Synaesthesia Magazine Red | Page 29

Anaemia had been a perennial problem for Nikolas. The irony of his condition and his strange compulsion was not lost on him.As he stroked one of his vials (labelled Jason, David - drawn 04/07/99), a plan begun to coalesce out of semi darkness. The lamp light reflected off the rows and rows of blood, casting a rosewood shimmer on Nikolas' translucent skin. If his collection, his life's work, his grand artistic vision, was to continue, he needed the solution that Scarlet offered. He gathered his resolve.

Nikolas went through a multiplicity of plans over the next few days. Having called in sick at the pathology lab of Sir Peter Dewey's local private medical centre, he balanced every idea in his mind, stretching it, wary of any chance of failure. He discarded the idea of immobilising and stealing the blood directly early on - Dewey was well-to-do and would undoubtably have silent alarms and unbreakable locks and a professional security company. The man would never donate blood, nor could Nikolas rely on him getting sick naturally before Scarlett's deadline. He considered getting Dewey to prick himself on a well-placed rusty nail, but that too seemed plagued with insurmountable problems. There was no guarantee that he would get scratched unless Nikolas placed the nails in the rotund politician's shoes, which he was unlikely to take off in public.

He did, however, approve of the idea of a medical scare that would require blood work. If what Scarlet said was true, that in the event of Sir Peter Dewey requiring blood work it would pass through Nikolas' pathology lab, he could keep the plan simple.

The first job was also the trickiest.

Since Dewey was a rather insignificant backbencher, he wasn't always usually present at Prime Minister's Questions. Nikolas had to wait a week after the meeting with Scarlet before the marshmallowey, tomato-faced politician showed his face in public.

Nikolas hung around outside Parliament for hours, dodging mid-afternoon tourists and camera crews, lest his co-workers spot him in the background of a report on the 6 o'clock news. Finally, as the Commons broke apart, he spotted his un,installed figure heading for Westminster Tube Station, and followed him home.

Dewey had not noticed the pallid, spindly man in the black bomber jacket tailing him. Having called in sick again, Nikolas sat in his burgundy Honda down the road from Dewey's opulent town house in Kensington for three days until the turkey-shaped man finally left his house during working hours. Thoroughly irritated at the delay, Nikolas waited thirty minutes after Dewey left, just to be sure that he wasn't just circling the block, yearning to be recognised by a passer-by.

Finally satisfied, he left his car with a red cap worn low over his eyes, a bright yellow jacket and a package, complete with authentic-looking documents. Nikolas had taken extra precautions with the parcel, sourcing the components online, and never touching them directly. He was even careful not to breathe too closely around the box, lest he left some microscopic evidence of himself inside.

Striding up to the house of Peter Dewey, Nikolas looked nervously around him. He saw no one. Allowing himself a brief, tremulous grin, he rang the doorbell...