Captives

by Shaun Hutson

  Fuck the law.

  Fuck Draper.

  Fuck Plummer.

  Plummer.

  He clenched his fists as he thought of his boss. The act of closing his hand causing him pain, but he seemed not to mind it. One of the blisters on his palm burst, spilling its clear fluid over his skin.

  Fuck Carol.

  That treacherous, lying, spineless little whore.

  He closed his eyes and sucked in an angry breath through clenched teeth.

  Carol.

  He hated her.

  The vision of her came into his mind.

  He wanted her.

  Just to see her would be enough. For a few fleeting seconds.

  To touch her.

  To kill her.

  He whispered her name.

  Fucking slag.

  The sound of the key in the lock startled him. He looked up to see the door opening, a shape silhouetted in the doorway. The solitary cell was tiny, less than six feet square, containing just a mattress and a slop bucket. Scott banged against the bucket as he hauled himself onto the mattress, trying to see who his visitor was. It was dark inside the cell and the light from the corridor outside dazzled him momentarily, obscuring the features of his visitor. As the door closed the light inside the cell went on. Scott looked up at the man but was none the wiser.

  'They'll stick another five years on your sentence for what you did to Draper,' Nicholson told him.

  Scott sneered.

  'What's five more years on top of life?' he grunted.

  'You would have been out in fifteen with good behaviour. Now you'll be an old man when they let you out.'

  'What difference does it make to you? Who are you, anyway?'

  Nicholson introduced himself.

  'And, by the way,' he added, it makes no difference to me at all when and if you get out. You can rot in here for all I care.'

  'So why the visit?' Scott wanted to know.

  'Do you want to spend the rest of your life in here?'

  'That's a fucking stupid question. What do you think?'

  'I think that you'd settle for another six months in here instead of another twenty years,' Nicholson said cryptically. 'But there are risks.'

  Scott looked vague.

  'If I told you there was a possibility you could be out of here in six months, would you be interested?'

  Six months is too long.

  Scott looked wary.

  'How?' he demanded.

  'Would you be interested?' Nicholson persisted.

  'Tell me how.'

  Nicholson banged on the door and a warder opened it. He turned to leave.

  'Tell me,' snarled Scott, getting to his feet, moving towards the Governor.

  'Remember, there are risks,' Nicholson said as he stepped out of the cell. The door was slammed and locked. Scott was left with his face pressed against the metal.

  'I don't care about the risks,' he shouted, banging his fist against the steel door. He struck it again, ignoring the pain as more of the blisters burst. Blood began to dribble down his arm. He pounded for long moments.

  'I don't care,' he whispered breathlessly, but there was no one to hear his words.

  He sank slowly to the floor of the cell and lay there gazing at the ceiling.

  EIGHTY-FIVE

  There was always one.

  David Lane muttered to himself as he rang the bell and the bus pulled away, passing Kensington Market on the right.

  Always one who wanted to sit upstairs. Always one who ensured that he, as conductor, would be forced to climb the bloody stairs. At the beginning of a shift he didn't mind; he'd happily bound up and down the stairs to collect fares. But today he could hardly manage to walk from one end of the bus to the other, let alone up to the top deck. He'd pulled a muscle in his thigh playing football the previous Sunday and it was giving him a lot of pain. He'd thought about calling in sick, but he had actually received a phone call asking if he'd work a double shift as someone else had called in to report an illness. Consequently Lane had been working for almost ten hours, with just a break for lunch, and his leg was killing him. He moved among the passengers on the lower deck, cursing the single passenger who had chosen to sit above.

  The bus was moving slowly, picking up at nearly every stop as it moved down Kensington Road towards Hyde Park Corner. Just the odd one or two extra passengers but they all, luckily, chose to sit downstairs.

  Except the one bloke who'd got on at the earlier stop.

