SPOILED 2 - part seven (Patreon)

Mr Swan was stressed. Mr Swan did not do stress. Stress was for the inferior masses, for sweaty dumb animals and their meaningless trivialities, not for a man who had carved his own palace out of the side of a mountain, a man who commanded his own island.

So why, then, did this insipid business with these damned detectives plague his mind so? The investigation on the mainland had thus far worked its way back to Scotland, so he’d been informed, to Mr Falcon and his little Castle (so twee, when compared to a Palace, but that was the lower tiers for you). Mr Swan would have to have the staff at Lochlandrie brought over for questioning. It was all becoming rather tedious.

And asking the Greys to share notes was out of the question. They weren’t welcome here and never would be, those conniving parasites.

He sighed, willing himself (not for the first time) to concentrate on the iPad in his hands whilst he reclined, elegant chaise cradling his back, a lightly perspiring footstool supporting his bare feet. Every now and then the footstool would cast nervous glances to Vashti the white tiger who was chewing on raw steak nearby, her tail swishing this way and that.

This was one of Mr Swan’s favourite parts of the Palace, this vast open space overlooking his gardens where the steady stream of indoor canals merged with the outdoor waterways and fountains. Above, the marble pillared ceilings met with the natural mountain rock, form and nature fusing beautifully. From here was the perfect vantage point to watch his blown-up staff attend the flowerbeds ahead. Mr Swan’s gardens would have been the envy of Babylon. He loved seeing the grossly-pumped staff toil and sweat out there, struggling to cope with their warped, swollen bodies. The persistent rush from the canals often reminded him of the village he’d grown up in - and out of - during his youth. But it would bring no peace today.

Perhaps embodying this thought was an overtly rotund assistant who’d waddled up beside Mr Swan’s chaise, careful not to stare at the massive belly of the lain man Mr Swan was using as a footstool, nor the gorging tiger just feet away.

‘Your, uh, weekly report, my Lord,’ he said politely, eyes down.

Mr Swan did grow so tired of his underlings’ scared little ‘um’s and ‘ah’s. He looked lazily up from his iPad.

‘Yes, yes, let’s have it, then,’ he sighed.

The assistant swallowed.

‘No, ah… no developments from this month’s ceremony, my Lord.’

Mr Swan hardly needed to be told this. It was the same as ever.

‘Fine. And?’

‘Uhh, maintenance work ongoing in the South-East quadrant. All on schedule…’ He flicked a glance at Vashti, who’d snarled at her meat. ‘We, ah… we have, however, recently lost another candidate…’

A lengthy exhalation followed from The Master, this being an entirely expected outcome.

‘I…’ The large assistant swallowed again. ‘I propose, my Lord, selection of a new candidate during the next dormitory round-up, which is due quite soon. Two birds with one stone.’

‘Fine.’ Mr Swan waved his hand impatiently. ‘Keep it as efficient as possible. And if our dear doctor tries to withhold any favourites, the guards have my permission to override his judgement.’

‘Yes, my Lord.’ The fat man bowed even deeper. ‘There is one feedee - a fairly recent arrival, I’m told - whom Dr Nightingale seems to have taken a particular fondness toward.’

‘Then make him our new candidate. Snatch him away from the good doctor. I’ll not have Nightingale playing favourites,’ Mr Swan stated plainly.

‘Yes, my Lord.’

But Mr Swan noticed the obese assistant wasn’t moving away. There was a dithering in the man’s composure; his lips were twitching.

‘What else?’ Mr Swan rolled his eyes.

There came smacking of lips and shaping of the mouth before any reply. ‘We… we may have picked up something on the, uh… on the North Side, my Lord…’

Mr Swan laid his iPad down beside him on the chaise, his attention pricked. There wasn’t supposed to be any activity on the North Side of The Island.

‘Yes?’

Another protracted swallow.

‘Cameras have picked up what - what appears to be two figures, uh…’

Mr Swan sat upright, prompting curiosity from Vashti. If rogue staff were loitering in parts of his island where they oughtn’t be, punishments would be dealt. If escapee fatboys were involved, heads would roll. Literally.

He removed his feet from the footstool, causing it to huff out relieved breaths. However, Vashti chose to stand, her bloody steak now forgotten, her senses on high alert.

The fat assistant couldn’t stop his eyes from flitting to her claws, each the size of kitchen knives.

‘They, er…,’ he faltered, ‘they appear to match the… uh, description of the two…’ A large gulp while a sinister growl grew in the depths of the white tiger’s throat, ‘the two detectives, my Lord.’

