Seventy-Seven Clocks
“The wall clock read four fifty-five a.m. She forced herself to focus on it, driving out the hallucinations. A nurse would call to check on her in five minutes. Perhaps she could find some way of communicating her pain. The muscles in her arms and legs felt like twisting bundles of hot wires. Her brain seared with hellish images. Five more minutes. It wasn’t long to have to hold on. ‘Mad Margaret’ lay in the psychiatric ward of the Royal Free Hospital, not a stone’s throw from the cemetery wher...e she’d been attacked. Her teeth were covered with soft rubber shields to prevent her from chewing through her tongue. Restraining straps crossed her chest and pelvis, locking her into the bed. She wanted to scream, to tell them she was not mad. She feared they would take her frantic signaling as proof of insanity. Three minutes to go. She tried counting to a hundred, remembering the names of TV programmes, anything to stay awake and aware, at least until— Moments before the nurse entered the room to check on her patient, Peggy Harmsworth slipped into a coma, as the chemicals ravaged her nervous system with renewed force and filled her sleep with unimaginable nightmares. * * * Ever since the murders had been reported in the newspapers, Gwen Gates had gone out of her way to avoid any mention of them.MoreLess
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