Finding Arcadia by Chesterman Simon;

Author:Chesterman, Simon;
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Marshall Cavendish International

The klaxon now sounds through almost empty corridors. Those able to move have left, while others have been wheeled out in their beds. She does not pass the intensive care unit, but that would be where the most difficult decisions are being made—patients in mid-surgery, or attached to machines that keep them alive but cannot be moved to safety.

Safety from what? To evacuate an entire hospital there must have been a credible threat of a catastrophe. More than playdough.

Since it appears not to be a fire, upon returning to the main building she takes the elevator to the fifth floor. Room 5807 is in the Department of Clinical Medicine, towards the end of a long corridor of offices. There are no patients on this level and it is deserted. When she knocks on the frosted glass—Dr. Joseph Bell, BM BCh, DPhil, FRCP—a frail voice invites her to open the door.

“I hope you will not be offended if I don’t stand up,” the old man, Dr. Bell, says, “but I appear to have gotten myself into something of a pickle.”

She takes in the room quickly. Small office, neatly kept. An organised, perhaps obsessive man occupies it—two pairs of identical pens and pencils, well-sharpened, sit precisely on the desk next to a high-end laptop. Books line one wall, topics ranging from dictionaries to epigenetics, interspersed with occasional works of fiction—Brave New World, The Boys from Brazil. The other wall holds degrees and certificates signifying various honours.

The room’s sole occupant sits in a swivel chair, turning slightly to face her. Late fifties, thinning hair, jacket with leather elbow patches; his grey eyes meet hers, eyebrows rising in—resignation?

A piece of paper sits on the desk next to the phone with her number printed on it. “Call Arcadia,” the note reads in the same calligraphic font, “and wish her luck.”

“Miss Arcadia, I presume?” he says.

“Indeed,” she replies. “Now what have you got yourself into here?”

“Well I don’t quite know, I’m afraid. But it does all seem a tad dangerous.”

The device strapped to his chest resembles the one attached to Henry the previous Sunday. A metal box with canvas straps, wires sewn into the canvas. This box is larger, however, and the clips that secure it are copper. The smell is different also, like motor oil.

The engraving on the outside is the same, however:

To Arcadia, with Love.

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