The Arms of Morpheus

Chapter 4

The next morning, Noel still struggled to come to terms with the sudden and unexplained death of his old friend. He had spent most of the night trawling the internet, finding out as much as he could about Fraser's death and, as he drove to work, was beginning to feel the effects of sleep deprivation.

Various American news websites had reported how, after leaving a scientific awards ceremony in New York, Fraser had been murdered on the sidewalk of 11th Avenue. No motives were offered for the crime; no reason given. The NYPD were at a total loss to explain the events, commenting only that "investigations are on-going into the death of Dr. Gilchrist "and that his death was "executed in strange circumstances."

Death. They had not even admitted it was murder, obviously shitting themselves due to a lack of leads; another unsolved case on the open file casebook of New York's finest.

The strange circumstances were revealed on NBC. He had been shot through the head by a carbon fibre arrow. The force had ripped his brain clean from it's brainstem before pushing it through the back of his skull and spraying it all over the pavement.

How much more murdered can you get, for fucks sake.

Turning his car right onto the main road that led directly to the large iron gates of the North Cambridgeshire Sleep Research Institute, Noel regressed, remembering happier times with his friend.

They had first met when studying general medicine at University College Hospital, London. Noel had recently moved to England from his native County Kildare, Ireland. Fraser had migrated from Fife, Scotland - or as he often reminded people - the Kingdom of Fife. They were two Celts among the Saxons; kindred spirits.

After graduation, they both chose to specialise in Neurophysiology, Noel writing his Doctorate on Action Potentials of the Synaptic Cleft. Fraser had chosen Mis-folded Protein States of the Human Brain, a thesis that would lead to his ground breaking work in CJD; the human equivalent of 'Mad Cow's Disease.'

A potentially brilliant scientist, Fraser had become a MRCPsych, a member of the college of psychiatrists and had moved to America, where his pioneering work was in great demand. Noel had specialised in the study of sleep disorders; securing a prominent position at a sleep clinic nearby.

Even though the miles kept them apart, they still regularly spoke, either by telephone, e-mail or on Facebook. Noel and Amelia had been planning a trip to see Fraser and his family, taking Blake abroad for the first time.

Not anymore.

As he approached the entrance to the building, he lowered the window of his Triumph Stag, scanning his identification card in the security sensor. He steered through the gates, still contemplating the horrific nature of his friend's death.

                                                                                           ***

'Good morning Rachel. How are you?' Noel spoke through the intercom with an effervescence he did not feel as he looked at his test subject through the large, tinted glass window.

'Hi Doc. Not too bad. A bit tired.'

'Sure. Let me just check on last nights traces and I'll get back to you in a few moments about our plans for today.'

'No worries Doc, take your time.' She said. 'I'm going nowhere.'

An amused grin spread across his face; the first in what seemed an eternity.

Shortly after arriving at work, he had been to see the head of research at the clinic, explaining he would need some time off work to attend his friend's funeral. Leave had been granted without opposition, the clinic senior staff fully aware of the tragic events in America.