NEEDED
                                       6
                                    Adieu

   "I'm sorry but I really can’t stay much longer. I have a few friends who are expecting me in Wales," he grinned,"...it’s probably an 'End of Civilization as We Know It'-type of situation!" he added, flippantly. The Doctor then adopted a concerned tone;
   "You’ve really no idea why you’re here?"
  The woman studied her feet with chagrin;
   "I think the 'Why' is obvious," she shrugged, "...it’s 'How' I find more disturbing."
   "I'm sure everything will work-out," he reassured her. "By the way Emma, I'm no style guru but I suggest you get yourself a nice frock. That 'look' won't be in for a few years yet!"
  With that, he grinned and disappeared behind the Police Box which, to her amazement faded away with a tumult of unfathomable technologies.
  Emma stared at the patch of floor where the type 40 Time and Space Vehicle had stood. Falteringly, she upped and walked around its erstwhile walls, stepping across to where its centre had been. Had she imagined it? Was she truly insane?
  She swallowed hard, the taste of Napoleon's finest still in her mouth. It must have, it did happen! Peering beneath her she could see the depression in the padded floor and smiling a crooked, absentminded smile she collapsed onto her cot.
  So many things were still unclear to her. She now had access to her dreams though they still couldn't foster her with a positive identity or give her more than a hazy hint of what it was she did or what her job had been.
  It did seem clear to her that she was a person involved in investigations and suffered a fair amount of personal danger, police perhaps?
  No, not quite, if she was then she had been most definitely plain-clothes! The image of the tall man in the bowler came back to her again. She smiled, who was he?
   "Juh...Juh...Juuack?" She bit her lip in frustration and clenched her eyes closed to concentrate, "No, not Jack, Jim? No, no-definitely not! James?" She pondered a little over this one, there was something about it. Her eyes narrowed;
   "No, I don't think so." She concluded.
   "John?" She gaped with realization, "Yes! John. That’s him, John!"
  She racked her brains but couldn't get any further along that route so decided to get back to the question of her employment and the reason for her incarceration.
  If she wasn't working for the police, then who?
   "-Mother."
  The word just seemed to spring out of her mouth, although the image it conjured was not that of a grey haired old lady of any description but an immense mountain of a man. He was a corpulent figure consigned to a wheelchair, surrounded by telephones, some of which he shouted into in tortuous foreign tongues.
   "We were above the Police... Operatives-Intelligence Operatives?"
  In a sudden flashback the huge man thumped the table with his fist, the shock of his action dislodging some of the phones' receivers;
   "You are an Agent of the Crown! YOU ARE AN AGENT OF THE CROWN!"-He bellowed. She flinched at the memory as she sat in the darkened cell. Could this place belong to their enemies? It could be a cover.
  A sudden chill ran through her as she considered another possiblity. Another face sprang to mind;
   "Drake."
  Nobody had ever found-out what happened to Drake, had they? Bits of memory started to return, she recalled the man Drake becoming very disenchanted with his job, so much so that against all whispered recommendations and dressing downs he'd actually handed-in his resignation and was never heard of again.
  She shivered, had her own people put her here? Would it be safe to contact them? More to the point, would they be pleased to learn of her recovery? Who should she contact, if given the chance?
  Recalling an old adage she'd used once or twice Emma muttered;
   "A paranoiac is the only one who really understands what is going on!"
  Then she started to remember others she had worked with;
   "David, no- Robert?" didn't they retire too? “David and Robert, David and Robert-No!"  
  Of course, they were one and the same! She cast her mind back to the bitter, lonely man that had helped her take-down Krapotkin. He'd been standoffish at first, suddenly becoming very cockney and working class-a reverse snob. David even made-out he preferred the company of his smelly male companion-a previous cell-mate from his days in prison before recruitment. Emma had been perplexed and even jumped to the wrong conclusion until she met the oily Meres, all Oxbridge and Old School Tie. 
  A memory surfaced of her eschewing Meres' company. Pointedly walking-off with David and his odiferous companion 'Lonely' for fish and chips much to Meres' amazement and Lonely's abject fear-she grinned.
  David's problem was that he was always given the dirtiest of jobs, being used as a blunt instrument more than anything else. Instead of resigning (people were nervous after what became of Drake had been swept under the carpet) He transferred to the Americans, changing his name to Robert in the process.   
  Hopefully, he'd gotten what he wanted. He certainly had to be in a better position than she was!
  She once more tried to remember the surname of the man called John that she recalled in more clarity (and with more affection) than the others, cursing her memory-loss, there was so much that was gone!
  At that moment, a click and rattle came from the door. It swung inwards to reveal a bulky silhouette and she discovered there were some things she remembered, all too clearly...

