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

‘Who cares? It keeps the old codgers quiet.’
At the end of the corridor, they turned right, into a long passage lined with doors. The click of the Nurse’s high heels echoed between the whitewashed walls like a swarm of invisible bugs.
‘Room 343,’ she announced, stopping outside a door with that number on it. She removed a key from her pocket and leaned forward to unlock the door. As she did so, the back of her skirt rode up to reveal that magic borderline between stocking and flesh. The March Hare felt his temperature rise.
If this woman wanted to eat me alive, he told himself, I’d serve myself up with caviar.
She stood up, straightened the hem of her skirt. He was certain she knew the effect she was having on him; her every move was worked out in advance like a gambit in some kind of sensual chess game. Femme fatale was too weak a word to describe her. She was the sexual equivalent of a full-scale massacre.
Placing herself in the doorway, Nurse Jane beckoned for the March Hare to come through.
He had to squeeze past, pressing his body against her in an intimacy that both appealed and appalled.
‘My, my,’ she said with a knowing smile. 'We are a big boy, aren’t we?'


12. Die Young, Stay Pretty

Room 343 was white upon white. It opened up on the March Hare like a surgical incision, revealing the true nature of the hospital; it was without heart, without soul.
A closed-circuit television camera intruded from the ceiling and swiveled slowly back and forth as if to stir the thick, humid air. Behind him, Nurse Jane pushed the door closed with a jerk of her hips. The groaning of its hinges was answered by a distant scream from down the corridor.
The March Hare shut the cry from his mind. He ignored the camera, refused to dwell on the possibility that he was being watched by old men undergoing shock therapy.
There were two beds in the room. One was occupied by a thin youth rendered immobile by a combination of chains and straight-jacket. His eyes were closed and the trembling of his lips suggested that he might be saying a prayer.
In the other bed lay the Knave of Hearts. His head was partially obscured by a bandage, but his mouth and one eye were still visible. A length of twine looped about his head, pulling his jaws firmly together.
‘Don’t you go exciting him,’ Nurse Jane cautioned, smoothing down the front of her blouse.
‘Or you’ll upset his meta-whatsit. I would, however, appreciate it if you could get him to utter just a few words. It’s not natural, the way he lies there refusing to talk to anyone. In fact, I’m losing patience with his childish behaviour and I really don’t intend to put up with it for very much longer.’
‘Perhaps he can’t talk,’ said the March Hare. ‘Maybe that string he’s got wrapped around his head stops him.’
‘Oh, that’s it, Bunny Rabbit. You go right ahead and take his side. I’ve a good mind to take away his damned string and let him try to heal his jaw on his own. A couple of fractures and the little wimp thinks the world owes him an apology. Honestly! Men are such big babies!’
The March Hare sat down on the chair next to the Knave’s bed. With Nurse Jane looking on, he felt self-conscious - if not downright intimidated. He smiled weakly at the Knave, rubbed his paws together and searched his mind for something to say.
The Knave tried to sit up, but Nurse Jane came over and pushed him back down.
‘I’ve told you before about that,’ she snapped, waving a well-manicured finger like a malediction. ‘Someone spent a great deal of time stitching up your abdomen, and I don’t think they’ll be very pleased if you undo their handiwork. Now just lie down and behave yourself.
‘I’m off to powder my nose and see what those old codgers in the Therapy Unit are up to. I’ll be back in five minutes and I don’t want to find you out of your bed or sitting up. Is that understood?’
She straightened the bed clothes and moved towards the door. ‘Don’t leave the room while I’m gone,’ she told the March Hare. ‘The guards shoot first, ask questions later.’
The March Hare nodded dumbly, watched as Nurse Jane let herself out. The door closed. He could hear a key inserted in the lock and knew he could not leave even if he wanted to.
‘I hate that woman,’ said the Knave, speaking through clenched teeth and swollen lips. ‘She keeps giving me enemas.’
‘I thought you liked enemas.’
‘There are enemas and there are enemas. And right now I could do without that sort of thing. The bastards have already ruined my rectum as it is.’
‘The hospital?’
‘The Secret Police.’ The Knave rolled delicately on his side. ‘She’s got a nice arse though.’
‘Nurse Jane, you mean? She certainly has.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought you’d notice.’
‘I couldn’t help but notice. I’m not sure whether that woman’s going to give me nightmares or erotic fantasies.’
‘You don’t have erotic fantasies. The only things you ever dream about are lettuce and carrots. Or do you perhaps secretly yearn for some cute little bunny girl?’
The March hare suppressed a wave of annoyance. He did not like being stereotyped, told what he did and did not dream about, think about or yearn for. Had the Knave been healthy, had he been out of bed and standing before him with his fishnet stockings, a well-groomed kiss curl and his patent leather stiletto shoes, the March Hare would have come back with a blistering retort. Instead, he shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’m afraid I couldn’t bring you any fruit or sweets,’ he said. ‘It’s against regulations.’
‘That’s all right. I can only eat soup anyway. And even then I seldom manage to keep it down.’
‘I went to see the Panda,’ said the March Hare. ‘I’m working for the King now and he took me along to see him. That’s where I’ve just come from.’
‘The Panda? Is he mad?’ asked the Knave. ‘Do his eyes spin crazily? Does he foam at the mouth and tear out his fur in great chunks? I can see him now - gaunt and tortured, tormented by a thousand voices screaming in his head.’
‘He appeared normal and healthy,’ said the March Hare. ‘He’s no worse than when I went to school with him. I really don’t think he’s crazy at all.’
‘Then why is he helping Peregrine Smith?’
‘Smith’s helping him.’
‘They’ve murdered the gerbils with alien technology. Who do you think’s going to be next? He has to be stopped. Someone has to destroy TARTS and end this thing!’
‘You’re not making sense,’ said the March Hare, suddenly remembering the camera above his head. ‘Perhaps we should change the subject.’
‘Good idea. My jaw aches to buggery and I have more important things to talk about. Like that letter for instance. The one on my locker.’ The Knave pointed a bandaged hand at a neatly folded sheet of A4. ‘I dictated it to Nurse Jane, but she says I’m not allowed to send it, even though it’s addressed to my own left testicle. They had to cut it off, you know.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Don’t be. I still have the other one. It was electricity that did it. 1200 volts through my scrotum. ‘You can read it, if you like. The letter, I mean. There’s not much point reading my left testicle.’
The March Hare took the piece of paper and carefully unfolded it. Nurse Jane’s handwriting was bold and confident, as intense and lurid as a neon sign.

