Free The Secret Prophecy by Herbie Brennan

keep your eyes peeled.”
    It was a bit small, so small he nearly missed it: a labeled arrow high up on a wall to his right. He took the narrow avenue indicated and eventually discovered a group of single-story buildings surrounded by a grove of trees. There were no nameplates, no indication whether or not this was the clinic he was looking for. He was still hesitating, wondering if he should just knock on a door and ask, when a young man in a dark blue pin-striped suit emerged from somewhere, walking briskly away from the buildings.
    “Excuse me,” Em called. “Is this the Lydon Clinic?”
    “Yes.” The man pointed. “Main entrance is at the side—bit confusing. You’ll have to ring the bell. Reception will let you in.”
    As the young man had suggested, the main entrance doors were locked, and their darkened glass panels meant that Em could not see inside. He found the bell and pushed. The intercom panel clicked at once, and a female voice said, “Yes?”
    “Is this the Lydon Clinic?”
    “Yes.”
    “I’ve come to visit one of your patients,” Em said. For some reason he felt it might be important not to mention names at this stage. Best wait until he was safely inside; although he half expected the receptionist to refuse him entry.
    But the receptionist only said, “Yes, of course. Please push the right-hand door when you hear the buzzer.” And the sound of the buzzer came at once.
    The reception area of the Lydon Clinic was very different from the massive foyer of Saint Brendan’s hospital. Em took less than a dozen steps inside the door before he reached the counter. To one side stood a uniformed security guard who watched his approach unsmilingly. The counter itself was in the charge of a slim, middle-aged woman wearing a severe tailored suit. She favored Em with a polished, professional smile. “May I help you?”
    “I’d like to see Mrs. Caroline Goverton,” Em said.
    “Are you a relative?”
    “I’m her son.”
    The woman’s reaction could not have been in greater contrast to that of the hospital receptionist. Her smile vanished at once, and her eyes flicked briefly sideways to the security guard. She made no attempt to consult a computer or any other form of record. Instead she murmured, “Excuse me a moment,” and picked up a white telephone, carrying it as far away from him as the cord permitted.
    The woman whispered so quietly he could only hear a few scattered words—“son” was repeated several times—before she returned to hang up the phone. “Dr. Marlow will be with you in a moment.”
    Anger rose up in Em, pushing aside his usual mild-mannered exterior. “I don’t want to see Dr. Marlow. I want to see my mother!”
    The receptionist eyed him coolly. “I’ll ring her and tell her you’re here,” she said. “But Dr. Marlow thinks it would be wise for him to have a word or two with you before you actually see her.”
    “Why?” Em demanded belligerently. There was something terribly wrong here, something terribly wrong about the whole situation since he arrived home from France.
    The security guard shifted his position. Not exactly a threatening movement, more a preparation for possible trouble. The receptionist said, “I’m sure Dr. Marlow will explain when he arrives.”
    The security guard moved again, but before Em could react, the entrance door behind him opened to admit a tall man in a white coat. He walked directly across. “You must be Edward Michael,” he said, and extended a well-manicured hand. “Julian Marlow. I’m the psychiatrist in charge of your mother’s case. Perhaps we could have a word before you see her?” He favored Em with a look that oozed professional sincerity.
    So his mother was a case now? “Look—” Em began.
    Dr. Marlow took him gently by the arm and led him a pace or two away from the receptionist and her guard. “I know this is hard for you, Edward, but I promise you your mother is getting the best possible treatment available.