A Plague of Hearts - Patrick Whittaker (book series for 12 year olds txt) 📗

weren’t you? Take for instance that time you were nearly expelled from school for heresy. I believe you claimed that we talkies were as human as the other children. Seems a strange thing to say, but I’m sure you had your reasons.’
‘That happened just after Doctor Ormus announced that he had discovered human proteins in our genetic make-up.’
‘He never got around to publishing his proof though, did he?’
‘The government wouldn’t let him, but they must have believed him because they passed the Bill of Equal Rights.’
A look of vague disgust settled on the Panda’s face. ‘Equal rights to what? To the afterlife?’ He turned to the King. ‘Tell me, Your Majesty. How many times has the Church Council met to discuss the spirituality of talking animals? Three times? Four?’
‘Four, I believe.’
‘And how many times have they issued a decree stating that no animal has a soul?’
‘I’m not sure. I have no say in religious matters.’
‘Would four be a good guess?’
‘I imagine so.’
‘And there we have it. They’ve locked the Gates of Heaven on us. We’re condemned to living our miserable little lives as best we can in the sure and certain knowledge that it’s to no end whatsoever. We live. We die. We’re worm meat.
‘They’re happy to give us the vote. Why not? We’re too much a minority to upset the political balance. But what they won’t give us is our souls. If we had the whole world, it would count for nothing.’
‘The Church could be wrong.’
‘By the time I’m through,’ said the Panda, ‘the Church will be history.’
The King reddened. ‘You have no jurisdiction over the Church.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong, Fatso. As President, I am Commander-In-Chief of the armed services and while Martial Law is in force I have jurisdiction over everything not covered by Royal Prerogative. You can have the Knave of Hearts, but the Church belongs to me. Or do you intend to change the Constitution?’
It was a question for which the King could find no ready answer. The Constitution had stood unchanged for centuries, inviolable and immutable. It allowed for the formation and dissolution of parliaments, but mandated that the Twin Estates of Royalty and Presidency be abolished by no man.
For the moment, the King could only estimate the full extent of the Panda’s power under Martial Law. He would have to consult with his Privy Council to discover what curbs - if any - he could legitimately place on the Panda.
The need to rid his Kingdom of the President seemed more urgent than ever.
Satisfied that he’d had the last word on the subject, the Panda turned to other matters. ‘I’ve had an unusual request from the Royal Prison Hospital,’ he said, sitting down at his desk. ‘The physicians feel a visit from your valet might be in order.’
The King looked suspicious. ‘The White Rabbit?’
‘The March Hare. It seems that the Knave of Hearts is not responding to treatment as well as he might. He’s somewhat withdrawn and the doctors think a visit from his friend here might snap him out of it.
‘The Knave is now your prisoner, therefore I hand the request on to you to decide upon as you will. If your answer is yes, then I can have one of my staff drive the March Hare over there and bring him back again.’
‘I see no reason to refuse this request,’ said the King. ‘When will they be expecting him?’
‘Any time he can get there. Frankly I’d prefer it if he went now. His presence here is beginning to grate on my nerves.’ The King dismissed the March Hare with a wave of his hand. ‘Report back to work in the morning.’
The March Hare turned towards the door, took a step forward and then stopped. ‘Your Excellency,’ he said, without looking around, ‘I just want you to know that if the Knave dies, I’m going to make you suffer. I don’t know how I’ll do it, but I will.’
The Panda laughed. ‘I really miss the good old days when I had you for a punch bag. Now clear off. Me and the King have things to discuss.’
*
The Royal Prison Hospital rose from the surrounding heathland like the surface of a dead moon. Every aspect of it - the watchtowers and barbed wire, the granite walls with their small, barred windows - seemed designed to intimidate, to warn away all but the most desolate in spirit.
Sitting in the back of an army jeep, the March Hare watched silently as the vehicle carried him inexorably towards the hospital. The building seemed to be waiting for him.
He thought of the dreams he had been having of late, dreams that until now had seemed to hold no significance whatsoever. The images were still clear in his mind. He was adrift on a log raft in the middle of a very calm sea. The water must have been deep, because although it was clear, he could detect no bottom to it. Nor could he discern any sign of life. The sky was empty. Nothing swam by.
Then a great blackness would loom before him. It was something he felt, rather than saw, but he knew it was there and he knew he was drifting towards it. He also knew he could not avoid it.
An emptiness, he thought to himself as the jeep pulled up outside the Prison Hospital. And every time I see it, I’m certain that I’m about to become part of it, cease to have any true existence. Is that what life holds for me? Or was I seeing the Knave’s future, his internment in this granite monstrosity?
There’s no hope left for him, he realised. Between them, the King and the Panda are going to use him and tear him apart. They’re going to destroy every last atom of his being.