At this, Mr Swan stood, joining the beautiful big cat beside him who’d perhaps interpreted this as a cue of sorts, for she took a low stance, her growl now revving like a motorbike.

The assistant whimpered, and felt the need to add, ‘Th-th detectives we’ve… we’ve been-‘

‘Yes I know which fucking detectives you’re blathering on about, you halfwit!’ Mr Swan spat.

And in that moment Vashti made to pounce, but-

PHWEEEE!

A short, sharp whistle from her master paused the tiger in her tracks. She raised her head toward Mr Swan.

He stroked the furry scalp between her ears, scratched the ruff of her neck, which she apparently appreciated.

The fat assistant let out the longest sigh of relief any man had ever expelled.

‘Not now, my love,’ Mr Swan cooed soothingly to Vashti. ‘Soon. But not now.’ Then he returned his gaze to the quivering moron before him.

‘Well, why are you still fucking standing there?’ he snarled. ‘Get out and FIND those detectives!’

****

‘So we find ourselves on this island - pretty sure it’s The Island where we were told there’d be some kind of Rookery - quote, unquote - nerve centre. Well, there’s certainly something here, though we can’t be sure yet - Oop! Nearly tripped, it’s dark in here…’

Manni kept up this dialogue into his phone while traversing the cramped access tunnel, having felt a need to record down his and Sweet’s experiences thus far.

Arthur lumbered behind him. The going was gloomy but the journey had hitherto been a straight, slow descent, very much compounding the feeling that they were plumbing depths they really shouldn’t be. Occasional rattlings of the walls and flooring indicated likely transit activity just beyond the pipework. The tram system was surely coming and going, back and forth, while the big men snuck beside it unseen.

Sweet couldn’t help but find some humour in his partner’s vlogger-style ramblings (‘And after the welcome centre - well, we think it was a welcome centre but it was a little bit post-apocalyptic in there - we followed these old tire tracks through, well, it was pretty much a jungle and fuck my life it was hot…’). The levity of this ended up turning to a sting inside Arthur’s girthy breast; things between the former detectives had hardly thawed. He wanted to put his stupid, impulsive proclamation of feelings behind him and just… Well, Arthur took full responsibility for the subsequent awkward pall that had come down between them like a storefront shutter.

For a brief moment he’d felt warmth return when Manni’d laid a hand on his belly. But they were to be withdrawn in a flash, sensation and hand both.

All Arthur wanted to do was reach out and hold the man in front of him. And kiss him. And envelope Manni with his bloody great big belly as he so loved to do. The feel of such enormous musculature sinking into him, his own chubby, middle-aged cheeks pressing back against Manni’s chiseled, unbelievably handsome face… The feel of the younger man’s hair through his sausage fingers…

And then there’d been that business with the scotch eggs. Being fed. Well, overfed, by the man he… he…

(Don’t), Sweet told himself, plodding along while Dey continued prattling, ‘… Some kind of ceremony on a hill, we saw them holding torches in a sort of procession thing…’.

(Just do what you came here to do, old man. Find and record whatever Rookery malarkey is going on in this place - ‘Cos Lord knows some bloody funny business is going on - and get out without being seen. Easier said than done, of course.)

‘… there was a monorail station in the mountain - actually in the mountain! Looks like there might be a whole network in here ‘cos there was this map, like a subway map…’ Dey went on.

(He feels something for me, I’m sure he does), Arthur reasoned to himself in the darkness. (Maybe not what I feel, but something. I just thought… Well, got me hopes up, didn’t I? It don’t bloody matter what I thought. I was wrong.)

But in spite of every oddity they had come across since finding themselves shipwrecked here on this island, it was the previous night that Arthur’s mind kept returning to. The scotch eggs.

He very much wanted Manni to feed him again.

But Sweet had to concede, as he trudged within this gloomy network of pipes and wires, the possibility of that ever happening again, such an intimate act, was uncertain at best.

****

SMASH!

Every head in the mess hall swivelled to Reece’s corner.

‘Oh, bugger,’ he grimaced as he reached down to try and fix the mess he’d caused when his bowl of beef stew (his 4th that morning) had slipped from the small table. Pieces of it lay everywhere.

‘Are you okay? Do you need a hand?’ Lucas asked in genuine concern as he watched Reece get down on his knees to pick up the pieces and wipe rather ineffectively with napkins.

