Outside the back door, the alleyway and car park were likewise silent. When I reached my car – a second-hand banger purchased primarily for the 15-minute drive to and from Dad – I checked the footwell of the rear seats before unlocking the doors. No killers there. I flipped up the boot. Nothing. Then the bonnet, though there was barely enough space under there to swing a hamster.
Satisfied, I yanked open my driver’s door, dove in, slammed the door shut, hit the door lock and checked the back seats once again. Then I started the engine and drove away, checking in my mirrors to be sure that no one was following. Satisfied, I breathed out such a sigh of relief that my halitosis bounced back off the windscreen and I spluttered.
For the first time since 03.58, I felt safe.
At 10.33, I parked in a lay-by just around the corner from the Home for Retired Explorers, switched off the engine, and waited there until visiting time began, whilst remaining fully vigilant. I was too scared to grow bored.
At 13.59, I walked up to the Home for Retired Explorers and pulled back the gargoyle, as I had done so often in the past.
“Young Mr Dextrose! Not one of your usual visiting days!” bellowed Nurse D’eath when she answered the door.
“No!” I replied, as jauntily as I could manage. “Thought I’d break the habits of a lifetime!” I’d practised that reply out loud a hundred times in the car, so often that I almost stumbled over it.
She poked her head outside. “No car in the car park, I see…”
“No, broken down, I’m afraid. Had to catch the bus.” I’d practised that lie too.
Her piggy eyes glinted with suspicion. “Just so long as you’ve no funny business in mind…”
“Haha! As if, Nurse D’eath!” I chirped, convinced I reeked of guilt.
At 14.48, having sat through a succession of Mr Peel’s bloody stories and Hoath moaning about the bread rolls at breakfast time, while I was a bundle of nerves, I finally allowed myself to reveal my brilliant plan.
Gathering Dad, Reculver, Hoath, Chislet, Peel and Wilmington-Hovis in a circle of chairs, I first checked that the nurse’s office door was tight shut, then leant in and motioned for them to do the same.
“I’m taking you to the seaside,” I whispered as loudly as I dared.
“You’ll have to speak up!” blared Wilmington-Hovis.
“What did he say?” Reculver asked Hoath.
“He said he’s taking Ruth up the backside,” replied Hoath. “I think.”
“That’s me boy!” said Dad.
I had to start again.
Eventually, I hoped, everyone understood. That night I would be taking the six of them to the seaside: Dritt-on-Sea. How I would fit us all into my car, I wasn’t sure. Cross that bridge when I came to it. No sense in over-planning. I would drive them to the pier, we would sit and watch the waves, and after an hour or so I would drive them back to the home.
“If anyone wants to stay in Dritt, do a runner, I’m happy to turn a blind eye,” I told them.
Mr Chislet whistled. “Fuck me!” They were his very first words in my presence.
Dad stood up and slapped me on the back. Wilmington-Hovis and Peel looked petrified. Hoath didn’t seem to have taken it in. Reculver beamed.
I returned the grin and hoped I would not let him down.
Truth be told, my ‘brilliant’ plan hinged upon one crucial factor. At least I did not need to trouble the old gimmers with it; I simply needed them to be dressed and ready by midnight.
“If you do not hear my knock on the door to your bedrooms…” I rephrased that: “If I do not open the door to your bedrooms by five minutes past midnight, go back to bed. My plan will have failed.”
At 14.59, certain residents – I shall not name and shame them – could barely contain themselves and were fidgeting in their seats like small children. We had fallen unnaturally silent, too pent-up to speak, though eagerness patrolled what remained of our muscle groups.
The door to Nurse D’eath’s office opened and she entered the room. She must have sensed the tension because she all but sniffed the air.
“Anything the matter?” she asked, lower-volume than usual.
She was on to us and we would have to hold our nerve.
Wilmington-Hovis twitched.
Peel raised his hand.
What the hell was he doing?
“Yes, Mr Peel?” bellowed the nurse.
Peel’s stare bounced around the group. His mouth had fallen open and I noticed, to my horror, that he had developed an erection.