  The big car’s brakes squealed as he pushed the brake-pedal into the floor. The Wolseley slid till it almost touched the big, electric gates and he thumbed the communicator button till he got a response;
    “This is Hemingway, let me in!”
  Agonisingly slowly, the gates ran back on their rollers and the black car surged through, its nose in the air.

  Dent caressed each fist with the other-it was all in the anticipation really. His job had to be gone and to be truthful, so was his marriage-he’d probably leave this dank, damp, dump soon...
  The woman was staring at him from the cot. He frowned. She wasn’t bewildered, wasn’t fearful. She just stared at him.

  Neville Walters leaped back, tugging the door of the ambulance with him as his boss’s car fishtailed around the entrance-green, sliding to a halt at the marble steps;
    “Did he just pull a handbrake-turn?”
  The thin figure dived out of the car, to run up the steps. Walters and Phillips had never seen him so dynamic!

  Dent smirked and took a pace forwards. She didn’t respond. He took another-she sighed.
  This wasn’t the reaction he was hoping for. True, she’d always shown some defiance but there was always the snarling, the animal anticipating the beating. This time she actually looked tired, not physically tired but tired of their routine-he liked a reaction!
  The woman took a deep breath and rose from her bed. Dent noticed that somehow her straitjacket sleeves were now undone. Had she managed that on her own? Why hadn’t she done that before?
    “You’ve been busy.”
  She didn’t respond. She just gave him that flat stare. He eased the door shut behind him. The woman paced backwards. She rolled her head from side to side and swirled the straitjacket’s sleeves around like hoops in anticipation.
  The thug frowned, she seemed prepared somehow-her eyes were clear, focussed...
    “So,” she said with a clipped, precise cadence, “...you are the worm who has been mistreating me.”
  Dent’s forehead furrowed deeper. He’d never heard her speak before.
    “I suppose your idea is to mete-out some more brutality?” She enquired then yawned. Dent blinked and charged.

    “The keys, where are the keys?” Barked Hemingway.
  Nursed Emily Craddock was at a loss;
    “They were here sir. We’ve locked-up for the night-they aren’t needed. Somebody must have taken them!”
  Paul Hemingway’s heart sank-Dent...

  He woman snapped-back like lightening as Ray Dent thundered toward where she had been standing, thumping into the canvas padding adorning the wall. He grunted and swung back to her.
    “You really are a loathsome slug aren’t you?”
  He charged again as the buckle on the sleeve of her restraints snapped-out like a whip cracking the bridge of his nose. The bone shattered and his eyes began to stream as he howled his pain;
    “You bitch!”
  She arched an eyebrow-it wasn’t the first time she’d been called such;
    “Water off a duck’s back, dear.”
  This time she charged, eager to preserve her advantage and both her feet slammed into his stomach. He doubled-up as blood exploded from his nose and slammed into the padding of the wall as she scrambled to her feet. The blood began to run down his throat which he sucked-in with an aching breath.
  Emma rolled to her feet but knew she had to be careful. A wounded animal was oft times the most dangerous and Dent suddenly lashed-out, gripping her sleeve and spinning her like a top into the other wall.
  Her head contacted some hard structure beneath the padding and she was dazed for a moment before scooting away as Dent lurched at her again.
  
    “You, you and you!” Hemingway had barked and now charged down the corridor to the cells with three of the burliest staff he could find in the time available.

  A furiously-swung fist clipped the woman’s cheekbone and she spun away, into the firmly-screwed down cot. She rolled over it, legs spiralling over her as she crashed into the padded floor. 
  The floor trembled as the engine of destruction that was Dent charged at the bed, leaping over it to crush her but Emma rolled-back under the frame despite the extra drag caused by the pin-wheeling sleeves, slapping against its springs as she spun.
  She scrambled upright to meet her torturer’s glowering face across the mattress and the hulk growled an animal bellow of pain through his ruined mouth and nose.
    “Dear, dear, are we having an off-day?” She enquired sweetly.
  The orderly’s reply was almost unintelligible, almost but not quite. It was quite filthy and physically impossible!
  Emma was breathing hard. She hadn’t had such a workout in who knew how long? Dent was certainly not the type she would have voluntarily gone-up against under such conditions but the ball wasn’t exactly in her court!