My dear Left Testicle,

How are you keeping? I am sorry that we have been parted in such a cruel and sudden manner, but life is like that. It’s an endless series of meetings and departures. I am sure that you will soon make lots of friends in your new home.
I’ve made the doctor promise to change your pickle at least twice a week. He assures me that he will use nothing but the highest possible grade of embalming fluid. Some organs have to make do with vinegar, so you can see just how lucky you are.
Your friend, Mr. R. Testicle, sends you his best wishes and has asked me to tell you that he misses you very much.
If everything works out as I think it will, then you could well be reunited in a matter of days.
I have applied to what’s left of the State Welfare Department for a Social Worker to visit you every now and then - just to make sure that you’re adapting ok to your new environment. It may even be possible to get you adopted. I hear that many a brave soldier has returned from the trenches missing vital organs, and it warms my heart immeasurably to think that you - my one and only left testicle - might one day bring hope and happiness to a fellow human being.
If you need anything, please let me know.
Warm Regards,

The letter was not signed. Also on the locker was an envelope which was addressed to:
Mr. L. Testicle Esq.,
Pickle Jar 23,
Top Shelf,
Organ Bank,
Royal Prison Hospital,
The Middle of Bloody Nowhere,
Hearts,
Wonderland, HS2 3BC.
‘I never was much of a letter writer,’ confessed the Knave as the March Hare placed the letter and its envelope back on the locker. ‘But I thought I ought to keep in touch. Old friendships mean a lot to me. Especially when it comes to bollocks.’
‘It’s all bollocks,’ said the man in the other bed. He was sitting up now, his back to the wall, his legs tucked as far under his arms as the straight jacket would allow. ‘Friendships mean nothing. We’re here. We live. We die.’
The March Hare had forgotten that the room had a second occupant. Now he looked him over, tried to appraise something of his character. There was little to be gleaned from his face. It was blank and non-committal, with only the slightest hint of an angry crease along the forehead.
‘You sound like the Panda,’ said the March Hare, annoyed by the unsolicited interruption. ‘And what makes you such an expert on death anyway? You’ve never died and I strongly expect that you’ve never really lived. So how can you sit there and tell us that death is the end of everything?’
‘Because I have to,’ said the man. ‘I hope to say it often enough to convince myself that it’s so. I’ve been to war, and I’ve witnessed horrors that have no root in rationality. For six years, we and the Spadishers have been at each other’s throats, inventing new ways of killing, new ways of making each other suffer. And the only thing I’ve learnt from it is that there is no God, because if there was a God, everything I’ve seen out there would make some sort of sense. The pain would be smothered in nobility. We could charge the enemy lines in the hope of gaining glory, not just a few more yards of churned-up real estate.
‘I’ve seen too much, and now I don’t want to see any more. And I don’t want to live, and I don’t want to