I shook my head at him as minimally as I could, gritting my teeth, desperately attempting to master ESP: ‘Say nothing, Mr Peel! Please, don’t blow it!’
While Peel’s indecision reigned, Nurse D’eath walked across the room and into the centre of our circle of deceit. There, she folded her arms.
“Well, this is all rather conspiratorial!” she announced. Then suddenly she lunged out a hand and flicked the head of Mr Peel’s upstanding cock.
“Ow!” he squealed, as his ancient member instantly deflated.
“Visiting time is over, the younger Mr Dextrose!” bellowed the nurse. “Be gone with you!”
And so it began.
At 15.02, having closed the door to the communal lounge behind me, and having made sure that I was not being followed, I stopped at Cedric’s window. This was the crucial part of my plan.
“Hello, Cedric,” I said.
“Afternoon, Mr Pilsbury,” he replied, tipping his cap. “Can I help you?”
I will confess, my heart was beating like a woodpecker’s beak. “Yes, Cedric,” I said. “I was wondering. Could I bribe you to conceal me beneath your desk until midnight?”
I swear he chuckled. “How much?” (I’d banked on that.)
“Will 50 pounds do?”
From his expression alone I assumed that it would. “See your money?” he went.
I thrust the notes, previously counted out, at him. He kissed them and folded them into a pocket.
“Open your door ready,” I hissed.
I walked to the front door, opened it, waited a second, and closed it loudly. If she were watching from a window, monitoring my walk down the driveway, I was scuppered. But there was no time to dwell on that. I slid silently back across the floor, slunk into Cedric’s office and crawled beneath his desk.
He was laughing to himself again. “You OK down there?” he whispered.
“Fine, thanks,” I whispered back.
At 15.56, Cedric, who I’d have sworn had been snacking on pickles, from the sounds he had made, dropped the first of several silent but brutal blow-offs. The stench subjugated the air beneath his desk, like Nazis marching into Poland, and seeped into my clothing. I didn’t have the gall to ask him to desist, and anyway, all too soon I failed to notice it.
At 16.22, he bent his head down and said, “I reckon you could come out from there if you wanted. Nurse D’eath’s so fat, you could be back under there before her she’d squeezed her butt through the door.”
I didn’t dare chance fate. I did, however, run hastily through the next stage of my plan with him: shortly after midnight, when I had gathered together the troops, I would need him to let us out of the front door.
“No can do,” came the reply. “At 11.30 I lock that door and switch on the alarm. If that don’t happen, on the dot, she will be down on me like… well, like a ton of Nurse D’eath.”
I hadn’t foreseen that. “So how do I get us all outside?”
Cedric pondered for a while, then said: “Well, the front door’s alarmed – but that big window in the bathroom ain’t. You could climb out there. It’s on the ground floor.”
I passed him up another tenner.
At 23.27, there came a sharp kick in my ribs.
“Shh!” hissed Cedric. “You snore any louder, you’ll bring the ceiling down!”
I’d been long enough asleep that I could feel dried saliva along the side of my cheek and gunk had gathered in the corners of my eye
s. Uncomfortable and cramped as it was beneath the desk, I’d had so little sleep on account of the Shaman’s dummy that I could probably have drifted off among hedgehogs.
“I gotta lock the door now. After that, she’ll come down to check everything’s OK. That’s when you’ll need to be real quiet, or we’re in the shit. Got it?”
I had.
Next, I saw the bottoms of Cedric’s legs depart his office, and heard his padding footsteps head for the front door. Keys rattled, one turned in a lock, there was a brief silence, then I heard the electronic beeps of the alarm being set. His footsteps returned.
Moments later I heard the heavy wooden door at the end of the corridor creak open. Nurse D’eath was coming. Curling myself into the tightest possible ball, I tried to slow my breathing. When that proved impossible, I closed my eyes, clenched my fists and prayed.
“Everything alright, Cedric?” came her hushed tones, saved for the dead of night.
“No problem, Nurse D’eath.”
“Good. Then I shall wish you goodnight.”