‘I’m fine,’ Reece muttered. All his added fat was making even simple tasks such as these more cumbersome. ‘It just-‘

‘Leave it!’ A guard barked, suddenly right beside the lads’ table.

‘It just slipped out of my hand…,’ Reece began.

‘Leave it where it is!’ the guard insisted. This one was the size of an oak tree. ‘Someone’ll clean that up. Sit back down and keep eating!’

Reece couldn’t stop himself from scowling, even in passing, as he did as he was commanded. He parked his spreading rear back into his groaning utilitarian chair and snatched a bread roll, biting down with a frown.

‘He didn’t mean it…,’ Lucas added pathetically to the back of the guard who was already stomping away and crossing a compatriot bearing a replacement bowl which was slammed down before Reece.

As foretold, an extremely fat cleaner came to wipe away the mess not long after.

‘Are you sure you’re okay, Reece?’ Not-so-little-anymore-Lucas asked with his usual wide, angelic eyes. Only now they were set against a fatter, rounder face. Lucas’s cheeks were blowing up into cherublike bulbs, his double chin coming thick and fast.

Reece just grunted and got to eating, soaking his bread in the admittedly-delicious stew, glaring back at any fatboys left gawking.

Things were not progressing apace the way he’d anticipated. Both he and the yank were still stuck here; Reece had risen that morning with a renewed gnaw of impatience in his sizeable gut. A feeling of numbered days. Of expiration.

The two roommates ate on quietly on for a while, the mess hall around them refilling with its regular sounds of jilting chair legs and gossip.

But it wasn’t long before the air was perforated by the arrival of the head guard, easily the biggest (and fugliest) of them all, stepping slowly and purposefully into the centre of the hall, his hands at his warped back. Each feasting fatboy quietened down, eyes pulled from plate to guard.

The big, powerful lug took in the room, looking smug with the satisfaction that his mere presence here commanded exacting attention. He took an unnecessarily slow breath before speaking.

‘Listen up, fatboys!’ he boomed, letting his gaze quest about the tables. ‘It’s that time again. Stop what you’re doing and focus. I’m going to call out a list of names. If you hear your name, you will stand and proceed from the mess hall with one of my colleagues here…’

(”Colleagues”), Reece thought contemptuously. (Fucking please.)

But in Lucas an altogether brighter response had sparked. He let out a sharp little gasp and hissed in Reece’s ear,

‘Is this it? Are they picking out guys for The Palace?’

‘Shhh!’

‘… You will leave your table immediately and you will not talk or ask questions, are we understood?’ The head guard clearly wasn’t expecting verbal responses, and appeared to take the ensuing silence as all the answer he needed. He then produced a thin notepad from his pocket and squinted.

‘Ed Stuart!’ he read aloud.

A chair scraped backwards and a fair-haired, pear-shaped man in his late 20s stood, looking vaguely terrified. He followed the beckoning of a huge hand at the entrance, and was soon escorted from the mess hall.

‘Paul Penrose!’

Another fat man stood. Dark glasses, thinning hair, moobs that squidged round to his sides, pushing his heavy arms outwards. He waddled uncertainly from the room.

‘Gaston Diaz!’

And so it went. More names were yelled out, and a succession of overweight men answered the call, teetering in fear before disappearing from sight. 7 gainers rose and left, only darkening Reece’s spirit. He felt his jaw tighten, his brows so knotted they were manifesting a headache within him.

But then,

‘And the final fatso, Lucas Arlington!’

Lucas’s second gasp was far less restrained. He damn-near inhaled the tablecloth. He stood slowly, now shaking.

‘R-Reece, what do I do?’ he flapped.

‘NO talking!’ bellowed the massive head guard.

(Fuck!) Reece had just about resigned himself to the notion that Lucas wasn’t going to get picked, and now suddenly felt mentally unprepared.

(Time’s up! It’s now or never…)

‘He needs me!’ Reece blurted out, chewed bread flying. ‘I need to go with him!’

‘I said NO talking, the pair of you!’

Mild surprise then occurred in Reece at hearing his podgy roommate answer back:

‘B-But I really do need him…,’ Lucas bleated like a farm animal. ‘Please… You gotta let him come…’

In two and a half footsteps the head guard was in their faces, his own a torrent of rage and disbelief.

‘Are you two fucking DEAF? When I say no talking, I mean NO FUCKING TALKING!’

Reece felt the man’s spittle land on his cheeks, and steeled himself for an almighty slap.

