As the nurses encircled him, ready to pounce with their chemical cosh, loaded and sharp, it was the perfect opportunity. The spontaneity was ingenious. With no plotting, no conspiratorial nods to raise suspicion, he’d never risked unwanted attention. And the cover of darkness was invaluable.
Watching the pack tighten the circle, they were almost ready to make their move and seemed oblivious to the risk of escape the bench offered propped up against the wall.
Heart pounding, Matthew could scarcely believe that after weeks; months, he could see the end.
Seeing the look in the lead nurses eyes, a slight tightening of the eye socket, and if he’d been closer, he’d have seen a sharpening of the pupils, Matthew made his move.
It happened in slow-motion. They pounced, the injection speared Adrian’s thick thigh, and they tumbled onto him in an ungainly scrum which took all the attention of the small crowd.
Dashing across the garden, Matthew hopped onto the bench and made the sprint to the top with ease. He had little idea where he headed, but a quick glance back to the kerfuffle below gave him hope he had time. Scanning his surroundings, it was dark beneath him, and he wasn’t sure if it led to a way out.
But next to where he stood atop the wall he noticed a low roof. If he could reach that, he could run along to the front car park and at least see where he was leaping to the ground before committing himself.
With a deep breath, Matthew gave one more glance to the ward garden to gauge his time. Adrian grinned up at him from the small gap his face protruded through in the crook of a nurse’s arm before the injection took its full effect. Their eyes met, and it was the last thing Matthew saw before taking a leap of faith onto the adjoining roof.
Chapter Twenty-one
It was a soft landing. The awful slippers they provided on the ward offered little grip, but they were quiet. Ducking down, he padded along the flat felt to the other end. There were no security measures in place, just the small car park edged with shrubbery, and beyond that what looked like a construction site where they must be extending the hospital.
Matthew ran to the corner, considered jumping onto a car roof, but instead eased himself down the drainpipe expecting a car alarm to be set off by such an impact.
Before he decided where he would go, his immediate concern was to make sure he took the most unexpected route. Following the hedge, Matthew’s eye caught an area of greenery. Imagining open fields and farmland, he tore through the hedge to find himself in a patch of allotments.
Whilst the sheds at the end of each strip of muddy ground could provide shelter until he came up with a workable plan, they were likely to be the first place someone looking for him would suspect.
Glancing over his shoulder, he wondered if his absence had been noticed yet. It couldn’t be long before they’d be chasing him, and if they caught him, who knew if he’d ever get another chance?
But God was smiling on him. Beyond the allotments, Matthew was sure he glimpsed the reflection of moonlight on water. The river! Hopeful he’d find something to float away on, he rushed towards it.
The path from the allotments led through rows of houses. No-one was out on this chilly spring evening. If someone had seen him, his grey tracksuit wasn’t that unlike what you might witness any jogger wearing anyway. The slippers might take some explaining, but it was dark, and who examined passer-by’s feet?
Passing a sign declaring his location to be Lakewood Road, Matthew was soon facing the water he’d seen, and as if by holy decree, there was a boat. In fact, there were two. A large one on a trailer, and a small tender hanging from the stern.
Nimbly untying the tender, Matthew dragged the small fibre-glass structure to the water’s edge. He could see a sign which declared ‘Private swimming lake—members only’ and decided to take the stream a few metres away that drained the lake; not because he was keen to adhere to the rules, but because he doubted he’d get far on the lake.
The minimum draught of the light craft proved the perfect vessel to drift down stream, but it was soon obvious the stream went barely further than the lake! It forked, extending his range only a few hundred metres. It was still the right choice, though, because now he enjoyed the benefit of cover from a small woods at the water’s edge.
Hauling the little orange dinghy up the bank, Matthew sprinted for the woods and collapsed, exhausted, to the ground. Keeping to the edge, he hid in the first line of trees. From there, he figured he’d be able to see a search party before they saw him.