“Night, Nurse D’eath.”
Footsteps padded away along stone floor. The door closed.
Cedric’s baggy-eyed face appeared beneath his desk. “You’re on your own now, fella.”
At 23.58, having given the nurse long enough, I dearly hoped, to wash, change into her jim-jams, climb into bed and ideally fall asleep, I crawled out from my hiding place.
“Thanks!” I hissed at the security guard cum janitor as I slid away on all fours, but he seemed to have lost interest in the operation. That, or he was planning to deny any knowledge of me.
At the end of the frankly spooky, candlelit corridor I stood, gulped, leant on the door handle and pushed. To my paranoid ears, I had unleashed the operating sounds of Satan’s rusty hell-hinges; the reality must have been less spectacular, because no nurse came bowling from her quarters.
The lounge was in pitch darkness, to which my eyes were unaccustomed. Amazingly, given the paucity of thought that had gone into my plan, I had brought with me a pocket torch. However, with the windowed door to Nurse D’eath’s office only yards away, it would have been too risky to use it.
So, with tiny, sliding steps, eyelids wide apart to create the greatest possible aperture, I shuffled towards the residents’ door, hands out before me, feeling for obstacles, trying to remember where all the chairs had been.
“Is he here yet?”
“Stop saying that!”
“What time is it?”
“How do I know?”
“I’ve never trusted him.”
“Minker.”
I’d caught those exchanges a good while before I even reached my goal – and through solid wood. As escape parties went, they had all the subtlety of toddlers on sugar.
I flung myself the remaining distance, yanked open the door and went, “Shhhhh!” as quietly yet urgently as possible.
“Hurrah!” came the barely muted cheer, then I had to stop them singing For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.
We were going to have to move fast.
“Quick, follow me!” I hissed, feeling for the nearest body, finding its hand and pulling. My night vision was at least improving and I could just make out the bathroom door.
“Where are we going?” came Peel’s voice.
“To the beach, you fool!” said Hoath.
“Please! Shhhhh!” I urged them.
“Is he here yet?” (Wilmington-Hovis.)
“Stop saying that!” (Hoath.)
“Will I need a spade?” (Peel.)
The only positive I could find was that we were at least moving.
For a glorious couple of seconds there was absolute silence. Then came a squeaking. Wilmington-Hovis’s meerschaum bath-chair. Unnoticeable during the day, at night, with the senses on high-alert, it wheels sounded like vigorous frottage occurring on a trampoline pulled from a canal.
That did it. I stood to one side and windmilled my arm in the direction of the bathroom. “Everyone! Go! Go! Go!” I hissed.
When any body came within range, I shoved its back onwards. I didn’t care who it was, or what its state of decay, I just shoved. When I made out Wilmington-Hovis’s seated figure, bringing up the rear of the queue, I grabbed the handles of his bath-chair and ran.
Dad was holding the door open as I skidded through. Assuming – hoping – that we were all safely inside, I turned and shut it behind us. And waited. Even the old gimmers held their tongues.
We waited. We waited some more.
Silence.
How we had pulled that off without getting caught, I could not begin to guess. Either angels had been watching over us, or Nurse D’eath was a heavy sleeper. The latter seemed likelier.
Bowing my head, frazzled and shot through with adrenalin, I allowed myself to succumb to the sense of blessed relief – but briefly. We were not done yet, not by a long chalk.
Avoiding switching on the bathroom light, as that would have floodlit the outside, instead I made use of my pocket torch.
When I swung its beam over the residents, I couldn’t quite believe what I saw. Dad, Reculver, Hoath, Chislet, Peel and Wilmington-Hovis, all in their pyjamas with their top buttons done up. Standing before me wearing the expectant expressions of good boys come Christmas. (Reculver, at least, had had the sense to also wear his dressing gown.)
It was heartbreaking.
“It’s freezing outside!” I hissed.
“Is it?” went Hoath.
“What month are we in?” asked Peel.
“Do you know, I’ve forgotten what the cold is,” said Reculver. “Blessed central heating. Never off.”
