It's All in The Eyes

The lights were glaringly bright, bouncing off the blank screens wherever she turned in the stark office. She caught sight of her reflection and spun hurriedly back to the one lit screen, preferring the horror it imparted to the wide eyed, drawn countenance she would not have believed was herself.

She stared for a full minute, her brain refusing to process the paragraph in front of her.

Remembering that she was in the centre of a busy hospital and not wanting to be discovered, she reached into her satchel and withdrew her memory stick. Glancing nervously towards the door and gnawing on her nails, a long-held vice, she plugged it into the port and quickly transferred the email to it, deleting the original from her account. What she would do with it she had no idea, but for now it was enough to have a copy and get out. She needed to be alone, to think, away from the curiosity of her colleagues who would wonder at the expression that felt permanently frozen on her face.

Why this anonymous person had chosen her she couldn’t imagine; they had chosen, however, to contact her on her work email. A colleague? Or someone who had found her by her title: Head of Infectious Diseases, in most prestigious hospital in London.

Unbidden, a new thought came to her. Mackenzie. Had this person contacted her not because of her position, but because they knew for her it would be personal after the loss of her nephew to this virus?

She shook her head to clear it. She could not allow herself to think of this now. Mercifully, her shift had finished half an hour previously and she had lingered only to check her email. Usually, she felt guilt-ridden leaving the hospital; at the height of this unprecedented pandemic there were not enough hands, but now she was grateful to escape it’s confines and the stifling protective uniform.

She navigated the familiar rabbit warren of corridors with her head down, trying to appear lost in thought. She was troubled by no-one and stepped into the cold night air after retrieving her heavy coat. Any sense of gratitude evaporated at once as she weaved between the influx of haggard people coughing into their masks, suddenly becoming very aware of the monumental nature of the information she held. Immediately suspicious of every advancing face, she made her way as quickly as she could towards the bus stop. In her current state of paranoia, she was glad that once out of the vicinity of the hospital passers-by were scarce. As she focused on the halo of light surrounding the bus shelter, eager for some reprieve from the rising wind, a hand fell on her shoulder.

She cried out, startled, and spun on the spot. She flinched back immediately, as the ragged and clearly homeless man before her raised his arm again.

“Hey, you dropped this.” A flash of derision, or perhaps well disguised hurt crossed his wind swept, flushed face almost before she could register it. He was holding out her glove.

Mortified that she had reacted so typically towards a man who must be spurned by society daily, she pulled her other glove out of her pocket and held it out to him. “I’m so sorry, I was miles away. Thank you. It’s chilly tonight, please keep them.”

“Thanks Michael,” she took the coffee her lab assistant offered her and took a thankful sip, relishing the warmth. She had spent two sleepless nights pacing her flat and was running on caffeine and nerves. She focused on Michael’s face as he started giving her a rundown of the latest test results, trying to give him her full attention.

Michael had a pleasant face and soothing demeanour and had impressed her immeasurably in the year he had been her personal lab assistant. Despite his obvious aptitude, his unfortunate flaw meant he had been overlooked by her colleagues. It’s such a shame. He really does have the loveliest eyes she thought, mesmerised by the constant twitch afflicting his left eye. I could fix that. On the work surface to her right was a jumble of the usual laboratory paraphernalia. She picked up the scalpel and unhurriedly, with a precise incision, she perforated his eye socket and sliced through the orbital nerve. There, that’ll be so much better. She wiped absently at the blood that spurted onto her cheek. For a split-second Michael gazed at her blankly, confused by the sudden movement and the blood beginning to cascade down his face. He put a hand to his eye, probing the cleanly sliced flesh, and opened his mouth to scream.

“Dr Stephens? Rosa? This is a hard copy of everything we’ve discussed.” Michael’s voice punctured her daydream as he looked at her, curiously expectant.

“Sorry, Michael. I’m a bit pre-occupied.” Surprised at her wayward thoughts, she mentally shook herself and took the proffered clipboard, scanning the data. As expected, the numbers were worse. Despite having some of the best virologists in the country working day and night, the R number of the virus was increasing. The boiling rage that had settled over her once the shock of the email had worn off arose. She held in her hands the names of the persons responsible for this senseless death. The question: how could she give this knowledge to the world and possibly find the solution to this pandemic without exposing herself to harm?

Her only option had come to her in the early hours of this morning. She was not a naïve woman, and was not prepared to trust or endanger others with this knowledge unless she could be sure it would be acted upon. For this, she needed to go right to the very top.

An emergency summit had been scheduled for a 3 days’ hence. As the leading authority on Infectious diseases, and her pioneering work with on this one, she was to share her research and her findings. 300 of the most respected and powerful physicians would be together in the same room, not to mention the six Heads of State that would be attending.