‘We’re here,’ announced the driver needlessly. He leaned against the steering wheel and his body language made it very plain that he would not leave the jeep. From here on in, the March Hare was on his own.
‘Thanks, Sergeant,’ said the March Hare. He jumped onto the concrete road and surveyed the front of the hospital. A red door, no bigger than an ordinary domestic one, appeared to be the only entrance. Glancing upwards, he caught sight of a guard standing with his back to him in a watchtower.
‘Through there,’ said the driver, pointing to the red door. ‘Show your i.d. at the desk. I’ll wait for you out here.’
The March Hare went in and found himself inside a small room cluttered with filing cabinets. A white-suited orderly stood leaning against the wall, a cigarette in his hand.
‘Can I help you?’ he asked, eyeing the March Hare in a cool, disinterested manner.
‘I believe I’m expected,’ said the March Hare. ‘I’ve come to visit the Knave of Hearts.’
‘That loony?’ The orderly jerked his thumb in the direction of a green door. ‘Through there and speak to Security. They’ll know what to do with you.’
The door led into a larger room. It was evidently some sort of control centre. A row of desks took up the length of one wall; they were occupied by old men in green uniforms who sat in silence as they watched the television monitors in front of them.
No-one turned as he came in, so he spent a few moments looking over people’s shoulders. Most of the screens showed mundane scenes of the hospital - long corridors, an empty lounge, a dormitory full of sleeping people.
On one screen, a hospital corridor suddenly slipped out of existence and was replaced by a padded cell. It was empty; the patches of blood on the walls and ceiling told their own story. Their abstract shapes were like an atlas, the lost islands and continents of a soul in distress.
With bile rising in his throat, the March Hare turned away and looked to see if there was anyone who could direct him further. He coughed, hoping to attract someone’s attention. The old men stared at their screens.
Giving up, he was about to go through the next door when it opened and a tall, attractive nurse walked in. She moved with a model’s poise, her hips swaying to some delightful inner rhythm, her eyes burning with sexual mischief. A leather gun belt served to emphasise the concise curvature of her waist.
‘You’re here already?’ she said, closing the door behind her.
The March Hare nodded. His eyes drank in the full glory of her blonde hair. She wore it like a crown. ‘I hope I’m not where I shouldn’t be,’ he said, feeling a tightening in his throat. ‘I was told to come through and ask for Security.’
The Nurse placed her hand on his chest, thrust her pelvis forward a few sly, provocative inches. ‘Screw security, Bunny Rabbit. If you’re not living dangerously, you just ain’t living.’
Without parting her lips, she directed a smile at him. It was loaded with erotic potential.
The March Hare backed away, swallowed nervously. ‘Is he all right, Nurse?’
‘Call me Nurse Jane. Is who all right?’
‘The Knave of Hearts.’
‘Of course he is, my precious. You mustn’t worry about him, you know. He wouldn’t be treated better if he was royalty.’
Her attention turned to the television screens, all of which were now displaying the same picture - a man standing in his pyjamas on the roof, his arms akimbo.
‘Oh dear,’ said Nurse Jane. ‘The things some people will do for attention. It looks like he’s going to land in the fish pond, and we’ve only just had it restocked. Some people have no consideration.’
‘Don’t you think,’ said the March Hare, ‘that you ought to try talking him down?’
‘He’ll come down in his own good time.’
No sooner had she spoken, than the patient fulfilled her prophecy. He stood to attention, held his arms above his head, and then dived.
‘Ah,’ said Nurse Jane. ‘I know who that is now. That’s Dibdin. He used to be a high-diver before that business with the chainsaw.’
This girl’s psychotic, thought the March Hare. How can they let someone like this become a nurse? And yet, it makes a certain kind of sense. Most nurses thrive on the compassion and healing that goes on in hospitals; they put up with the suffering because it’s part of their job. But for this one, it’s the reverse. She enjoys suffering, and in a place like this she must get all the job satisfaction anyone could hope for. I bet in her own way she’s a damned good nurse.
‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Nurse Jane, brightly. ‘If I take you through now, I can get on with phoning Dibdin’s relatives to tell them the tragic news. Shouldn’t take too long. He killed all but two of them.’
As he followed Nurse Jane into the corridor, the March Hare noted that her gun holster was not merely decoration. It held a snub-nosed revolver with a thick barrel that left no doubt as to its lethalness.
Finding the swaying of Nurse Jane’s hips distracting, he caught up with her and walked by her side. ‘What was that room?’ he asked. ‘What was going on in there?’
‘Occupational therapy,’ she replied, matter-of-factly. ‘We try to give our senior citizens the idea that they have some sort of control over what goes on in this place.’
‘Does it work?’