  Hemingway charged around the corner of the corridor avoiding a gurney dumped against the wall which one of his staff crashed into and nearly up-ended. He made a mental note to admonish whoever was responsible and stop the untidy practice.
  Despite the soundproofing of the cells he became aware of grunts and cries coming from the one at the far end of the hall-the one his mysterious Patient ‘X’ was in and, though winded from his exertions somehow found a second wind, leading the three orderlies along the corridor to it.

  He loved parties. Those who saw the cheery fellow at one might believe he’d been born for them, an elegant, hale and well-met fellow with witty stories, an excellent cellar and a surprising talent for bar-room piano and pool.
  Of course, they were only partly right. He certainly was at ease as a guest or even host but in truth, his real expertise lay elsewhere and had done for years-certainly since the war.
  A dazzling cropped blonde whirled past with a grin as her partner tried to encourage her to indulge in moving to a bossa-nova beat whilst the elegant man looked-on. It was his birthday and his friends were here but as always some couldn’t make it. He frowned at one in particular that was missing as a tall brunette in an elegant gown sashayed up. She’d seen the frown which was extinguished the moment he noticed her-he was that type, considerate to his guests;
    “May I recharge your glass?”
  She placed hers on the table-cloth in front of him but declined;
    “Is something the matter?”
  Smiling brightly he looked at her quizzically and denied it;
    “Why no, of course not. I’ve got everything I wanted and more!”
    “Everything?”
    “Certainly!”
  He beamed, the frown almost forgotten now.
    “It’s her isn’t it, John?”
  He froze. Under his tutelage, Tara had become a first-class agent and friend but sometimes she was a little TOO observant...
  Inwardly she cursed herself for her utterance. She shouldn’t have brought it up. She should have let sleeping dogs lie.
    “Wherever she is, I’m sure she’s far too busy.”

  He steel door was thankfully unlocked. Hemingway put his shoulder into it but it only creaked-open a few inches. Something was jammed-up behind it;
    “Come on, help me with this thing!” He declared urgently and the other three placed their hands against the panel.
  It shifted slightly, the thing behind it not a solid wedge or blockade but something loose, something like a human body...
  The door moved another few inches, giving him a foot of space in which to squeeze through as an arm fell across his stride. He swallowed but then noticed it was rather too large and hairy for his patient.
  With the help of his employees he managed to squeeze through the crack and into the cell.
  It was indeed Dent who lay against the door. His face was a ruin and a mixture of blood and snot bubbled from his nose. His eyes were swollen, one of them almost closed!
  Hemmingway grabbed at his arm and dragged him from the door, looking around for his patient.
  She sat on the bed, her face in shadow. What had happened here? He slowly approached the cot but then was suddenly brought to a halt at her voice.
    “My name is Emma. Are you in charge around here?”
  The shock from hearing her speak froze him for a few seconds;
    “Why yes. I’m Paul Hemingway. What happened here?
 She shuddered an uneven breath;
    “I was attacked. I fought back.”
  He looked at the battered figure of his former employee at the door as the others squeezed through;
    “Congratulations, you’ve done a wonderful job!”
  She gave a weak laugh at that;
    “Tell me, when can I get out of here?”
  Hemingway paused;
    “I’m sorry. I don’t know your details. Nobody does. Do you know your full identity?”
    “Peel, Mrs Emma Peel. I need to use the phone.”
  Hemingway thought about that as the two orderlies put Dent into the recovery position, one leaving for the gurney in the hall. Would it hurt?

  The guests at his birthday soiree’ were leaving and he bade them all a good night and safe trip home as the phone began to ring.
  He lifted the receiver from its cradle and (as habit) spoke the number of the mews apartment into it, not wishing to give-up too much information.
    “John..?”
  He frowned. The voice was unmistakable;
    “Mrs-Emma?”
  He began to grin but then the grin was tempered with concern at the story she told him. He glanced at the clock. It was a quarter to twelve;
    “I’ll get there as fast as I can!”
  The tall figure dashed to the door almost slamming it shut before reaching back in for his bowler and umbrella-you could never tell when it was going to rain.

                                 THE END