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Chapter 31

Kate slipped out of bed into a patch of sunlight. Blue sky was visible through a gap in the curtains, a gentle draft buffing away the scent of last night. Paul was still sleeping, his broad naked shoulder visible above the quilt. She reached down to stroke his face but, not wanting to wake him, thought better of it, and padded to the bathroom instead.

After dressing, she scooped up Paul’s keys from the corner table and crept out of the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

The brightness of the morning hurt her eyes, but it felt like a kiss on her skin. She stretched; yawning, smiling. She felt fifteen years younger, a girl of twenty, a girl in love, just waking up to the beauty of the world. All the aches in her body were pleasant ones. His touch reverberated on her lips, her belly and thighs. She was sore between her legs – the kind of soreness that can only be soothed by more sex. She stood still, the pub behind her, and drew in a deep breath

When had she last felt this way? Oh, she knew very well: that summer sixteen years ago with Stephen. It had never been the same with Vernon. Their relationship was more like a science project; no, a business transaction. Each had something the other wanted. She was lonely, her soul bruised by what had happened in England, and she didn’t want intensity, just companionship. Someone to talk to, to go out with. Someone to make her feel safe at night when she woke up shivering, fleeing the fires that roared through her dreams. Vernon wanted somebody to help his career, and Kate, the beautiful and friendly English scientist so respected around the university, was perfect. She was sure he had loved her too, for a time, especially when she became pregnant with the son he so wanted. But Vernon had never taken her breath away. He had never made her feel like running naked down the street, singing.

She headed towards Paul’s car, jangling the keys and humming an old song that she hadn’t heard for years. What was it? Some song that she and Stephen had danced to in his flat. The Cure, that was it. It was called ‘Just Like Heaven’, and the lyrics came back to her: a song about a girl who loved a boy too much; a boy who lost the girl because he couldn’t give her everything she wanted. She had deliberately avoided music from that period for years, because she hadn’t been able to bear the reminder of what she had lost. Now, though, the tune made her feel happy again, and it was all because of last night. When she pressed her body against Paul’s she didn’t feel his brother. When she closed her eyes, she hadn’t seen Stephen. It had all been brand new. She had been afraid that making love with Paul would be like making love to a ghost. In fact, it had been more like an exorcism.

Besides, she thought with a little smile, ghosts aren’t warm. Ghosts don’t leave you feeling tender and sated. Ghosts don’t have eyes and hands that pin you to the bed. Ghosts don’t make you climax like the world is folding in on itself.

Unlocking the car door, she leaned over to the back seat and picked up the envelope that Mrs Bainbridge had given her.

Kate used to think that Stephen had been stolen from her by fate, by God or destiny or bad luck. Now, she was sure the thieves had human hands. Sampson, of course. He must have had something to do with it. But who else? And why? She carried the envelope back to the room hoping its contents held some answers; at the same time dreading what she might find.

Paul was sitting up in bed when she got back.

‘Were you dreaming about being dragged through a hedge backwards?’ she laughed, going over and smoothing down his hair and kissing his stubbly face.

‘Eh? I thought you’d done a runner.’

‘Hoped?’

‘Don’t be silly. I was actually hoping that you might come back to bed.’

The quilt had fallen to reveal his naked torso. She almost licked her lips. She wanted to lick his lips. But that would have to wait for a while. She sat down on the bed and held up the documents.

‘I need to take a look at these – you know, the papers Mrs Bainbridge gave me.’

Paul flung aside the quilt and got up, giving Kate a full view of his body. A few seconds ago, this might have been enough for her to say the documents could wait; but by now she had started reading.

HIGHLY CLASSIFIED

Subject: Fem 634

Personal details

Sex: F

Ethnicity: White European

Kate gasped when she saw her birthdate on the next line. She was reading about herself. She tried to read on but her eyes skidded across the text, and she had to take a moment to steady herself and concentrate.

Medical history: contracted Watoto Virus, aged 12. (Note: Parents, known to CRU director Bainbridge, were killed by the virus.) No other history of serious illnesses. Subject is physically fit.

Mental health: subject suffered withdrawal following parents’ deaths, but no known recent history of psychiatric problems.

Subject admitted to psych unit following fire at CRU on Aug 27th for quarantine and reconditioning.

Kate, who had started reading the report out loud to Paul, paused. Her voice wobbled. ‘Reconditioning?’

Their eyes met. Paul’s were round with concern, and he gripped her free hand as she read on.

Quarantine successful. Subject is free of virus. (See separate report on the investigation into errors made.)

Subject has knowledge of microbiology and virology, and had embarked on relationship with Dr S Wilson of CRU. CRU security believed subject had become high-risk individual, and interview following fire confirmed this. Therefore reconditioning necessary to allow subject’s release into society, at request of Unit director.

We embarked upon course of treatment known as the Pimenov Technique. Subject responded well to drugs and hypnosis.

For your reference, the Pimenov Technique is based on

Kate turned to the next page. The sentence never finished.

‘I don’t believe it. There’s a sheet missing.’

Instead, the next sheet started with the end of a separate, chilling sentence:

recommend subject for disposal.

Awaiting clearance from Unit director.

ENDS

Kate dropped the papers onto the bed and clutched her face. Paul picked up the papers and quickly read through them.

