The Neon Court (14 page)

“Sorry,” I heard myself mumble to the sound of the engine starting up again. “I … uh … I’m a little fried.” I fumbled for the grab-handle above the car window, and clung to it as the fuzzy mishmash of lights just beyond the black smoke of my vision swung into motion. “Hey – full marks on the driving. Ten out of ten. Gold star.”

Brick Lane to Bart’s Hospital was a journey barely worth the petrol it burnt.

I felt the moment we passed across the old line of the city wall, like an electric shock to the belly. I saw the tunnel beneath the Barbican as a continual flicker of whiteness overhead. I felt the streets into Smithfield as a surge in the number of traffic humps beneath our wheels.

Penny parked with merry illegality outside what sounded like a pub, karaoke in full, unintelligible swing. Someone inside was torturing a hippo to a theme by Abba. I heard a glass smash and a bubble of noise. Somewhere else, a lorry with dodgy suspension rumbled by. I smelt old
magic, flecked with washed-down blood and sawdust from the meat market. The door opened beside me, Penny’s arm found mine. “Where we going?” she asked.

“The church.”

“Hey, I’ve got time for Jesus and all, but you really think this is the right fucking moment?”

“The A and E at Bart’s got shut down years ago,” I growled, “but they kept a department open in the church.”

“Fine,” she sighed. “You’re the semi-hysterical half-blind blood-splattered one. It’ll just make my night listening to you.” She pulled me out of the car, held me by the arm, whispered, “They’re all staring at us.”

“Who?”

“The guys in suits, the City pricks at the pub. They’re staring.”

“What the hell is wrong with the time?” I snarled. “What are they doing at the pub?”

“Yeah, you’re semi-hysterical, remember? Can it.”

We turned a corner, the quality of the sound changing, fading, confined. I felt my way with one hand and my fingers brushed flint, jagged sharp edges and old worn stones. I could smell grass and hear the
whush whush whush
of a fan spinning in a nearby vent. Penny pushed at something in front of me and my shoulder bumped a wooden door. The air grew warmer, smelling of wax, thin smoke and wood polish. I heard a couple of voices, American, echoing incoherently in the darkness, whispers caught and amplified by hard stone.

“OK, church, whatever. Where now?” hissed Penny in my ear.

“Crypt.”

“And
now
you’re taking the piss.”

“Isn’t there supposed to be this teacher–student relationship?” I growled. “Isn’t it the one where I tell you something and you accept it?”

“Uh-uh. See, my cousin Chenaara, right, she went to fucking uni and it was all ‘question the system’ and ‘you gotta find out for yourself’ shit, so no, I don’t think I do have to accept a word you say.”

“Let me rephrase. Please take me to the bloody crypt, Penny, before I scream loud enough to caramelise your small intestine!”

“It’s only because we’re in a house of God that I ain’t fucking answering that,” she replied primly, but our feet shuffled, and we did move.

I felt stairs.

What little light there’d been, faded.

Our footsteps were the only thing in the darkness, apart from the smell of damp and a rapid decline in temperature. We paused. I heard a knocking, and reached out to feel thick cool wood embedded with hard bolts. The knocking came again. There was the cranking of bolts, the groan of hinges that no amount of oiling could revive. A cheerful voice said, “You here to bury the dead or what?”

“Don’t tempt me,” replied Penny.

I felt a rush of cool air as the door was opened further, and the voice said, “Hey! You
are
here to bury the dead!”

An elbow nudged my ribs. “She’s talking about you,” Penny whispered. “Bet you wish you respected me now, huh?”

“We’re looking for the Saint Bartholomew Hospital A and E,” I groaned.

“Shut down years ago,” came the merry reply. “UCH’s your next-best bet.”

“We’re looking for the A and E for
other
sorts of troubles.”

“Other?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” snapped Penny. “For fucking magical fucking medical emergencies!”

“I know that,” said the voice, delighted at its own entertainment. “I was just fucking with you for kicks. You’d better come on in.”

Penny and the unknown voice laid me down on something cold, flat and hard.

I said, “This had better not be someone’s tomb, right?”

There was a silence.

Then, “No,” soothed Penny. “No, it just
feels
like someone’s tomb because of its … uh … its … you know. Qualities and shit.”

