“Where the hell are my keys,” Rhys says to himself, hunting around his flat.
He’d chosen a modern apartment block with a video door entry system, an open-plan kitchen-living room, two ensuite bedrooms, a large terrace, and underground parking, easy to live in but soulless. Rifling through the piles of papers covering most surfaces, he searches in the vain hope that he might catch a glimpse of his car keys, at some point soon, he’s already running late. A scratching noise from the kitchen disturbs his search.
“Oh God, sorry, Rufus,” he says, looking at a white rat with pink eyes staring at him from its elaborate cage, a labyrinth of tunnels and wheels, “I nearly forgot you.”
Reaching into the cage, he removes the food bowls, ensuring that Rufus doesn’t escape, and fills them with special nutty-smelling rat nuggets from a bag found under the sink and clean water. As he puts the bowls back, he spots his keys lying beside the cage.
“Rufus, you’re a lifesaver,” he says, grabbing his keys and smiling and waving at the rat as he hurries out of the apartment. Distracted by his food, the rat isn’t interested in Rhys’ departure.
Rufus was his first transplant success, and no matter how he tried to be rational and unemotional at the end of the experiment, he couldn’t find it in himself to euthanise him. He was an everyday reminder of the potential for his research work. Rufus had shown that 1. partial brain transplants were possible, and 2. partially transplanted brains could demonstrate characteristics from the donor. In the case of Rufus, part of a young, untrained rat’s brain had been transplanted with part of the brain of an older, trained rat, enabling the young rat to complete tasks that it had never been trained to do. It was this research that had brought Rhys to the attention of MI6, giving him access to lucrative government funding and more, opportunities that would never be sanctioned in the academic world. The only downside was that the research had to be done covertly, not something that bothered Rhys. He wasn’t interested in academic accolades, the knowledge that he was the first to achieve such brain transplants was enough for him and with funding cuts the way they were, he knew he wouldn’t achieve his ambitions in this century without this support. Ever since the CIA’s MK-ULTRA program in the 1950s and early ’60s, experimenting with mind control drugs, the ability to control people’s minds has continued to be of great interest to Secret Services both in the UK and abroad, and it was believed that Rhys’ work would give the UK the potential to gain an advantage over other nations in this respect.
Rhys checks his watch as he takes the lift to the car park, just enough time to get to the hospital and back to his office at the University before meeting with Maya. She said she had something exciting to tell him when she messaged him yesterday. In her typical enigmatic way, she hadn’t given any hints, but Rhys knew that if she said it was exciting, it was. Rampton, first, though.
At the hospital reception, Rhys surrenders his mobile phone, belt, wallet, coins and car keys to security before proceeding through an airport-type scanner. No chances are taken as the most dangerous patients are residents here. He’s met by a security guard, Gavin, who escorts him through the corridors and walkways. Gavin isn’t much of a talker, and apart from the few odd pleasantries, the journey is carried out in silence. Why do hospitals always smell like boiled cabbage? Rhys thinks, the sulphurous smell assaulting his nose. At the most secure part of the hospital, he undergoes further security checks, they can’t be too careful, especially in this part of the grounds. They check that his shoes don’t have laces and his clothing is buttonless. Patients here can’t be trusted; simple items like Sellotape can be stretched to form a garotte, and Blu Tack used to make imprints of keys. Through the heavy security door to F Wing, Gavin hands Rhys over to Jan. Rhys likes Jan; she’s a short, dumpy Devonian with a strong country accent and wicked sense of humour, she can be fierce when she wants to, though, an asset in this job where the situation and turn in a split second.
“How is she today?” Rhys asks.
“Fair,” Jan replies, “one of her better days, I’d say.”
At the end of a corridor lined with heavy locked steel doors, a reinforced glass observation port embedded in each at eye level, they reach the visiting room.
“Take a seat Rhys, and I’ll fetch her,” Jan says, pointing at the chair closest to the door. It’s protocol in the hospital that visitors sit closest to the door to facilitate escape in the case that a patient becomes violent and agitated, a guard positioning themselves between patient and visitor. Jan returns shortly, escorting a scrawny older woman with a pale, drawn face and limp grey hair, eyes down, focusing on the floor. She takes a seat opposite Rhys, not looking up.
“Hello Gladys,” Rhys says, “how are you today?”
At the sound of his voice, Gladys’ head jerks up. She stares at him, her grey eyes alive with hate. Her voice when she speaks is unexpectedly strong for such a diminished woman.
“You promised me I would live,” she spits, “you lied and I’m going to make you pay for what you’ve done to me.”
In an instant, Gladys reaches across the table and reaches for Rhys’ eyes. He turns to avoid her grasp, and she scratches his cheek. Jan has her face down on the floor, arms cuffed behind her back in a flash.
“On your feet Gladys, slowly,” she commands, helping her up to standing. “You wait here Rhys.”
“I’m not finished with you,” Gladys threatens as Jan escorts her back to her room.
Rhys can feel the blood trickling down his face, smell its metallic odour; it’s a deep cut. He hadn’t noticed Gladys’ long nails when she had come in, but he can’t get the image of those talons approaching his eyes out of his mind. Gladys is his biggest regret. Before the transplant, she had been a sweet, simple lady who loved knitting tea cosies. Unfortunately, her brain wasn’t strong enough to resist the influence of the death row donor brain Rhys had used to replace part of her brain, and David, a violent, merciless serial killer, took over. Gladys may have been able to leave the hospital at some point to live out her old age peacefully but now she is lost, consumed by David.
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