“Perhaps we should ask her?” suggested Peel. “To turn it off, I mean.”
“Don’t be stupid!’ said Hoath.
“I want to go home,” wailed Wilmington-Hovis.
Blocking out their to-do, I shone my torch at the window to the outside world. It was a large double sash, heavy in construction, with a lock attached to the bottom frame. I tried it, desperate that it would open or I would once again reach an impasse.
No dice.
No bloody dice.
“I have a plan.” It was Mr Reculver.
“Really?”
“I’ve already thought this through, Pilsbury,” he said. “Because I have tried to escape before.” – That stunned the natives – “And I believe there is only one method that might work.”
I was all ears. “What’s that?”
“Well,” he said. “That’s a strong, well-constructed window. So it’ll need something heavy to break it. And the only thing in here that’s suitable is the sink.”
OK. “So your plan is: to throw the sink through the window?”
“That’s right. Except it’s attached to the wall and the floor.”
U-huh. “But you think you can shift it?”
“Well,” replied Reculver. “I’ve tried on and off over the past 23 years and I haven’t managed it yet.”
Brilliant.
He continued, undaunted: “But tonight I feel I may succeed.”
“Why tonight?”
“Because you have inspired us, Pilsbury.”
The big man squatted down, wrapped his sizeable, yet unconditioned arms, around the base, clenched his teeth and… “Hhhhhhnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn.”
Everyone was silent, expectant. Willing Reculver to succeed.
The sink did not budge.
“Hhhhhhnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn.”
Nothing.
“Hhhhhhnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn.”
That went on for a while, during which time I played my torch around the room. I was appalled to see that the bath had no screen around it, not even a curtain, and that the toilet cubicle had no door. Was there no privacy afforded even here?
As I shone the beam around the window one more time, I spotted a red box high up on the wall, with writing on. It read: ‘In case of emergency break glass with hammer’.
“Hold on…” I said.
“Hhhhhhnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn.”
“Has no one noticed this before?”
“What is it?” asked Peel.
“Hhhhhhnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn.”
“A red box, minkbreath!”
“How did that get there?” asked Hoath.
“What’s it say on it?” (Peel.)
“Hhhhhhnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn.”
“I want to go home!” (Wilmington-Hovis again.)
I tapped Reculver on the back. “Yes?” he said, straightening with difficulty. I squiggled the torch beam over the box.
The penny dropped. “Good Lord,” he exclaimed. “You know, when an object becomes over-familiar, one somehow fails to notice it.”
Just then, the bathroom door burst open and a great bulk in shadows loomed there like a black hole hovering.
“WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?”
I heard at least one whimper.
The bathroom light came on. Backs of hands shot up to cover sensitive eyes.
“Look at you all!” sneered the wretched nurse. “What do you think you look like? And you, the younger Mr Dextrose, did you really think you could get this lot past me?”
I had done, yes. “No,” I said.
D’eath snorted. “The moment I didn’t see you on the driveway, when you were supposed to be leaving, I knew something was up. My suspicions having already been aroused when you gormless lot acted like kids planning a tuck-shop raid. Pa-thetic. Incidentally, I have sent Cedric home. His employment has been terminated.”
We stood there, we grown men, taking her derision. Peel and Hoath, staring down at their shuffling feet. Reculver, rubbing a hand over his face. Wilmington-Hovis, chin on chest as usual; his pose never really altered. My father – looking shameful? What on earth had come over him, these past few weeks? Only dumpy Mr Chislet, staring back at Nurse D’eath, offered any semblance of defiance.
“What in God’s name were you thinking, the younger Mr Dextrose?” she bellowed, revelling in the victory, milking it for all its worth.
“I was taking my friends to the seaside,” I said. Someone had to stand up to her.
Faces turned towards me.
“They’re not your friends!” she spat. “Look at them! Feeble, simple-minded, pitiful creatures.”
That did it. “Oh, piss off you sinister old goat,” I snapped.
Her gob fell open, revealing a tongue like a pink toad.
Looking for Mrs Dextrose Page 27