This story copyright © 2007 Mia McCroskey
Characters from The Avengers and other sources are the property of their respective owners.
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Something warm and damp struck Steed’s cheek near the corner of his mouth. He wiped at it automatically, his unusually rough hand dragging across his face jarring him to greater wakefulness. With it came awareness of discomfort. He opened his eyes, belatedly realizing that they were shut, and at first saw only emerald green. The sea? He wondered. No, it’s hard. Grass. A lawn.
His body ached all over with a raw-nerved tension that was frighteningly familiar. Not a hangover, and not just a beating, but narcotics. Not self-inflicted, for he would never have voluntarily taken such drugs. His snail-slow thought processes finally reached the inevitable conclusion: torture, or at minimum aggressive questioning with all of the attendant ramifications. His mind returned to the easier puzzle of his physical situation.
What had splashed him? He was lying on his side on a vast lawn, and above it the sky was clear. Not rain then. The realization disgusted him. A bird. He instinctively dragged the hand he’d used on his face across a patch of springy grass to remove the foul residue, then wiped at his face again and looked at his hand. There were traces of green gook in the lines etched on his palm.
He had not simply fallen asleep here, nor had he passed out from drink. He was here because someone had put him here, and he had been drugged to unconsciousness. That he had no memory of these events supported his surety and reinforced his growing apprehension.
Now that he was aware, there were several urgent actions he must take to preserve his credibility. Most of them were best done from home, so his first task was to find out where he was and make his way there. He sat up carefully, testing each bone and muscle group before committing to decisive movement. Nothing was broken, at least nothing that was required for basic locomotion. His left hand was swollen and throbbing – a sprain or break, he couldn’t tell. When he got to his feet his head spun around a few times leaving him feeling nauseous. He recognized the symptoms of drug withdrawal, confirming his earlier analysis. This was not good. Definitely not good.
He walked gingerly across the lawn toward a rubbish bin next to a graveled path. His head was near exploding as he reached the metal receptacle; his burning stomach lurched filling his throat with bile. He leaned heavily on the edge if the bin and let the nausea take him. Once started, the retching spasms could not be stopped and were accompanied by the awful indignity of an uncontrollable release from his bowels. A detached part of his mind noted with grim relief that there was little in his system to come out, but that did not relieve the discomfort of the foul substance running down his thigh. He could only imagine his own body odor. He had to get home quickly and with as little contact with others as possible or suffer embarrassment beyond what he thought he could tolerate in his current state.
His stomach temporarily settled, he pressed himself erect and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Now to see how far he could get before the nausea resurged. The path wound through a bit of woods and past a formal garden and finally to a large iron gate that stood open to the street. He looked at the sign on the gate. Regent’s Park. Of course. Now I recognize it. But he had not been there in months, had no business there at all. Only then did he think to check his pockets. No billfold, no keys. A balled scrap of paper in one and a Pound coin in another. He shoved both haphazardly back, sighed, a bit of self-pity for the beleaguered secret agent, and started walking again. It was early evening of a warm spring day – that was good, for he remembered it being spring. As he walked he ran through memory exercises learned long ago and used often enough to know that they were effective. The concentration they required suppressed the physical disorder, too. Soon enough he recalled having coffee with Mrs. Gale. She’d been a particularly jovial mood and they’d laughed quite a bit about something. Her sparkling eyes swam into focus and he smiled in spite of himself. She was a beautiful woman, well worth the effort and patience she demanded as a partner.
But that was all the memory he could dredge up during the walk to his flat. The drugs, whatever they’d used, had been particularly effective, and that in itself was disturbing. He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and a woman who’d been walking a few paces behind him swerved, placing her hand over her nose and mouth as she passed. He did not notice. Had Mrs. Gale drugged him? Such a betrayal was almost impossible to consider, but he knew he must. In his world no one was unimpeachable. He’d been used by professionals for something. It was imperative that he find out what, and make no assumptions about the culprits.
At his flat door he ran his fingers over the top molding and pressed a concealed button. There was a satisfying click and the door opened, swinging inward a few inches. He pushed it the rest of the way and stepped inside, half turning to shut it before looking around.
Nothing was right.
His furniture was gone, his books, telescope, even his umbrellas and their stand by the door were all missing. There were floral draperies and a chintz sofa. What diabolical mastermind has done this, and why? He wondered, taking a step into the horrifying room.
A woman rose from a chintz upholstered wingback chair and turned toward him looking as startled as he felt. The mastermind? Or another victim?
He could only assume the worst until he knew more. After all, she was an intruder in his home. Fortunately the walk had loosened his stiff muscles and cleared his head, if not his memory. He felt ready to handle her and any compatriots she happened to produce.
“Frank!” the woman cried, “Come here. Frank, do you hear me?”
A man in his shirt and tie, cuffs rolled up to his elbows, came from the kitchen looking with concern at the woman. Steed half turned toward him.
“Who are you?” Frank asked him aggressively. “How did you get in here?”
Steed wasn’t fooled. It was part of the scheme, this feigned innocence.
“He just walked in,” the woman declared, her voice quavering slightly. The man crossed the room toward Steed.
“Get out of here,” he said, angry now. “How dare you break in like this. Phyllis, call the police.”
“I might well ask you the same thing,” Steed said, holding his ground before the enraged man even though his knees were inconveniently shaking all of a sudden. “This is my apartment.”
“It is not. We have never seen you before. How did you get in here?”
“I’m sure the door was locked,” Phyllis put in somewhat defensively. She had picked up a telephone receiver and was in the process of dialing.
Steed felt his balance slipping and reached out for the nearest support, the man facing him. Surprised, the man instinctively caught him, yelling to Phyllis to hurry as Steed collapsed in his arms.
“What happened?” Phyllis asked, listening to the phone ringing on the other end of the line.
“He just fell,” her husband Frank said as he lowered Steed to the floor. “For a moment I thought he was attacking me. He’s a big bloke, it was a bit frightening.”
“Yes – police? This is Mrs. Phyllis Parks, 5 Westminster Mews. A man has just broken into our home and passed out.”