Thirty-Eight

The moment the receptionist allowed them inside Dr Ostermann’s office and shut the door behind them, Felicia looked over at him and a grin spread her lips.

‘That was terrible,’ she said.

Striker just shrugged. ‘I know, and believe me I’m not proud of it, but we had no choice. We needed to get in here before Ostermann got back. We need to know who this Billy guy is. It’s as simple as that.’ He looked at his watch and saw that it was ten-fifty now. ‘What time she say his session ended?’

‘Eleven – and that’s if he doesn’t finish early.’

Striker frowned at that. Ten minutes wasn’t a lot of time. He looked around the room. To his surprise, the office was fairly barren. He’d expected to see medical diplomas hung on every wall. Plaques and certificates and awards. Maybe some pamphlets for the EvenHealth programme. A row of books, at the very least.

But there was none of that.

All that occupied the office was a large oak cabinet in the far corner, a big sturdy wooden desk, and a pair of comfortablelooking leather chairs sitting opposite the desk.

On the walls hung nothing but standard pictures. A sailor looking out over the sea; a little boy at the doctor’s office; and a Native Indian-style wolf head. Aside from this and a few plants decorating the room, there was nothing of interest. No shelves, no books at all.

Striker moved over to the desk. He tried to open the drawers but they were all locked. On it was nothing but an ink blotter, a computer and a keyboard with mouse. The computer screen was blank, and when Striker moved the mouse, the logon screen appeared.

‘Needs a password,’ Felicia said.

‘EvenHealth?’ he asked.

‘Lots of luck,’ she said.

He knew she was right, and didn’t even venture to guess. Instead, he moved over to the cabinet on the far side of the room and opened the doors. Inside was a small TV set with built-in DVD player. A Samsung. On the shelf below was a row of DVDs, each one with a name on the side. Striker searched for any with the names Larisa Logan or Mandy Gill, but found none. Instead, he found one labelled Billy Stephen Mercury. And in brackets were the words: Kuwait. Afghanistan. PTSD.

PTSD – Post-traumatic Stress Disorder.

He turned and looked at Felicia. ‘Our Billy?’

‘Write down the details. Hurry. Before Ostermann gets back.’

‘I’ll do more than that,’ he said. He flicked on the TV and grabbed the DVD case. He opened it, slid out the disc, and slipped it into the tray.

Felicia gave him a nervous look. ‘Jacob, what are you doing?’

‘Just watch the door.’

‘Watch the door? It’s five feet away from you.’

‘Then just stand by it and listen. Let me know if you hear him coming.’

‘Ostermann’s due back any minute. And what if I don’t hear him? What then?’

Striker smiled. ‘Then sit back and pull up a chair because there’s gonna be some fireworks.’ He leaned forward and pressed Play, and the disc loaded.

Seconds later, the screen came to life.

The video quality was surprisingly good, damn near high def, though the sound was slightly muffled. The camera was angled from the left side, with Dr Erich Ostermann sitting opposite a young man. Between them was an ordinary wood desk with nothing on it.

A different room.

Striker took note of the walls – there was absolutely nothing on them – and then of the male being interviewed. He was Caucasian, and terribly thin, emaciated, yet he looked wiry, strong. He could have been in his late twenties or early thirties – it was hard to tell. His hair was dark brown, but greying, and the stubble on his face was almost entirely white.

‘He looks young, but old,’ Felicia noted.

Striker made no reply. He just studied the patient on the feed.

The skin of Billy Mercury’s face had few wrinkles, except around his eyes, where there were many. The man looked tired, as if he hadn’t slept well in years, and the paleness of his skin amplified this look. Perspiration dampened his skin, and when he breathed, his chest rose and fell heavily, unevenly, as if he were hyperventilating.

Dr Ostermann sat in his chair, then turned it slightly to the left to allow the camera a better angle for recording. He stated the date and time of the interview – it was just two weeks ago – and then briefly introduced himself, humbly giving the most basic of his credentials.

Last of all, he introduced his patient.

‘And this person opposite me is Billy Stephen Mercury,’ Dr Ostermann said to the camera. ‘Billy is a soldier who spent time in Afghanistan. First Class with the 7th Regiment. Coming back from the war, Billy suffered from extreme depression and night terrors, making it difficult to sleep and cope with the normal activities of daily life. He was subsequently diagnosed with Posttraumatic Stress Disorder and has been doing sessions with me here and at EvenHealth for the last seven months. Billy is making significant progress, and if all goes well, will be returning to his life outside the facility very soon. His independence is our first and foremost priority.’

Striker studied everything on the screen. During the entire introduction, Billy Mercury had said nothing. He just sat there and barely moved, staring at nothing in the room. His body trembled. His skin sweated. His breath came in fast and uneven gulps of air.

‘So Billy,’ Dr Ostermann continued. ‘Last session, we ended with you speaking of your time in Afghanistan. More specifically, the enemy engagements. You were talking specifically about Kandahar. This was a very bad time for you, as I understand.’

Dr Ostermann paused to give Billy Mercury a chance to speak; when the patient didn’t, Dr Ostermann continued.

‘When we last left off, you were telling me how one of your company – a Colonel Dylan – was killed by a roadside attack and how you had been separated from your party in the back roads of the town. Would you care to continue the story?’

For a long moment, Billy Mercury said nothing. He just sat there, shaking and sweating, letting the silence envelop them. Then, with a start, he came to life. He began looking all around the room, his eyes shifting rapidly, as if seeing things in the room that no one else could see.

‘They were everywhere,’ he finally said. ‘In the streets of the village. In the doorways of the homes and in the open markets and in all the crevices . . . but in the shadows. Always in the shadows.’

‘And this was . . .’

‘The enemy.’

‘The resistance soldiers?’ Dr Ostermann asked. ‘The people of the town? Who exactly were they, Billy?’

‘Who?’ he asked, and suddenly he let out a high-pitched laugh that turned into a cry. ‘What is more important.’

Dr Ostermann’s face tensed, though only for an instant. ‘Billy, we’ve been over this before—’

‘I saw them over there. In Farah and Herat and Kandahar. I saw them many times. They were everywhere. Pretending to be soldiers. And citizens. Children, even. They lived in the darkness. Came out of the shadows. They’re born in the blackness, made from blackness. It seeps right out of their eyes, their mouths.’

‘Billy—’

‘Made of fucking hellfire!’

‘Billy, we’ve discussed this before. It’s psychosis, it’s delusions—’

‘NO! You don’t understand, Doctor. You weren’t there, so you can’t know. It’s not like here. It’s another world. Another place. They can live there, they can grow. And they’re getting stronger. They’ll be coming here soon. They’ll get inside the clinic. Come for me. Come for you! Come for everyone!’

Dr Ostermann’s face took on a disappointed look, but he said nothing. He just stood up slowly from his chair and shook his head.