No-one came. Distant sirens, always part of Bristol’s soundtrack, didn’t turn in his direction. Breathing a huge sigh, relief bubbled from deep within and exploded from his mouth in an ill-controlled chortle.
Staring out from his hidey-hole in case he’d been heard, he sighed. He couldn’t risk resting more. He had to push himself on. His head-start now was such that he had to be in with a fighting chance.
He desperately wanted to run all the way home, throw the door open and hug Debbie and Abi and never let them go. But that would be the first place they’d check, wouldn’t it? No, he’d have to hide out for a while, stakeout the house and make sure it was safe before risking showing himself. “It’s been weeks. A few more won’t hurt, and I can’t risk getting caught,” Matthew soothed.
He had to focus on his immediate requirements: food, and changing from his conspicuous clothes and shoes. Then he could think about where he might hide overnight. His instincts were what must be the usual choices for those without a fixed abode—shop bins.
He couldn’t turn up to a homeless shelter, he’d be found too easily, but Tesco? There’d be discarded food, and he knew there was a charity clothes bin too.
It seemed wrong to steal from a charity, but he doubted anyone’s need for clothes could be greater than his own. He walked through estates rather than main roads to give more opportunity to hide if he was pursued. And he felt less suspicious in his inappropriate attire if his poor choice of clothes could be explained by his proximity to houses. He’d worn worse when he was at home, strolling round Bristol’s streets in dressing gown and slippers to send a teething Abigail to sleep. The memory brought a stab of pain. “Soon, my angel. I’ll be home soon.”
As he walked from path to pavement and through alleyways between the houses, he was heartened to see no sign of any pursuers. If they were onto him, they were being uncharacteristically subtle.
Tesco’s enormous red and blue sign glowed visibly a short distance away now. Cautious of late night shoppers and CCTV cameras, Matthew paused. He had no choice. Did they even check those things, anyway? They must have better things to do with their time than watch recycling bins on the extreme off-chance someone tampered with them; even though that’s exactly what he was about to do.
He wouldn’t stay here. If he was spotted, by the time his presence was investigated, he’d be long gone. A surreptitious glance at the lens gave no clue whether he was being watched so he decided he’d be quick.
Flipping the door open at the top of the bin, Matthew fed in a stick he found nearby snapped from the perimeter hedge. He couldn’t see inside but the stick connected with something fairly high up. Twisting the stick, he hoped it would tangle in the plastic of a bag of charity cast-offs and enable him to haul it out. As soon as it dug in, it loosened again and the sound of tearing polythene followed by garments tumbling softly into the depths of the bin mocked him with muffled contempt.
“Damn!” he exclaimed, prodding desperately inside the bin again. The clothes he’d freed from their bag now prevented the stick from snagging another.
Pausing, Matthew took a breath to calm his nerves before carefully sliding in the stick again. Closing his eyes, slowly he began to feel what the end of his prod might be latching onto… something hard, and more plastic, firmer this time. This was smaller; a carrier bag perhaps.
Heart pounding in his head he tapped around the package and located the handles. It wasn’t going anywhere so he could take his time slotting the end t
hrough their holes. He could feel the tug, and like a skilled angler, he edged his catch to the top of the bin.
He could see it now, and from that first glimpse it looked like he’d lucked out… shoes! Close enough for him to reach in with his hand, he grabbed the bag out. Dealer boots with elasticated sides. Not his size, slightly too big, but not bad condition. Not bad at all. Faintly scuffed leather, worn down but crack-free soles. Excellent.
Poking and pulling garments from the bin, most presented in remarkably fine condition but were for women, apart from a couple of tiny girl’s cardigans. Encouraged by his success with the boots, he carried on. Latching onto something heavy at the back of the bin, he was soon gratefully sporting a barely worn duffle coat! Three of the toggle buttons were missing, but it was just the job.
Hanging below his hospital T-shirt, it disguised his look enough that combined with the boots, he felt comfortable he wouldn’t attract attention—and he was warm.
