by Peter James
'Yes — I — you know — as usual.' Who the hell are you?
'Damned hot! Having to wear these ruddy coats makes it even hotter, doesn't it?'
Ross found himself agreeing. There was a welcome breeze from the open door. He was scanning the man's coat for an identity badge but couldn't see one. 'Yes,' he said. 'Too damned hot.'
The man was smiling at him now, as if they were sharing some private joke. Clear grey eyes staring insistently at him, as if saying, 'Come on! You recognise me, for heaven's sake, man, surely you recognise me?'
'Are you sure you're feeling all right, Ross?' The man leaned over, his eyes getting closer and larger, fixed on his own, filled with concern. 'Suffering from the heat?'
The man's face was so close, Ross could not focus. All he could see now was the blur of the man's eyes. 'I — I —' He stalled, the man was confusing him.
'It's so hot, so hot, Ross, it's so hot, Ross, hot, hot, aren't you so hot, Ross, so hot, so hot, hot, Ross?'
Ross nodded. He was hot, the man was right. So hot. Hot, hot.
'You're feeling a little sleepy now, Ross. In fact, Ross, you're feeling hot and sleepy, aren't you?'
'Yrrss.'
The lift doors were closing now.
'You find it strange that I'm holding on to your hand. But you're finding it hard to let go of my hand, aren't you?'
Ross tried to let go, but found he couldn't. It was his hand that was gripping the man's now, his hand that was doing the shaking. He was aware that the car was moving up. Then the stranger moved and it seemed as if the car had stopped between two floors.
The man smiled. 'We'll take it slowly in this heat, Ross. We don't want to rise up too fast, bad for the blood pressure, isn't it, changing altitude too fast?'
Ross, feeling giddily disoriented said, 'Yrrss.'
'What I want you to do now, Ross, is rest and relax, relax, I want you to relax, relax, and listen to my voice.'
Compliantly staring into those grey eyes, Ross nodded.
'OK, Ross, from now on, all you will hear is my voice and my voice alone, nothing else is important to you. You are feeling hot and tired … but what is it you have in your pocket, Ross, the thing that's causing the bulge?'
Ross stared back at him, his head spinning.
'It's OK, Ross, you can answer me. Tell me what it is, it's safe to answer me, I can help you.'
'Drip bag.'
'And who is the drip for, Ross?'
'My wife.'
'And what is in the drip, Ross?'
'Ketamine.'
'I see. OK, Ross, that's fine, just listen to my voice, you're feeling so hot and thirsty. Take the drip bag out.'
Ross pulled the bag out of his pocket.
'Now, Ross, look down into your left hand. What do you see there? You see a canteen of cool water. Aren't you lucky to have such a cool canteen of water in your hand on such a hot evening?'
Ross looked down, blinking, and saw an oval, military canteen.
'Shake it, Ross. Listen to the cool water inside.'
Ross shook it and heard the water slopping around. It sounded so cool, so wonderfully cool. He licked his lips, feeling a desperate thirst.
'You are thirsty, too, Ross, so thirsty, Ross, so hot, Ross, so hot, thirsty, Ross, so hot. Imagine what it would be like to drink, Ross, imagine, Ross, so hot, Ross, imagine what it would be like to drink, Ross.'
Ross thought about the ice-cold water inside. His mouth was parched.
'OK, Ross, just enjoy yourself now. Unscrew the lid and take a nice cool drink of water.'
Ross stared at the canteen. It turned into a polythene bag filled with fluid then back into a canteen again. Then back into a bag with two rubber bungs at the base. Then back into a canteen with a screw cap. He gripped the cap, twisted, pulled, and suddenly water, beautiful, ice cold water, dribbled down his chin. He held the teat in his mouth and sucked greedily.
'That's perfect, Ross, drink it, drink it all, you are so dehydrated, you must drink it all.'
Ross swallowed the entire contents.
'Good. Now you've enjoyed your drink, Ross, put the canteen back in your pocket, forget you ever saw me and go and enjoy the rest of your evening.'