  Lane massaged the top of his thigh gently as he waited for an elderly woman to find her bus pass. Perhaps he was getting too old to be dashing about every Sunday morning. He was approaching thirty-three and his wife had told him he should be taking it easier now. But what the hell, he enjoyed playing, despite the fact that he'd picked up half a dozen niggling little knocks since Christmas. And his pub team were doing well in the league; he didn't want to forsake them now. Anyway, thirty-three was hardly an age to think about 'taking things easy'. Plenty of time for that when he got old. He smiled as he thought of his wife's concern. Michelle was always worrying about him. The long hours he worked, how little sleep he sometimes got. His musings were interrupted as the old girl found her bus pass and presented it to him. He smiled and handed it back to her, steadying himself as the bus came to a halt and two passengers got off. He rang the bell and continued collecting fares, making his way to the back of the bus, pausing at the bottom of the stairs. As they passed Hyde Park Corner he began to climb.

  The pulled muscle in his thigh stiffened as he moved higher and it was with something akin to relief that he finally reached the top deck.

  The man was sitting at the front, gazing out at the lights of London, oblivious to Lane's presence. The conductor moved towards him, using the backs of seats as support as the bus lurched on into Piccadilly.

  'Fares, please,' called Lane. But still the man didn't turn, didn't even move to reach for money.

  He continued staring out of the front window as if mesmerised by the lights, glancing to his left as they passed The Hard Rock Cafe.

  'Fares, please,' Lane repeated more loudly as he drew level with the man.

  'Where to, mate?' he asked, shifting his weight onto his other leg.

  The man didn't answer.

  Perhaps he was deaf, Lane wondered. He was in his mid-thirties, his hair short, his face covered by a dark carpet of stubble. The collar of his jacket was pulled up around his neck and there were holes in the knees of his jeans. Don't tell me you've got no fucking money.

  'Where do you want to go?' Lane said, more loudly.

  The man looked at him, his eyes large, almost bulging in their sockets. Lane could smell the drink on him.

  Piss-artist. Great, that was all he needed. He turned the wheel of his ticket machine and cranked out an eighty pence ticket. If this bloke was smashed then he wanted him off at the next stop.

  'Eighty pence, please, mate,' Lane said.

  The man nodded and reached into his pocket, fumbling beneath his jacket.

  'Eighty pence,' he repeated.

  He smiled and looked up at the conductor.

  'If you've got no money…' Lane began.

  'I've got no money,' the man said, grinning. 'I got this.'

  He pulled the.357 Magnum free and pointed it at Lane.

  'Have you got change?' asked Gary Lucas.

  Then he fired.

  EIGHTY-SIX

  The roar of the pistol was deafening in such a confined space. The muzzle-flash briefly lit the interior of the bus upper deck as the Magnum spat out its deadly load. Lucas fired from less than ten inches. The impact of the heavy grain shell bent Lane double at the waist as the bullet tore easily through his abdominal muscles, destroying part of his lower intestine before erupting from his back, tearing away most of one kidney. A sticky flux of viscera spattered the shattered window behind him and he fell backwards. Lucas got to his feet and fired again at the fallen man, the second bullet powering into his face just below t
he left eye, punching in the cheekbone and staving in the entire left side of his head. The skull seemed to burst as the bullet exited, greyish-pink slops of brain carried in its wake.

  Lucas turned and headed for the stairs, noticing that the bus had slowed down slightly.

  He reached the running platform in time to see two of the other passengers rising, obviously having heard the shots from above. One of them, a woman in her early twenties, screamed as she saw Lucas raising the gun.

  He fired, hitting her in the left shoulder, the bullet shattering her clavicle. Blood spurted into the air as he turned towards the other passengers. There were four of them.

  He shot the older woman in the back of the head, watching gleefully as her grey hair turned red, her skull riven by the bullet. She pitched forward, slamming what was left of her head against the seat in front.

