As Martin staggered into the entrance area of Hell’s Kitchen he tried to cling onto the counter, pulling down a plastic pot with artificial hydrangeas.
Anouk had long since vanished.
When he’d finally made it back to his feet and out of the sickbay, all he’d seen was her back, a strip of bare skin where the hospital gown wasn’t properly tied. Then the electric doors had closed and Martin was helpless to stop the girl from leaving the quarantine area.
To hunt for the black-light markings in the ship’s bowels. Barefoot. Holding the UV torch.
His eyes filled with tears, Martin stared at the steel doors of the airlock, completely at a loss as to how he was going to open them again, that was assuming he could manage the indomitable three metres between him and the exit.
Fucking side effects.
Something – the pills, his tooth operation, his fall into the pool, his sheer exhaustion, probably a mixture of all these – had turned his head into a pressure vessel.
Every step triggered a moderate tremor, which is why it was better to think carefully about where he should go now. Towards the exit would be a pure waste of energy. Anouk had his key and without it he wouldn’t get out of here.
I’m sick. Exhausted. And locked in.
Martin felt for his phone, but it was no longer in his trouser pocket. He couldn’t recall Anouk having taken this as well while he was lying on the bathroom floor; it probably slipped out as he fell.
As he turned around his brain sloshed in the other direction. He could taste bile and smell his own sweat.
Martin wanted to lie on the floor and sleep. But if he was determined to get out of here he didn’t have any choice. He closed his eyes and felt his way back along the reception counter to the sickbay. The less he was distracted by his external senses, the greater the chance he might avoid being sick. And in fact he made better progress blind. Until he got to the cabin area there was nothing he could knock against, and he just had to keep going straight. All the while he was careful to breathe deeply to supply his brain with oxygen.
When he reached the end of the counter he waited for a moment until he was able to localise the pain in the back of his head. A good sign. So long as the pain was restricted to certain areas rather than being ubiquitous, he could focus on it and – hopefully – overcome it.
When he dared open his eyes he saw the door to Anouk’s room, which thankfully was still ajar.
Pondering what he should do if he didn’t find his mobile, Martin realised to his relief that he didn’t need it. All he had to do was press the worry button, which was connected to his mobile and… Elena’s!
Thinking of the doctor made him pause.
Why hadn’t it dawned on him straight away? He wasn’t alone down here. After the attack on Dr Beck, the ship’s doctor had also been transferred to Hell’s Kitchen!
Martin turned right.
Daniel had told him that her cabin was diagonally opposite Anouk’s. On this side of the corridor there was only one door it could be, and this was locked.
Martin screwed up his eyes tightly. The fireball beneath the left-hand side of his forehead had grown to the size of a fist, which was squashing his brain as if it were a sponge. Better than the demolition ball from earlier on. He hammered on the door. Shook the handle. Called Elena’s name. Nothing happened.
Martin massaged his neck, pressing his thumb directly onto the extension of his cervical spine, in the hope that it might increase the pain level at first before reducing it. As he did this he cocked his head to one side, looked up and, above the door saw the red lever Elena had shown him on his first visit to Hell’s Kitchen.
‘In an emergency you can unlock the door that way…’
Without hesitating, Martin pulled the lever. He heard a hydraulic hissing, then the door opened slightly inwards.
‘Elena?’
He entered the dimly lit cabin, which was furnished exactly like Anouk’s. The same blend of hotel and luxury sanatorium. The air smelled of a mixture of bad breath and room spray.
The doctor was lying on her side, head facing the door, eyes closed. In the glow of the bedside light the consequences of the attack were still unmistakeable. Swollen eyes, puffy cheeks, a bloated neck. But her breathing was regular and she didn’t appear to be in pain. He also took it as a good sign that she didn’t have any tubes in her arms or a mask on her face.
He went over to her bed and stroked her bare upper arm. When she failed to react he tried to shake her awake.
She grunted, smacked her lips softly and made a sluggish movement to knock his hand away, but he just held it there more tightly. ‘Elena, you’ve got to help me.’
Drunk with sleep, she opened her eyes and didn’t seem to recognise him at first. Only gradually did her eyes become clear.
‘Whash…’ she asked in a daze.
He bent down to her. ‘I need your key! Where is it?’
She pulled a face as if having bitten into something sour. A faint quiver around the corners of her mouth was the sign of a suppressed yawn.
‘Why, you’ve got… you… must… have…?’
Martin didn’t want to lose a second. He was locked in here, Anouk running around the ship on her own, and even if all probability dictated the opposite, his gut feeling told him that her mother was alive. And in great danger.
‘The key!’ he yelled, grabbing her by the shoulders.
Terrified, Elena looked to the chair on the left, over which a dressing gown and her uniform were hanging. Martin understood without the need for any words.
He limped to the chair, feeling first in her trousers, but then found it in the breast pocket of her blouse.
‘Where are you going?’ he heard Elena’s hoarse voice say when he was at the door.
He turned around. ‘Do you have any idea what the blue shelf is?’
The doctor’s eyes opened wide.
‘The blue shelf?’ she asked, her elbows digging into the mattress to push her up.
‘Yes.’
Elena threw off the duvet, beneath which she’d been lying in just panties and a T-shirt. Her eyes flashed with distress.
‘Why didn’t I think of that immediately!’ She tried to stand up, but needed a second attempt because she fell back on the bed at the first.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked when she was finally on her feet.
‘We’ve got no time to lose,’ she said, grabbing the dressing gown. ‘Quick. I’ll… I’ll take you there.’