Ross, dimly aware that the lift car was moving again, rolled up the bag and put it into his pocket. Then the car stopped. The doors were opening.
'You have another floor to go, Ross. I'll let go of your hand and you will get on with your evening.'
The man was gone. The lift doors closed. The car was moving upwards. Ross lurched. The walls seemed to be closing in around him, trapping him like a rabbit in a hutch. He punched at them, trying to push them out, but they came in even tighter.
He screamed, kicking out. The doors opened, just a tiny gap. He lurched in panic through the gap, then stumbled sideways and fell, sprawling on his face on the grey-carpeted floor.
He tried to stand up but the floor was rising up sheer in front of him, like a cliff-face. His fingers slipped on the pile, which was short as stubble. He was sliding, sliding away, going to fall off this face.
'Help me!' he screamed.
Slipping.
'Help, help me!'
He clawed desperately at the stubby fibres, trying to get a purchase with his nails.
'Help!' he screamed again.
A blur. Something white falling towards him. Then it stopped in front of his eyes. Legs. Flat black shoes. Lurching with all his strength he just managed to grab the ankles.
'Please help me,' he said. 'Please don't let me fall.'
Sister Durrant stared down in horror at the spectacle of Ross Ransome, sprawled on the floor, seemingly blind drunk, babbling like a child and gripping her ankles in his hands as if his life depended on it.
Then she heard a shrill warble. His mobile phone, somewhere in one of his pockets, was ringing.
91
'Is there a problem?'
Sister Durrant turned her head. Oliver could see Ross Ransome propped in a chair at the nursing station, his head lolling and another nurse standing beside him, keeping a steadying hand on his shoulder. Two men, who looked like doctors, and a hospital orderly were standing there as well.
'Thssss walls,' Ross was rambling. 'All fall down.'
'I heard a commotion,' Oliver said. 'Wondered if you needed any assistance.' Then, feigning surprise, he looked at Ross, then back at the nurse.
'Mr Ransome? What's happened?'
Sister Durrant glanced around then raised her hand surreptitiously to her mouth and mimed tilting a glass.
'Drunk?' Oliver whispered.
She nodded, then shrugged.
'Climbing all over the walls, bigger than Mount Kilimanjaro,' Ross rambled on. 'What we really need here is a gimballed gyro.'
Quietly Oliver said, 'Pressure, you think? His wife being in here?'
'Must be,' the nurse replied. 'He loves her so much, he's so dedicated to her — it's breaking his heart to see her like that.'
One of the doctors leaned forward and smelt Ross's breath, then said, 'I think we'd better find him a bed for the night in here. He's too pissed to send home in a taxi.' Turning to Sister Durrant he said, 'Have you a room free on this ward? The sooner we get him out of sight, the better for his sake.'
'Nothing on this floor. I'll go down and check with Avenue Ward on floor three.'
As she turned to walk away, Oliver touched her arm and accompanied her for a few steps, away from the rest of them, then he said, very quietly, 'Nurse, when you come back up, check out his right jacket pocket.'
'Why?' she said.
But Oliver was already walking away, hurrying past the nursing station.
Faith was still asleep when he went into the room. He pulled the drip line out of her wrist and switched off the flow valve, then propped her upright.
She opened her eyes. 'Wh — what – wha —?'
'We're out of here.'
He helped her into the chequered nursing tunic he had brought up from the basement. Faith
, in a state of confusion, was of little help. The build-up of ketamine in her system was repeating on her now. He sat her on the edge of the bed, and said, 'Wait there, OK?'
She nodded in vague comprehension.
He ran back down the corridor, and stopped a safe distance from the nursing station. Chaos. Three of them were trying to help Ross Ransome, who was all flailing arms, tripping legs and incoherent ramblings, along the corridor, the rest trying to get out of the way.