Popping his slippers into the large pockets of the duffle coat, he added a few of the lighter, more unisex garments and ran from the CCTV camera so that if anyone was watching, they’d witness his exit and his direction up the hill away from the superstore car park.
Doubling back out of range of the cameras, he walked in the opposite direction towards the vague area of his home and work. He knew he couldn’t go there yet; not until he was sure he wouldn’t endanger himself or his family, but it felt great. To even be this close felt fantastic. He paused in a copse of shrubbery and laughed.
Chapter Twenty-two
There came no obvious sound of pursuit. He must have been far enough away when they noticed him missing there had been no sign of him. But Matthew knew they’d be around. Watching. Waiting.
He knew they’d expect him to turn up at his house sooner or later. Seeing Debbie was a temptation he couldn’t deny. So whether going sooner, or later held any advantage, he hadn’t decided. Either way, he’d need to keep his distance.
Taking back-roads through residential streets, his heart raced as he gained ground. It was miles, but he could walk it in a couple of hours. Tightness squeezed his chest. Was he making a huge mistake?
Right now, he was closer to the hospital than to home, and that didn’t seem like the best way to remain undiscovered either. He could head into the countryside and take cover in woodland. The border with Somerset wasn’t far. He could be in a different county somewhere soon, did that make a difference? How much effort would they put into finding him? No-one had ever suggested he was a criminal.
Juddering in his sleeve was the first indication he was cold, and he stared at his trembling arm in surprise. Obviously his newly attained coat wasn’t as warm as he’d expected. Chewing dead skin from the edge of his index fingernail, he had to decide what to do. He could walk on and hope he’d make it home where the warmth and safety of his life would envelop him, or he could take shelter where he found it like the homeless must in this weather.
The urge to push on for home was strong, but memories of the last time he’d headed there tugged at the fabric of his wellbeing. The mesh of his resolve hadn’t allowed doubts to surface when he was on the ward, it had been vital to focus on one thing—escaping. Now he was free, his brain couldn’t help but attempt to reprocess what had happened the last time he’d headed home.
He hadn’t found it. That was what he had to comprehend; he was so paralytic, he couldn’t even remember where he lived, even though he didn’t remember having drunk much.
But a part of him feared he had found his home; or rather his house. And he’d been greeted by a stranger. His mind cramped at a solution, anything he could think of was completely outlandish, but he had to let his thoughts run, because whatever had happened was not ordinary and he wouldn’t find the solution believing it was.
Everything that had happened since then, everything anyone had said, attempted to undermine him; chip away at his sanity. It hadn’t worked, he was as sane as ever. So if a strange man stood at his front door denying any knowledge of him, he must be part of the collusion.
Like a magic show. Sometimes it was easier to just believe in magic than to try to work out what was going on. But not for Matthew. And what was going on was usually far simpler than anyone ever guessed!
So why? That was the question now. Why would someone pretend Matthew’s life was not as he said? Someone with a lot of influence wanted him to believe he was insane, or wanted the world to believe it so he had no credibility. And who could possibly have that sort of clout and care what he thought? It had to be the Ministry of Defence or one of the agencies under its umbrella, as he’d already supposed. It was the only theory that made any sense.
Knowing his foe helped him plan, but he also suspected by reputation that such agencies stopped at nothing to reach their goal. If only he’d listened to Brian. The money on offer only mattered because it offered security for him and his little family. And now, all that security had amounted to nothing.
But even that didn’t gel in his head. Rubbing his temples with frozen fingers, he tried to massage out the answer. The project wasn’t even secret. He had signed no official secrets orders. He hadn’t even been warned not to talk about it. The local press, even TV, had hailed their success with bringing jobs to the area and the prestige the scheme offered Bristol. So, if they’d changed their mind, could they not have asked him nicely first?
Pain!
A shooting in his legs made him cry out. His arm wasn’t just quivering now, but shaking. Violently.