‘He won’t cope without me,’ he explained to the mammoth man. He damned well knew not to answer back, but this was his one and only ticket into The Palace. His last chance. ‘You don’t know what he’s li-‘

WHACK!

There it came, practically dislocating Reece’s jaw. A backhand so hard the sound presaged the pain. And what pain it was. A sting across Reece’s face like no other. Wrecking balls might’ve landed more softly. He swore and felt at the cheek that would surely bruise.

‘Please, Sir,’ Lucas tried again, thoroughly convinced he would not survive a minute by himself, because Reece had worked hard to instill this conviction. ‘We’ve been good, w-we’re good guys… I just… I can’t cope without him… I’m sorry…’ And he instinctively winced, expecting a similar strike.

The head guard rolled his eyes that were already close to the ceiling and let out a sigh so powerful it actually blew at Lucas’s hair.

‘For fuck‘s sake,’ he growled. Then the brute turned back to his subordinates at the mess hall entrance, who each shrugged.

One offered, ‘We’ve been trying to get rid of that one for ages,’ nodding stiffly at Reece.

Their leader visibly seethed, before issuing an animalistic growl and adding, ‘Both of you, get the fuck out of my sight before I change my mind,’ without ever parting his teeth.

‘Thank you thank you thank you!’ Lucas breathed and almost skipped his way out of the mess hall, looking like a cartoon.

Reece knew better than to meet the huge man’s eye. He stood silently and followed the little fat lamb out of this place, finally free of the mess hall and, soon, the goddamned dorms altogether.

Good fucking riddance.

‘We’re doing it, Reece!’ Lucas attempted a whisper as the pair of them were led away. ‘We’re going to The Palace! We’re gonna get out of here!’

Reece merely nodded.

He felt at the shard of ceramic bowl in his pocket still streaked with spilt beef stew, all while a hefty guard prompted them onwards.

(One of us is making it to The Palace, you gullible twat), he thought, hand tightening around this makeshift shiv.

Apparently there was to be no stopping by their dorm room on the way out. Not that Reece had ever owned any possessions here, outside of a few changes of unexciting clothes thrust unceremoniously upon him over the course of his fattening. He, Lucas and the 7 other fatboys were marched straight from the mess hall to the tram station and ordered to sit in the awaiting carriage, none able to contain their nervous energy, fat fidgeting every which way. The tram doors soon slid to a neat close, hulking escorts choosing to remain standing, and the vehicle pulled away into the dark tunnels ahead.

(This should be perfect), Reece thought. (Swan Palace is the last stop on the map.) He’d taken every opportunity to study the stencilled map whenever ferried about on the transit system. (That buys me plenty of time. I just need to make some kind of fuss, cause a distraction while we’re en route, and then do it. Fucking plunge this shiv into that chubby blonde shit and get him out of the picture once and for all. My foot’s in the door now, I’m going to The Palace; that’s settled. Bye bye, Lucas. You served your purpose, mate…)

Hearsay arose from the restless fatboys, because of course it did; they had nothing better to do.

‘You reckon it’s true that they treat you way better at The Palace?’

‘If Mr Swan picks you as one of his favourites, you get treated like a prince, that’s what they say.’

‘Have you heard about his pet lion? He lets it roam around by itself.’

‘Fuck off. There’s no way a lion is just wandering around free. It would fucking eat someone!’

‘Well… There’s rumours…’

‘Bullshit.’

‘Have you ever actually met Mr Swan?’

‘Nope, but Ferris did once. Said he didn’t speak much.’

‘I wonder what he’s like?’

‘D’you think he looks like the mask? You know when we’re doing the ceremony? D’you think the mask is, like, a cast of his face or whatever? ‘Cos that’d make sense, what with the words we have to say and everything… Like, wishing Mr Swan had all the power or whatever.’

‘Do you think any of the wishes we make at the ceremony ever come true, then?’

‘Of course they fucking don’t. This ain’t a fairytale, dipshit. Wishes don’t come true in real life!’

‘Even if they did, it would only have to work once, wouldn’t it, genius? For Mr Swan to have “ultimate power”, whatever that even means.’

‘It’s all a load of utter bollocks, I don’t know why we have to say those stupid words anyway…’

'Some stupid old legend or something.'

Christ, it was hard for Reece to think amid all this brainless chit-chat!

Occasionally the strip lights of the tram carriage would fritz out, causing periods of blackout, but was that going to be long enough for him to execute the plan? The window of timing was short, and risky. They could flick back on and Reece would get caught in the act at a moment’s notice. Had to keep thinking…

Outside, only the black interior of the mountain rushed past in a roaring whoosh. Sometimes a pinprick of light denoting whatever quadrant would whip past.