  The bus veered to one side and Lucas cursed as his next shot missed its target. Instead it smashed through the window at the front, glass spraying in all directions. He fired again, his next shot hitting a man in the chest, caving in his sternum and bursting one lung.

  Two passengers were left, a young couple at the front of the bus.

  The youth was already advancing towards him, his face pale, while the girl screamed madly.

  Lucas squeezed the trigger.

  The hammer slammed down on an empty chamber.

  Scarcely believing his luck, the youth ran at Lucas, crashing into him, knocking the gun from his hand. They both fell onto the running platform. However, despite his efforts, the youth was slightly built compared to Lucas and the older man fixed his hands around the younger man's neck, lifting his head up. He brought his knee up into the youth's groin and heard the grunt of pain.

  His girlfriend was still screaming.

  The bus lurched across the road and Lucas realised it was beginning to stop.

  He rolled over, hurling the boy from him into the road, then scrambled to his feet, snatching up the.357. He flipped out the cylinder and pushed in fresh cartridges.

  The bus had almost come to a halt now, the driver glancing behind him to see the madness on the bus.

  The girl screamed once more, even as Lucas fired.

  The bullet entered her open mouth, tore through the back of her throat and practically decapitated her as it pulverised sections of spinal cord. She dropped like a stone, blood spraying everywhere.

  Lucas immediately turned to the driver and fired off three shots.

  The first crashed through the glass partition and exploded from the front windscreen; the second hit the man in the back, squarely between the shoulder blades. The third took off most of the right side of his head. As his body went into spasm, the driver's right foot was forced down onto the accelerator, and suddenly the bus sped forward at incredible speed, crashing into a car and sending another spinning aside.

  It flattened the traffic lights at the junction of Piccadilly and Berkeley Street, picking up speed as it roared towards the front of the Ritz Hotel. The blue-uniformed doormen ran fearfully from the oncoming juggernaut, which bore down on the hotel entrance with the dead driver slumped over the wheel.

  Lucas shouted in triumph.

  Guests and others outside ran in all directions. The sound of screams filled the air.

  Then the bus hit concrete.

  There was a massive explosion as the vehicle went up, bursting into flames, portions of it flying across the street like massive lumps of shrapnel. Other pieces, propelled by the force of the blast, stove in great sections of the hotel's front. The revolving doors, with two guests inside, disintegrated as the bus engine was sent flying into them. The sound of shattering glass mingled with the deafening roar as the explosion shook Piccadilly. A searing reddish-white ball of fire blossomed out from the riven bus, a thick mushroom cloud of smoke rising from the inferno. Windows not shattered by the impact were forced inwards by the sheer power of the concussion blast.

  Immediately, cars parked outside the hotel, caught in the detonation, began to burn. A Mercedes exploded with incredible ferocity, part of its roof spinning across the street and smashing through the plate glass windows of a chemist's. It was as if the first blast had set off a chain of smaller eruptions as half a dozen cars disappeared beneath shrieking balls of flame. Those running for cover were lifted off their feet by the shock waves; some were hit by flying glass. There were people lying all over the road and pavements, cars immobile as their drivers scrambled to escape the inferno that had filled the road and engulfed the Ritz.

  In the shattered, blazing wreckage of the bus lay Gary Lucas, flames slowly devouring his skin, blistering lips still frozen in what looked like a grin.

  EIGHTY-SEVEN

  Scott was waiting when the cell door was opened. He dutifully followed the two warders, walking briskly between them, his eyes occasionally straying to right or left as he heard voices behind the thick steel of the doors.

  The trio marched along one of the catwalks around landing C and descended the iron steps carefully.

  It felt good to be able to move about again after the cramped conditions of solitary. As the three men reached the exercise yard, Scott sucked in deep breaths of air. The sky above was the colour of wet concrete but he didn't care. Anything was better than the cold, insipid yellow walls of his cell.

  Life.

  He sucked in another lungful of air, remembering his conversation with Nicholson.

  Risks. What kind of risks?

