t made an appointment with any of them!’

‘I didn’t think it would be-’

‘You will go back to your office and make an appointment for a week of extended therapy sessions.’

‘But-’

‘Or you can go downstairs and clear out your desk. Your choice.’

Silence.

Then Will said, ‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘You will then make yourself useful and go supervise your team! Agent Alexander has one of the poorest clear-up rates I’ve ever seen. It’s supposed to be your job to make him produce results.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Shape up, Mr Hunter. Shape up or you’ll find yourself looking for something else to fill your day. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Now get out of my sight.’

She sits in her toilet-paper nest, examining her lovely new face in a stolen mirror. The skin’s swollen and puffy, black and blue, but to her it’s beautiful. Dr Stephen Bexley-God rest his tortured soul-really was a genius. Before his unexpected, messy, painful death.