‘D’you think they’ll give us all roles? At The Palace? I heard that can happen.’ The speculation went on.

‘And you get your own apartment. Super plush like.’

Reece had an idea. Maybe. He let his tongue do the thinking, adding to the chatter.

‘You never know, if they give us jobs, we might end up working together,’ he told one of the standing guards with a smirk, just bullshitting on the spot. ‘Maybe I’ll even get lumped working with you lot, haha.’

‘Shut up,’ came a flat, unseeing reply.

‘Hey, maybe we’ll all get given guard duty, eh lads?’ Reece asked of his lardy compatriot fatboys, which brought about light agreement.

‘I said shut up!’

But Reece stood. He was making this up as he went along. But then, wasn’t that his chief skill?

‘Maybe in time one of us will end up telling you what to do, huh? Imagine that, haha,’ he jibed to the guard again.

And this caused as much laughter among the fatboys as it did rage in their keepers.

‘Shut the fuck up and sit down - now!’

(This might work…) Reece’s mind wheeled with every rumble and rattle of this tram. (Now that I’m on my feet, I could stumble… I could “fall”… fall into Lucas… at just the right moment…)

His hand tightened around the ceramic shiv in his pocket.

(’Specially if the lights bug out, even for a quick minute… I could do it without ever being seen…)

This could work. No-one would suspect him.

(Next time the tram rattles, I fall into fuckin’ Humpty Dumbass there, along with this little makeshift blade… Oops, did it land in your gut? Or in your throat, better yet…)

Reece felt his heart accelerate. He was gonna do it. Right now. He had this.

(Then I just offload this broken shard into someone else’s hands while Lumpy Lucas bleeds out… No-one will ever know. They won’t be able to prove a thing. Not if I do it right…)

One of the guards had moved in closer.

(Not yet…

Not yet…)

‘Reece, maybe you should sit down…?’ Lucas opined pathetically.

But Reece still had the situation in his grasp. All laid out before him. He had this.

‘How much you wanna bet we get to The Palace, they take one look at me and put me in charge of these bozos?’ he asked jeeringly of his captive crowd, turning to them in just the right way, positioning his body… This was it… ‘I bet you anything-‘

The tram rattled violently. Reece lost his footing. And not in a way he’d anticipated but it didn’t matter anyway - A meaty hand was on his shoulder and the shiv was snagged on the inner fabric of his pocket; it wouldn’t come out.

As the lights fitted momentarily, Reece fell awkwardly back into his seat, and his shirt, still gripped tightly by the guard he’d so thoroughly succeeded in pissing off, ripped loudly in half. Then the train started slowing.

Another guard proclaimed, ‘We’re here.’ And a state of total confusion took Reece in full.

He tried to wrap the tatters of his shirt back around his bulbous body, tried to think. His plan was slipping away like a waterlogged sandcastle.

‘We - What? We can’t be there yet!’

He hadn’t gotten to fall into Lucas and plunge the ceramic shard deep into that stupid, angelic boy’s flesh. There was no time to try again now.

(No! Fuck!)

He saw the stop emerging ahead, recognising it instantly.

‘That’s… that’s The Lab!’

The hefty man still towering over him, hunk of torn fabric in one giant fist, drank in Reece’s consternation, grinning widely.

‘What the fuck?’ another fatboy asked. ‘I thought we were going to The Palace?’

‘Reece, what’s going on?’ Lucas shot him those ridiculous, innocent eyes, but Reece couldn’t meet them.

He needed to think…

But the tram was slowing. Slowing. Stopping with a little overshooting lurch.

‘What’s happening?’ a different feedee piped up.

‘Lab first. For processing,’ a guard grunted. ‘Up!’

This was all getting away from Reece, evading his grasp. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go.

(The plan… The shiv… Lucas…)

It wasn’t long before the carriage doors were sliding back open, permitting entry to the all-too-familiar sights and smells of The Lab station.

But something else was wrong.

There was no time for Reece to curse this unexpected turn.

He and the other fat lads were corralled from the tram and out through the station, soon finding themselves at the entry corridor to The Lab.

The place was in utter chaos.

Doctors. Guards. Nurses. Orderlies. Plump, confused-looking patients wandering around. An alarm was sounding, nearly splitting Reece’s ears open. Flashing red lights punctuated each hallway. More guards were shoving their way through the crowd, making for the tram station, plowing through the new arrivals, Reece and Lucas included.