  He didn't care. There was a chance of escape, perhaps.

  A chance to get away from this place. To return to London.

  To Plummer.

  To Carol.

  He marched faster as they drew near the hospital wing. Despite himself, Scott felt a shiver of fear run along his spine.

  Was the means of release within that gaunt edifice? And, if so, what form did it take?

  Release.

  He clung to the word like a dying man clings to life.

  The trio entered the building, Scott recoiling from the pungent odour of disinfectant. He was led down a long corridor. At an office door one of his escort knocked and was told to enter.

  Scott waited, glancing at the other warder. He remained impassive. Finally Scott was ushered in, the first warder hesitating inside the door.

  'You can leave,' said Dr Robert Dexter.

  'He's dangerous,' the warder insisted.

  'Wait outside,' Dexter said, and the uniformed man left reluctantly. He waited until the door was closed, then motioned for Scott to be seated.

  'Do you know who I am?' Dexter asked.

  'Should I?' Scott enquired.

  Dexter smiled thinly.

  'No, I suppose not.' He introduced himself quickly. 'And you are James Scott.' He had a file open before him. 'A convicted murderer.'

  'I didn't kill those men…' Scott began.

  'That's as maybe, but as far as the law is concerned you're guilty. You're going to spend the rest of your life inside.'

  Life.

  Dexter looked at the file, even though he already knew the contents well enough.

  'You lived alone; you have no family. No wife. No children,' he said quietly. 'No one.'

  Scott regarded him coldly.

  'Nobody to miss you,' Dexter continued.

  'Try telling me something I don't know,' Scott snapped. 'You seem to know such a lot about me. Who the hell are you? A doctor? Big deal. What's that got to do with me?'

  'More than a doctor, Scott. A surgeon. I specialise in disorders of the mind. God alone knows there are enough in this place.' He smiled thinly, but it faded quickly.

  'I still don't understand what this has got to do with me,' Scott told him. 'I couldn't give a fuck if you're a brain surgeon or a gynaecologist. Perhaps you'd be better off if you were. There are plenty of cunts in here, most of them wearing uniforms. Why should it matter to me?'

  'The same way it mattered to the five men before you. Four of them were released from here. Four convicted murderers, like y
ou, allowed back into society. Most had only served a year or two of their sentence.'

  Scott sat forward.

  'They were just like you,' Dexter continued. 'Alone. They had no one. That's why we chose them. The same way we've chosen you. They knew of the risks and they accepted them.'

  'Nicholson said something about risks. What did he mean?' Scott wanted to know.

  'The operation always carries a risk…'

  'What fucking operation?' Scott snapped.

  'The insertion, into the forebrain, of a tiny electronic device. Once it's placed there, after a few months you'll be released.'

  Scott sucked in a deep breath. His mouth felt dry, and when he tried to lick his lips he found that his tongue was also as dry as parchment.

  'No one except the Governor, myself and my immediate staff know about this. It's up to you whether or not you decide to go through with the operation, but think about the possibility. Release.'

  'What about the law? They'll know I'm gone, that I've escaped.'

  'But you won't have escaped, you'll have been released. And there'll be no police interference. All the arrangements will be taken care of here.'

  Scott stroked his chin thoughtfully.

  'You said you experimented on five men, but you said four were released. What happened to the other one?'

  'He died. There were complications, the risks that Nicholson mentioned.'

  'What happened to him?'

  'A massive brain tumour developed where the device was implanted. There was nothing I could do to save him, but he'd known about the possibility of failure from the beginning. It was a chance he was willing to take.' Dexter eyed the other man coldly. 'Are you willing to take that chance, Scott? Six months at the most and you'll be able to leave here. Six months. Not life.'

  Life.

  'If I agree, how soon can you operate?' he wanted to know.

  'Tomorrow.'

  Six months, Scott thought. Six fucking months and then out. Back to London. Back to Plummer.