Oliver ran back to the room, rolled the bedclothes into the rough shape of a sleeping form, grabbed Faith's hand and half led her, half dragged her in her nursing tunic and disposable hospital slippers out into the corridor. He stopped and looked in both directions. A shadow fell to his right, and he jerked Faith sharply back into the room, pushed the door until it was almost closed and peered through the gap. A nurse he hadn't seen before walked past. He watched until she had turned the next corner, down towards the nursing station, switched off the light, led Faith out into the corridor and closed the door behind them.
Holding his breath, he checked both directions, then took Faith to the fire-escape door, pushed it open and helped her through.
They were standing on a metal platform, with the fire-escape descending below them into what looked like a loading area. Despite the hour it was still brilliant daylight, and he felt exposed. This was not smart. He didn't know whether he was breaking a law, but helping a patient detained under a Mental Health Act order to escape from an institution could land him in serious trouble, and he didn't have a prepared story if he was caught.
But right now his only concern was to get Faith out of here, out of the clutches of her husband. He would have to sort out the consequences later.
He led her down as fast as he could, taking care on each metal tread, and they finally made it to the bottom. Her co-ordination was so bad that walking was difficult for her. He was either going to have to carry her to the car or bring it round here.
Carrying her would draw attention, he realised. He would have to pass the front door of the hospital.
'Faith,' he said, 'I'm going to fetch my car. I want you to wait here. Don't move.'
He saw a gap between two large wheelie-bins. Not brilliant, but she'd be hidden from the street and from anyone looking out of a window. He pushed her in gently.
* * *
Faith wrinkled her nose at the stench of garbage, staring along the grey slab sides of the bins that rose up either side of her, and at the sliver of daylight from the loading bay. A fly buzzed in her face and she flapped it away.
She was lucid again now. Lucid and scared. Scared of being in this horrible alley. Scared of what Oliver had told her, that there was a section order, that she was legally insane, that she was not allowed to leave the ward she was in, let alone the hospital.
Scared of what Ross would do to her and Oliver when he found out.
Sectioned.
They could come and get her. Take her away, lock her up, stop her from seeing Alec.
Great mother you have, Alec, she's locked up in an institute for the insane.
A sudden sweet smell: cigarette smoke. For an instant she thought it was her mother. She caught another whiff, stronger. Footsteps. The scrunch of something beneath a shoe. A dark shape crossed the gap in front of her. A security guard, she saw with alarm, hat under his arm, sneaking a quick cigarette break. Go away. She heard him cough, a hacking, throaty smoker's rattle.
Please go away.
Her face felt hot. Oliver would be back at any moment. The walls of the bins were moving, coming in towards her. Someone was pushing them together, someone who didn't realise she was in here.
She tried to push back, but both sides kept coming.
Going to be crushed to death.
Closer, she could only stand sideways now. They were pressing against her face, her back. 'Please,' she whispered, 'please I'm in here, please stop —'
They kept coming. She was panicking, taking deep, gulping breaths, as she sidled like a crab, whimpering, stumbling sideways, 'Please, I'm in here, please stop, please stop —'
The sliver of daylight, which had been only a couple of feet away now seemed a hundred yards distant, and was getting smaller as she looked at it.
She stumbled faster, pushing her way out with her hands, and suddenly she was free, standing in the loading bay. The security guard was walking away, a cloud of blue smoke billowing around his head.
The roar of an engine. Big blue car, Jeep, familiar, halting.
Oliver! He was getting out.
The guard turned his head, stared at her, frowning. An elderly guy, he looked tired and hot. She realised afterwards that, in her nurse's uniform, she should have just raised a hand and waved, and he'd probably have waved back, thinking she was a staff member who had slipped out for a quiet smoke in the balmy air.
Instead she ran.
A shout behind her. 'Hey! Hey, you, hey, miss, lady!'
She fell into Oliver's arms, turned her head. The guard was breaking into a lumbering run.
Oliver flung her up on to the passenger seat and slammed the door. The guard was only yards away. The car lurched as Oliver climbed behind the wheel. He shut his door and she heard a sharp clunk just as the guard reached her door-handle.
The central locking.
'Hey! Stop! Who are you? What's going —'
With a squeal of tyres the Jeep lurched forward. She heard a loud shout, and saw the guard running alongside the car, still holding the handle.