‘Stand aside!’

‘Get out of the fucking way!’

‘Fuck’s going on?’

‘Ow! Don’t fucking shove me!’

‘Where are these ones going?’

‘Intruders spotted at North Side.’

‘Intruders?!’

‘Wait, what?’

‘Fucking MOVE!’

‘Where you going?’

‘Come with me, this way.’

‘What?’

‘He shouldn’t be out of his room, someone take care of this mess!’

‘I can hardly hear you!’

Reece was pushed and pulled, jostled and grabbed. He couldn’t see the others anymore. Where was Lucas?

‘Oi! OI!’ he shouted into the throng of burly bodies scrambling every which way.

Then a snippet of curly blonde hair in the crush, and,

‘Reece! Reece!’

Reece caught the slightest glimpse of a bulked orderly pulling Lucas away, and heard the broken words.

‘This one… candidate… prepped…’

‘Lucas! Hey! Heeey!’ he roared, voice barely able to compete with the dammed sirens.

A hand locked itself around Reece’s wrist.

‘You, boy! What are you doing here?’

‘I was - I -‘

He was pulled so fiercely Reece thought his arm might snap, squeezed through yet more guards, bearing down the opposite corridor from Lucas’s.

‘No! Wait!’ he panicked, unable to see his roommate nor the other gainers he’d arrived with. ‘I’m meant to be with that kid back there, his name’s Lucas! Listen to me!’

But clearly the enormous nurse wasn’t up for listening; amid the tumult he continued to pull at Reece’s struggling arm. A flurry of guards shouldered their way around them for a moment.

‘Listen to me! I was with a group! We were specially chosen! For The Palace!’ Reece found himself practically screaming to be heard. ‘My roommate, Lucas, we were-‘

He was tugged again in an overly-violent fashion, away from this corridor, further into the network of identical white hallways, swathes of guards still running toward the station. Lab staff appeared furious that this, the severest of alarms, had interrupted their work and was causing so much carnage.

‘Come on, you! Get a move on!’ The nurse barked.

‘I’m not - I’m not supposed to be going…’ Reece felt into his pocket and noticed a hole in the fabric. At some point during all of this insanity he must have lost the shiv; his trousers now bore only emptiness. ‘They picked me, from the dorm…!’

‘Of course they did,’ the nurse replied loudly with a hint of eye-roll. ‘It’s back to Ward J with you now.’

This was wrong. And it was all happening so fast. And this fucking nurse’s grip was like steel. Reece could barely keep up, his feet half-dragging along the Lab tiles.

‘I’m not meant to be in Ward J!’ he cried out, still doing his damndest to liberate his wrist.

They suddenly stopped before a door that looked just like all the others; with one knock from the huge nurse it slid open, two junior doctors in face masks appearing in the entrance.

‘This one’s got no wristband,’ the nurse grunted to them. ‘Meant to be here apparently, but tried to do a runner.’

‘What? No! No, that’s not-‘ Reece tried to protest.

‘Fine, bring him in,’ responded one doctor wearily, voice hoarse from having to speak up over the alarms. ‘We’ll soon have him plugged.’

(Plugged?)

Reece had heard of this phrase, but no-one back at the dorms had ever been sure what it was, exactly. There was little hope of it being a pleasant experience.

‘This is wrong!’ Reece took another useless shot at freeing his arm. ‘I’m in the wrong place!’

‘Sure you are, fatboy,’ the other junior doctor replied with fallen eyelids.

Reece felt himself cajoled into this Lab room, clinical as ever, beeping and hissing machinery all around.

‘Th - there was - Lucas!’ he panicked. ‘A guy named Lucas! We’re meant to be together!’

There were pipes in this room. Thick metal pipes.

‘That name mean anything to you?’ one doctor asked the other in very much a lazy, half-interested fashion.

‘That’s the candidate, the Arlington boy,’ came the answer.

‘Yes! Yes!’ Reece cried, clinging to this nugget, while his fat body was wrenched ever closer to a medical bed with built-in leather cuffs. ‘Lucas Arlington! That’s him!’

The latter junior doctor consulted an iPad.

‘Lucas Arlington’s about to be prepped for candidacy.’

What did that mean? Candidacy for the Palace, or something else?

‘And after that,’ the doctor continued flatly, reading notes aloud, ‘Mr Swan wants him sent straight to Hell.’