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A löngu síðan á Íslandi ..... [12]

 
Silja Henningsdottir's picture
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Dr. Malansky opened his eyes. His mouth felt like a cat litter tray, somewhere behind his eyes he felt a dark throbbing dull pain.

“Bloody hell...” he groaned as he saw the best part empty whiskey bottle on the small table beside his bed.

He sat up in bed and held his head in his hands for a few moments. Taking refuge in alcohol was fast becoming his only defence against the feelings of guilt which day by day compounded themselves. Each time the words “purity dynamics” appeared on his schedule another little portion of guilt added itself to the growing mass of guilt amassing in his mind.

The events of yesterday had added a huge lump to the guiltiness. The death of Frú Mortensson. He had known when he inseminated her a few months earlier that the chances of her surviving the birth were short.

“Birth!” he scoffed to himself. Forced miscarriage was a better term. When he came back to his apartment that evening, he made his way directly to the bottle. 

Malansky screwed his eyes in an attempt to make his room come back into focus. The LED clock display formed into recognisable figures.

“Oh shit!”  He realised he had overslept by two hours. He leaped out if his bed and immediately regretted that too. His head throbbed.  Forcing himself through the ugly hangover, he showered dressed and grabbed something in an anonymous foil pack from the fridge, which he ate as he ran down the corridor and outside to his car.

Guilt filled his mind more as he drove through the streets of Reykjavik toward the Life-Net facility.

“That poor kid, I really should look in at her.” He thought about the thin eight year old child with a shock of curly blonde hair. Silja? Yeah that is her name. Conspicuous by her spirit, her innocence, and her guile.   “She’s going to be devastated, losing her momma like that”

He forced the car on as some traffic-lights turned red as he approached the junction.

“I am sooo damned late!”  He cursed. Other thoughts crept into his mind as he negotiated the streets. “That bitch Phillips”  He didn’t trust her at all, even though he enjoyed watching her squirm at the end of the telephone while she made her report to “The Benefactors”. He was going to have to watch her carefully.

At last the shining hotel- like facade of Life-Net Reykjavik came into view; he swung the car into his parking bay, grabbed his white coat and rushed through the glass doors, nodding hurriedly at Margaret Phillips, sitting in all her corporate efficiency and lustre at the reception desk. Come to think of it, he didn’t like her either. Her and her clone-sister  Dr. Helen.  Bahh!

As Malansky passed from the glossy high tech chrome and glass into the more utilitarian sparseness of the “real” facility, he had decided that whatever he was scheduled for could wait. He would check on the child first, something was bugging him. He could not put a finger on it but it made his skin crawl.  He opened the outer door to the compound and the dank Icelandic grey-cold hit him. He strode purposely on towards the dormitory blocks.

Three grey faces with depressed dull eyes welcomed him as he opened the door to Block 2C. Malansky scanned the room.

“Where’s the child?”

The three faces were blank. The three people shuffled and shrugged. No answer.

“Where’s the woman Mortensson’s daughter?!” He demanded.

“Better ask Johansson, the cook. He is looking after her” The female voice came from a dark corner of the room, hardly English but enough to convey the message. Malansky didn’t wait to find out who had spoken, he was already striding to the cookhouse.

“Johansson!  Where’s the....... “It took a few seconds for the scene to register as Malansky pushed through the door to Johansson’s room.  The big strong cook was lying in the corner, dark black-red splotches of dried blood and bruising covered his face. The room was a tangled mess of upturned table and chairs. But no small girl could be seen anywhere.

Johansson raised a weak left arm to point behind Malansky; all he could manage was a groan. The six-foot-four gentle giant of a cook had been given a severe beating, blood caked his mouth, and he had lost some teeth. His vest showed white through red blotches. The Skeinir had ruthlessly excelled themselves. Utterly

 Through all this, Johansson’s clear blue Icelandic eyes, fixed on Malansky. They were full of hate; they were cold blue accusing eyes that Malansky could not break his stare from. One word bubbled up through blood and broken teeth....  Malansky heard it and he felt the floor fall out of his belly, the sinking sickening realisation.

 

“Phillips ......“

Comments

Joe Spivey's picture

((Dr Phillips. If you think this has a good ending for you...

Stick with me kid and you'll be farting through silk.

Hyle Troy's picture

(( you really dislike Dr. Phillips hmm?     soon the ending comes....

I would rather die peacefully in my sleep, like Grandad, than screaming, like his passengers



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