Here To Help!

• William Pieper, Grade 11, Home Schooled - ACT
• Short Story
• 2016

Excellence Award in the 'Top Secret 2016' competition

“You think I’m crazy, don’t you?”
The nurse shook her head. “Now, now, Mr. Robertson, don’t get upset.”
The old man waved his cane at her. “I was head of operations, but you all think I’m crazy!”
The light glinted on her badge that said, in big red letters, ‘My name is Sandra. I’m here to help!’
“Mr. Robertson, everyone here just wants the best for you.”
He snorted. “All you nurses have no respect for me! I was deep cover in Dublin, but none of you believe me! It’s always ‘now, now’, or ‘there, there’, or ‘that’s just not true’. And it’s always Mr. Robertson. Not Jim, not just plain, old Robertson, not even Agent Robertson. It’s always Mr. Robertson!”
Sandra plumped the pillow. “Mr. Robertson, why are you talking like this? You’ve been taking your medication, haven’t you?”
“I’ve damn well been taking it! You’d know! You stand over me every night and force me to take it!”
The nurse sighed “I don’t force it on you Mr Robertson, it’s just that if you don’t take your medication...”
She swept a damp cloth across the top of the bedside table, almost knocking the lamp to the floor.
“What?” He shouted, gripping the arms of his chair. “You think I make this stuff up?”
“Now, Mr. Robertson...”
“If you don’t believe I was an agent, tell me how I know that Hoover worshipped Baphomet. Not in public, mind you, but late at night, down in headquarters, he’d pull out the candles and chalk and really go to town.”
“Mr Robertson!”
“I’m telling you, the Zapruder films were faked. I know who really killed J.F.K.! It was...”
“Mr. Robertson, how about you think about something more pleasant. You know your nephew Jeremy is visiting today.”
“What? I don’t have a nephew, damn it! Operatives don’t have families!”
“Mr. Robertson, don’t be like that. Jeremy’s a lovely young man, and I’m sure he’ll tell you all about his latest work.”
“I know about his work! I know he’s hypnotising me! I know he’s drugging me, and making me forget! Making me forget my past! Making me forget the plot to kill Castro with radio-controlled tarantulas! Making me forget...”
The nurse pulled open the drawer on the bedside table.
“Mr. Robertson, what have you been doing with these wires and screws?”
“It’s nothing! Nothing at all,” he cried, struggling to his feet.
“Oh” she said, “we’ll have to clean this up. Now, I’m sorry Mr. Robertson, but I have other...seniors to attend to.”
She stepped into the corridor and the door locked behind her.
Carefully, the nurse reached up and pressed her finger to her temple. A small earpiece unfolded from behind her jaw. “Command, this is Tundra. Subject eight-five-oh is beginning to remember. Get Major Jeremy to up the dosage.”