Glancing around, if anyone saw him, they’d wonder what was wrong. Ducking into a covered alley, he squealed at the agony. Cramps swelled and flowed, felling him to his knees. Head pounding, he held his face in his hands as his body convulsed in spasmodic eruptions.
The medicine, topped up compulsorily every twelve hours, had been due when Adrian had implemented his escape plan. Now it had been free from his system for a dangerous amount of time and he was paying the price.
Hugging his legs, he rocked back and forth. It would pass, but he had no idea how long it would take. His only experience with coming off hard drugs was watching Trainspotting, and that did not fill him with optimism. He hoped the brief time he’d been fed this poison might save him from hallucinating dead babies crawling on the ceiling.
The shuddering and aching took all the processing power of his brain. He thought he should find better shelter, for warmth and for cover from the authorities looking for him, but he couldn’t move: a sitting duck for anyone who wanted to abuse him.
Chattering teeth bit down on his tongue, the taste of iron disconcerting. Crying out, he prized a timorous hand from the warmth of his pocket to stifle his own screams. Kicking, his boot-clad feet echoed in the confines of the passage where he squatted, ringing in his ears and twisting the knife in his head.
“Stop! Make it stop! Someone. Please!”
Growling, snarling at the audacity of this feeling, so alien. This wasn’t him. He’d never wanted any of this, it had been forced upon him. Literally, mouth held open, pills poured in, force.
Shifting position, sitting, lying one way then another, his legs kicking beside him, thumping on the wall, bludgeoning his head. Crawling along, desperate to hide away, he reached his arm out but his weak hand couldn’t support him. Crashing to the floor, his face hit the tarmac hard.
Aware, somewhere in his addled mind, that he detected a trickle of something warm on his face, with equal fear of what might happen to him in his stricken state, and relief that unconsciousness might give him respite from the pain, he slipped away.
Chapter Twenty-three
“You okay, buddy?”
Matthew jolted, coaxing his exhausted muscles to shuffle him away from the owner of the voice. ‘Don’t be a nurse. Please, don’t be a nurse.’ Squeezing his eyes open a slit, Matthew peered at the person leering over his afflicted body.
“What you doing here, mate? Did you sleep here? Have you got somewhere to go?”
Matthe
w leaned against the cold stone of the wall and nodded. Holding up a hand in front of his face, the shaking had definitely reduced. Scraping a dry tongue on the roof of his mouth, Matthew tried to speak. And failed.
“I probably shouldn’t do this, but you’ve landed on my doorstep for a reason. Would you like to come in for a warm and a cuppa?”
Tears welled in Matthew’s eyes. That could be fantastic. He’d take the charity, he wasn’t proud, and he needed every advantage for the next phase of his endeavour. He wanted to cry out, “Yes! Thank you so much. Yes!” but his mouth wouldn’t open enough to form the words.
Matthew’s Good Samaritan was a young man. When he’d hauled Matthew up from sitting on the floor, he stood much shorter. Shuffling along the passage, Matthew followed him to his house a few metres away.
“Take a seat,” the man invited as they stood in the kitchen at the front of the small house. “Tea? Coffee?” and then in deference to what he might be dealing with, the man thoughtfully inquired, “Something stronger?”
Matthew blew his cheeks out in revulsion, but realised withdrawal from ‘Something stronger’ was exactly what was wrong with him.
“Water,” he managed to squeeze from his dry mouth. “And coffee. Please.”
The man stepped to the sink and proceeded to fill a pint glass with cold water which he passed to Matthew before filling the kettle for the coffee. He allowed Matthew to sit in silence while he poured boiling water into a cafetiere, loading up a tray with cream and sugar and an intriguing looking ‘Darth Vadar’ biscuit barrel.
As he popped Darth’s head off he invited Matthew to ‘join him on the dark side.’ “Biscuit? There’s rich tea and digestives. There might even be a couple of custard creams.”
Blurred Lines: A box-set of reality bending supernatural fiction (Paranormal Tales from Wales Book 9) Page 13