‘Recommended for disposal.’

He put his arm around her shoulders. ‘You’re shivering.’

‘Disposal.’

He held her, stroking her hair until the shivering subsided. Then she pulled away from him and said, ‘What the hell is the Pimenov Technique?’

‘Kate, there’s another sheet you haven’t read yet.’

She hoped it might be the missing sheet from the report, but it was a letter, addressed to Leonard.

Dear Leonard

I must stress again that I am not at all happy with your decision to allow Kate Carling to leave the Unit when we are not yet 100% sure that her treatment has been fully successful. I appreciate that you have an emotional attachment to the young woman and I do not wish to accuse you of being unprofessional; however, I wish to remind you again that sacrifices sometimes have to be made for the common good.

Having said that, I understand that you have arranged for her to take a place at Harvard. I am happy that she will be leaving the United Kingdom, and it is fair to say that I hope she does not return. This is nothing personal: simply that if reconditioning has not been wholly successful – and I am not convinced that it has – then it is best that she stays far from the places and people who might cause her memories to resurface. I seek permission to monitor Ms Carling on return visits to this country. I trust that your contact at Harvard will be keeping an eye on her there.

Yours

Clive

Kate got to her feet and made a few lurching steps towards the bathroom. Paul sprang after her; she toppled and he caught her.

‘I think I’m going to be sick.’

‘Come and sit down.’

‘No, I really am going to be sick.’

She broke away from him and completed her staggering journey to the bathroom. Crouching over the toilet, she vomited. Last night’s dinner and drinks. She spat and flushed the toilet, falling back onto the floor, her hair in her face, her mouth sour. Paul, who had been hanging behind her in the doorway, came tentatively into the room and crouched beside her. He stroked her hair gently and she grabbed him, burying her face against his shoulder.

‘What did they do to me?’ she whispered.

‘I don’t know . . .’

She pushed him to arm’s length, her face contorted with anger. ‘What did they fucking do to me? Those bastards. Leonard. He was like an uncle to me. A kindly uncle.’

‘It seems to me that Leonard was trying to protect you.’

‘But he was involved in it all.’ She clutched her head as if trying to dig out the memories that refused to be found. ‘And I don’t even know what it was. Because I was reconditioned.’

‘Let’s find out what the Pimenov Technique is.’

‘How are we going to do that?’

Paul got up and went back into the bedroom, reappearing a moment later with his laptop. ‘I checked earlier. Someone around here has wireless internet and hasn’t password protected it.’

‘Give it to me.’

‘Kate, maybe you should try to calm down a little.’

‘Don’t order me around! Who do you think you are, my husband?’

‘Kate . . .’

‘Just give me the laptop.’ She opened it up, but paused before she started typing. She looked up and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror on the wall. She was a mess, her hair wild, lips wet, and eyes bloodshot. She said, ‘I’m sorry, Paul. This is just such a shock.’

‘I understand.’

He got down on the floor and sat next to her, both of them leaning back against the bath.

‘I must stink,’ she said.

He kissed her cheek. ‘Hmm, more of a pong, actually.’

‘Hey!’

‘Do you want me to do the honours?’ He gestured towards the laptop and she handed it over. He Googled ‘pimenov technique’ but there were no useful results, just a load of pages where the Russian surname Pimenov. Nothing about memory or ‘reconditioning’.

‘Let me try Pimenov on its own,’ Paul suggested.

But that was fruitless too. Pimenov appeared to be the name of a contemporary Russian football player, and there were pages of results about matches he’d played in. Useless.

Kate said, ‘Try it with different words, like memory, or, I don’t know, reconditioning.’

‘Good idea.’

He typed all three words in for good measure. The first few results were rubbish, but Kate pointed at the screen: ‘What’s that?’

The link was to a site called www.allinthemind.com . Paul clicked the link, and they waited. ‘Come on,’ Paul urged, watching the blue bar creep to the right. Finally the page appeared.

‘It’s a forum,’ Paul said. ‘A messageboard where people chat about issues they’re interested in.’

‘I know what a forum is.’

‘Sorry.’

But Kate was already scanning the page for the mention of Pimenov. Paul hit CTRL-F to bring up a box so he could search the page for the word. He searched up, then down. It wasn’t there.

‘This happens sometimes. The search engine finds a page but then the page disappears before they realise it’s gone. That’s because search engines can’t crawl every site constantly.’

They went back to the search engine results page. There were two lines of text that must have been pulled from the original page on allinthemind.com.

. . . like the CIA, the KGB developed reconditioning techniques. There are reports that Pimenov, a Russian scientist . . .

. . . using a combination of LSD and hypnosis to erase the memory of undesirables, though the methods were said to be . . .

Paul took Kate’s hand. ‘It’s all there,’ he said. ‘In your head. They can’t have completely erased your memories. We know that because they didn’t want you to come back to the UK. And that’s why Sampson is after you – to stop you remembering whatever it is they tried to make you forget.’

‘About what happened to Stephen and Sarah.’

‘I know what we need to do,’ Paul said. ‘But you might not like it.’

Louise Voss & Mark Edwards 3-Book Thriller Collection: Catch Your Death, All Fall Down, Killing Cupid

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