'Oliver!' she screamed.
Then suddenly the guard was gone. Turning her head she saw him bounce on the pavement and roll a couple of times, then he was lost from sight.
* * *
Oliver drove in silence, his immediate priority to put distance between them and the guard.
He reached the end of the road and turned right, then left, accelerating hard. No sign of the man in his mirrors. He went down the road for a quarter of a mile, then took a left down to Wellington Road, then he turned right on to the busy thoroughfare.
He said nothing, wondering if the guard had got his number. He wanted the shortest route to the motorway, deciding it would be safer to get out of town rather than risk being stuck anywhere in London congestion. He kept a wary eye on his speed, not wanting to risk being stopped. Even if the guard hadn't got his number, he would raise the alarm. It wouldn't take long before Faith's absence was discovered. Minutes rather than hours.
'Faith, can you do up your seat-belt?'
Looking bewildered, she groped above her shoulder for it. He leaned across with one arm, helped her pull it over and click it home.
He was concentrating so hard on the seat-belt that he almost drove over a red light. He braked hard, and the vehicle screeched to a halt. Faith jerked forward against her belt. Then, to his horror, a police patrol car pulled up alongside him. The officer in the passenger seat was looking up at him, and Oliver kept his eyes dead ahead, a welcome stream of cold air from the air-conditioning blasting his face. Were they going to pull him over? He prepared himself. Keep calm. There was no way the alarm could already have been raised, and even if it had been, it was too soon for any information to have been circulated by the police.
The lights changed. The police car drove on ahead, losing interest in him. After a few hundred yards it turned off to the right.
Concentrating hard on his driving, Oliver followed the signs for the M40, and five minutes later was travelling at a steady fifty over the elevated section of the Westway, visor flipped down, squinting against the harsh glare of the low sun over the far rooftops.
Suddenly he felt as though he was outside his body again. He could see the car in front of him, the road beyond it, the red needles of the speedometer and the rev counter, but it was as if something else was driving and he was looking down, like a ghost, from above.
The drug again, he told himself. I am here, I am driving, I am holding the steering-wheel, this is me, alive.
I think th
erefore I am. I'm driving therefore I am. I just have to keep calm, it will fade, just give it time.
'Where's your passport, Faith?' he asked.
His voice was strange, as if he was listening to himself speaking.
There was a long silence. He thought she was asleep. Then she said, 'At home. Sussex.'
He thought about it as he drove. It would take at least an hour and a half to get down there, but she could get some clothes too. There were so many dangers, though. The moment the police were alerted, that was the first place they would look for her. And every harbour, airport and the Eurotunnel would soon have been alerted. It was too risky to try to get her out of the country at this point and, besides, he realised, she had to be here if she was to appeal to the tribunal to get the order reversed.
He reached forward and dialled his mobile phone. A sharp crackle, then he heard a male voice.
'Hallo?'
'Gerry?'
'Oliver! My friend, how are you? I'm thinking about you all the time.'
Oliver began to feel better. Of all the people he had met in England, Gerry Hammersley was the one he had warmed to most. At fifty-five, with two successful businesses, one a small chain of suburban London estate agencies, the other a niche-market wine shipping company, Gerry was still trying to find the woman of his dreams. A short, energetic man, he reminded Oliver of Groucho Marx.
Gerry had come to see him six years back, after Oliver had been interviewed on a radio show about the treatment of acute anxiety through hypnosis. Gerry had been dumped by his fiancée and his self-esteem was then at an all-time low. Oliver had changed his life, Gerry told him.
'Gerry, your offer that I could use your place in the country if I ever needed some peace and quiet on my own — is it still open?'
'Of course. You can stay there as long as you like — have the place to yourself. I'm not even sure when I'll be down next, but it won't be this weekend.'
'I just need it for a day or two.'
'Fine. When do you want to go there?'
'Tonight, if that's possible.'
'Well, of course, yes. I'd have liked to have the cleaning lady air a bed for you but —'