His phone buzzed against his thigh and he retrieved it, cigarette smoke jetting from his nostrils into the frigid air. The abandoned warehouse was not the most comfortable of homes, but only temporary, and necessary for his line of work. He decrypted the message and studied the information on the screen, committing it to memory. The woman was nondescript; petite, blonde and fragile looking. She wouldn’t pose a problem. Not that anyone did.

He moved around the small workspace he had created, placing a desk lamp near the lone straight-backed chair, and reaching into a duffel bag for the equipment. He switched on the powerful lamp; the glow escaping from the dirty and in some places shattered windows would go unnoticed in the stormy daylight. He reached into his hip pocket and then settled into the chair. The small black notebook was his most precious item, always carried with him. He allowed himself a moment of nostalgia as he flicked through it and came to an empty page. He opened the bottle and half- filled the dish, unaffected by the acrid smell, and with a practiced movement immersed the fleshy tip of his left index finger in the hydrochloric acid. Unmoved by the tingle of much abused nerves, he withdrew his finger after a few seconds – long enough, experience had taught him – and examined it. The skin appeared to have simultaneously exploded and melted, forming a gunky, bloody pus. Retrieving the notebook, he used his ruined finger to write two letters: initials. R.S. Relishing the sting dulled by repetition, he finished the job and expertly treated his hands. He had three days healing time, ample. This was the only way, as advanced as technology had become, to be sure; and he was not a man who made mistakes.

On the day of the summit, he scanned the room a final time, making sure that if he were not able to return here, he had left nothing incriminating behind. He had dressed for the occasion; black, many pocketed fatigues, heavy boots from which he had removed the tread, a thick black hooded sweatshirt hiding his tightly covered hair. He knew where he would lie in wait for the mark, and he would not stand out.

As he left, he caught sight of his reflection in a murky windowpane and lingered a moment. The eyes. It was all in the eyes. The windows to the soul. He did not believe in such things as the immortal soul, but to see life ebb; to be the last image to register before oblivion - that was the closest to divinity mere mortals could touch. As always, he would look into her eyes as she died, and find some semblance of peace.

As always, he collected the money first. He had made the usual arrangement with his current employer - £20,000 in unmarked notes, placed in a rucksack in a safety deposit box in Piccadilly Station. At any time of day, the station was teeming with a jumble of commuters, harried and likely too consumed by their own affairs to notice an unassuming stranger.

As was his modus operandi, he lounged against a pillar with an open newspaper and furtively watched the scurrying hordes around the bank of boxes. Nothing appeared out of place, so he retrieved the rucksack, replacing it with the duffle. He would be back to dispose of it tomorrow.

Rosa fussed with the neckline of her blouse and straightened her grey two piece. Slipping into her court shoes and coat she pinned her outdated Fedora to her hair, expecting rain. Apprehensively she rifled through her handbag again, checking the small, zipped pocket for the memory stick. Staring at herself in the mirror she resolutely set her jaw. “Showtime.”

Summit house was a short walk from the station, and mercifully the train services were running on time. The slim, tasteful Omega on her wrist informed her that it was 4.45pm, allowing her plenty of time to make the ten-minute walk to the conference centre. She walked quickly, driven on by the uneasiness that had grown exponentially over the five long days, feeling like a target on her back.

It happened very quickly and quietly, in a small side street from which she could see the apex of the gleaming building that was her destination.

As she hurried along the dimly lit, slick cobblestones a figure detached itself from the alley wall, a piece of the night come temporarily to life. Without a word it raised its arm, and as she registered the gleam off the highly polished cylinder of the handgun, she sighed softly.

This was unexpected. He stared as her posture changed, hardening subtly. She sauntered forward, a smile touching her lips as she watched his eyes widen slightly. Moving her hands slowly, she caressed her neck and trailed her hand seductively down to the top button of her blouse, unfastening it and revealing small, perfect breasts. She advanced until the cool barrel of the gun touched her skin, retaining eye contact. Waiting. As she knew they would, his eyes flickered to her exposed skin. With one hand she knocked the gun aside, while the other removed the pin securing her hat and plunged it into his eye, skewering it with a satisfying pop and driving through to his brain.

The kill had been a clean one; practice makes perfect she thought.

With hardly a hair out place, she wiped the hat pin clean on the dead man’s trousers and secured it once again in its rightful place. She picked up the discarded rucksack and swung it onto her shoulder, rechecking her outfit. She could not linger; she had somewhere to be.

“Showtime,” she repeated under her breath, a wry smile twisting her features.