My fingers quested to the edge, found their way round and down. “There’s a slab. With carvings of people underneath it,” I said. “This guy’s holding a skull.”

“OK, so it
is
someone’s tomb, but haven’t you heard? The NHS is in crisis!”

I heard footsteps in the darkness, a sudden liquid squelch, smelt the peculiar boiled-onion stench of antiseptic hand gel, heard the cheerful voice proclaim, “So, you’re like … so totally fucked inside your brain, aren’t you?”

I said, “Penny, please assure me that the owner of this voice strikes you as being a qualified professional.”

Another long, peculiar silence. Then, “Yeah. Yeah, that’s exactly what she looks like. Like totally.”

“You know, I think I’ve treated you before,” said the voice. “If your eyes weren’t like, sorta totally full of blood and stuff, I’d definitely say that you looked familiar. You’re not the guy who keeps on getting beaten up by inexplicable mystic darknesses, are you?”

“Oh! That’s him!” exclaimed Penny. “That’s totally him!”

“Hey!” A fist punched me affectionately in the shoulder. “How’s it all going with you? Remember me? Dr Seah? I’ve given you like … oh … shitloads of drugs in my time, remember?”

“Hi. I’d shake your hand but …”

“Totally get it – no worries! Everything OK with you?”

“Not really,” I growled.

“Some shit, huh? Hey – you see this light?”

“Yes, I see it,” I groaned as yellow-whiteness flared across my vision.

“Hear any buzzing in your ears, tinnitus, hum … throbbing, pulsing?”

“You want a medical answer to that, or am I allowed to get personal?”

“I’ll take that as a ‘no’. Experiencing dizziness, nausea, loss of muscle control, loss of bowel control?”

“Don’t push me.”

“Well” – another merry punch to my shoulder – “you’re clearly not too bad otherwise you wouldn’t be an
issue patient
.” She lowered her voice, and in a conspiratorial tone clearly intended for Penny’s delight, added, “We have to say
issues
these days because ‘problem patient’ is considered too negative and unsympathetic. It’s all about empathy, you see?”

A little weak “uh” noise was all that got through Penny’s self-restraint. Fingers probed around the hollows of my eyes. I heard the snapping of thin rubber gloves. Something sticky and plastic was torn. Something cool and damp rubbed away at my face. “Now! A few standard questions for the history. Do you have any known allergies to medication?”

“No.”

“Any history of kidney problems?”

“No.”

“Any history of liver problems?”

“No.”

“Have you at any point dabbled with necromantic powers that might affect your cellular structure?”

“Um … well, I was dead for two years,” I admitted. “But since my body was dissolved into raw energy that roamed the telephone wires for that time, I don’t really think it counts as ‘necromantic powers’.”

“I’ll put you down as a ‘no’, shall I?”

“If you say so.”

Papers rustled. Something cold and round pressed against my chest. “Breathe in … and out … and in … hey, still breathing normally, what’s the problem, you big baby? Are you, to your knowledge, cursed?”

“Haven’t checked for a while.”

“You don’t look cursed. No flaking skin, no rapid hair loss, no protruding veins, no talking in tongues … I figure another ‘no’. Have you at any point shared a blood link with any of the following: sacred mystical vessels, the undead, demons incarnate, devils incarnate, ectoplasmic interventions, vampires, werewolves, the polymorphically unstable in general, or …”

“None of the above.”

“… or creatures from the nether regions of creation?”

“No.” I heard a little cough from Penny. “All right,” I snapped. “So I guess you could say that I shared a bit of blood with a creature from the nether regions.” Another cough, firmer this time. “All right! So I sort of am a creature from the nether regions.”

A gentle sigh from Dr Seah. As breezy as a spring morning. “And … which particular creature would this be?”

“We are the blue electric angels,” we growled. “We wear this flesh but our fire is forever raging. We were summoned out of the telephone lines and I came when we were called, two in one, we wear my flesh to walk this earth. I’m sorry, is this medically relevant?”

“I
see
.” Pen skidded over paper. Paper was turned. Pen continued to skid.

After a while Penny said, “So … you can help him, right?”

“What? Oh yes, I think so. Oh look – unhealed fresh burn marks too. You haven’t been looking after yourself properly, have you?”

“Should I have mentioned being trapped in a fire in the medical history?” I asked meekly.

“In the context of having your brain, like, explode? Probably not medically relevant. Just one last question – how was this particular injury inflicted?”

“I looked into the eyes of a woman with a hole in her heart and black pudding in the sockets of her face who stood in the middle of a world turned to darkness.”

“There you are again with those inexplicable darknesses! Well, I wouldn’t want to speculate, but based on …” Fingers prodded my face, pulling at the lids of my eyes and turning my head this way and that. “… based on what I can see here, you’re very lucky that your brain isn’t dribbling out of your nose! I mean, obviously, it’s unorthodox, and not really my field, but if you’d looked much longer you’d probably be like totally dead. Don’t quote me on that, though – we’d need further testing to be sure. I don’t suppose this woman wants to come in for a check-up?”

“Dr Seah,” snapped Penny. “Like, loving the white coat and shit, all very sexy, but can you help him or not?”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “You shouldn’t believe everything Sarah Palin says about the NHS.”

There were noises.

Something that sounded too much like a food processor for comfort.

A machine that beeped when it was done.

Plastic being torn.

Zips being unzipped.

Then something bit my right knee.

“Ow,” I offered. “What’s my knee ever done to you?”

“Burns,” Dr Seah’s voice explained merrily from somewhere in the gloom. “No point patching up your bleeding eyes if you then go and get complications from unsterilised burns, is there? Since you don’t look too sure, let me answer that one for you. No, there isn’t! We pride ourselves on our thoroughness and comprehensive service, especially after that last lawsuit …”

“OK, this place, officially freaking me out,” Penny added reasonably.

“You freak freak freak me out!” sang Dr Seah. There was a brief silence. “Sorry,” she said finally. “Was I the only one who found that funny?”

“This is what my life has come to,” I groaned. “Look, thrilled though I am at the care and attention being slavered on my kneecap, can we do something about my sight before I have to face off against a rampaging unknown evil again?”

“Oh, your sight will return of its own accord. Sorry, didn’t I mention?”

“No!” shouted Penny.

“No!” I agreed. “When?”

“In about … oh … a week and a half.”

“Dr Seah, I haven’t got a week and a half.”

“Busy busy busy,” she sighed. “
Fine
.” I heard footsteps shuffling over stones, the sound of something metal with a latch being opened. “Technically, this hasn’t been approved yet …” Something went
splat
into the bottom of a beaker. Glass tinkled on glass. “… but I figure, you know, fuck ‘em.”

“Penny? What the hell is going on?” I moaned.

“Um … well, uh … there’s this stuff that looks like pigeon shit being mixed with this other stuff that looks like chopped tomato …”

“Forget I asked.”

I heard the faintest clink of something being set down behind my right ear. “Now,” said Dr Seah, her voice directly overhead, “this is going to be a peculiar experience, but I want to make it clear – no silly buggers in my crypt! I won’t have you do the whole electric flashy flash zingy business just because you can’t hack a little basic healing magic, OK?”

“OK,” I heard myself murmur.

“Excellent!”

Then a pair of fingers built like the foundations of the Eiffel Tower locked around the socket of my left eye, pulled the eyelid back, and something burning cold and full of teeth was dolloped onto my eyeball.

It was some time later.

I sat on the edge of a cold stone slab with two cotton-wool pads tied with bandage over my eyes and a cup of tea clasped in my hands like
the Holy Grail. I focused on the heat; the heat was a good distraction from the desire to prod my eyeballs. We wondered if this was what it felt like to have a glass eye, albeit one two sizes too big for your head and kept in the refrigerator overnight. I could hear the sound of running water and the snap of rubber gloves. I felt a gentle nudge in the ribs.

“I thought you were very brave,” said Penny loyally.

“Cheers.”

“Apart from the bit where you shrieked like a girl.”

The running water stopped. A tin rattled. “We appreciate donations towards the tea bags,” said Dr Seah. “20p is the standard contribution.”

I heard the sound of change being rattled, and a coin falling into a surprisingly full-sounding container. “Keep it, have it, it’s yours,” sighed Penny. “How long’s this lemon” – another nudge in my ribs – “gotta keep the bandages on?”

“Oh … five to six hours?” suggested Dr Seah. “And after that I’d really,
really
recommend not looking straight into the eye of any wandering mystic darknesses for at least another week. Here’s the leaflet.”