Ducie

by Chris Freeman

  Chapter 12. Money can’t buy me drugs

  Adam didn’t really have a plan as such. And that statement applied as much to his life in general as it did to his intention to break into the security office at the Two Steps Forward Rehabilitation Institution. He’d been at the Institution long enough to know that the office wasn’t manned after 11pm, when the on-duty guard retired to his dormitory and wasn’t replaced by a counterpart until 6am the next morning. Beyond this, Adam had established neither how he would gain entry, nor what he would actually do if he managed to breach the wooden office door and its hinged wire mesh guard. The dark, lino-floored corridor looked like it should have been colder than it actually was. A thick, muggy texture coated the air and reminded Adam of the times when smoking in public houses was permitted.

  Adam stood in front of the office door and made a final check over both shoulders, surveying the shadows for any signs of humanity. A sensible betting man would have heavily backed the door if asked to rate its chances in a physical confrontation with Adam. We’ll never know if his weenie body could have defied the odds to physically force open a locked barricade, because as he turned the bulky, gold knob, the door crept ajar and with the gentlest of pushes, swung fully open. A green lamp illuminated the surface of a large desk, but was dim enough to allow the rest of the office complete darkness. The arrangement of the papers that carpeted the work surface was indicative of a work in progress, or perhaps abandoned at the close of a shift. Adam picked up a letter: A scrappy, handwritten invoice from the gardening contractors. £319 + VAT . He’d never given much thought to the running costs of the Institution before, not least the upkeep of something as incidental as the gardens, but here it was. Adam grabbed again at random. Another letter, another invoice: Kentish Town Pharmaceuticals. The product breakdown may as well have been in a foreign language. His eyes skimmed the gibberish medical jargon and arrived swiftly at the bottom of the page and the total amount owed. £126,955.11 + VAT. Adam’s grasp of figures was never legendary and he’d been out of the real world long enough for his concept of monetary value to become rustier still. Even so, this colossal sum registered enough to force a sharp gasp of disbelief. Who on earth funded this set-up? Ever-reliable Mr Taxpayer? A six figure sum to look after a bunch of ex smack heads though? Really? Adam’s intelligence level and state of mind didn’t lend well to drawing educated conclusions from the information in front of him, but he knew as much as something didn’t stack up quite right.

  He observed the desk once more. Silence drenched the office and there was a stillness that offered a small slither of comfort to Adam in this nerve-wracking and unfamiliar new role of stealth intruder. Still, there was something about this deserted office scene that felt alive and current to him, but somehow he couldn’t quite place it. Then came the clincher: The faintest wisp of steam and an undeniably familiar aroma. Adam followed his senses to the darker side of the desk, where shadowed from the glow of the lamp by a box file, sat a cup of machine-made coffee. The intoxicating smell of caffeine seemed to grow in pungency from the moment Adam noticed the cup and now seemed to reek around the small office. He dipped a bony, sweaty finger in the liquid and retracted it immediately as the scolding sensation ripped its way to his brain. The drink couldn’t have been more than 5 minutes old.

  Then footsteps.

  In reality, his only crime was entering an unlocked room, which was hardly cause for panic and could easily have been reversed by stepping back outside and prudently closing the door behind him. Through paranoia or stupidity however, Adam flapped around pointlessly at the sound of the approaching feet, like a Wood Pigeon that had just found its way through an open window and into an unfamiliar room. Frantically trying to re-organise papers that he hadn’t even touched in the first place, scrubbing the desk with his sleeve in a misguided attempt to remove fingerprints, straightening the green leather swivel-chair back to what he guessed was its original position. If he’d turned and ran at the first sound of life approaching, he’d have been back in his dormitory by now. But here he was, performing an erratic and random re-arrangement of objects that didn’t belong to him, and now looking for a place to hide. The steady rhythm of footsteps was now laced with a whistled melody, as the coffee drinker drew close enough that Adam could hear that familiar polyester rustle of a jacket moving in time with its owner’s body pendulum. Adam felt his way to the unlit end of the office, thumping what felt like a filing cabinet with his knee. As the door opened, Adam dropped to the floor instinctively landing amongst a pile of unfathomable objects. He slumped in the corner, hidden more by the darkness than by any object in particular. The coffee drinker took his seat and let out an exasperated sigh. The smell of stale nicotine found its way across the room to Adam, which explained why the office had been left empty for a short while; coffee drinker had taken a well earned cigarette break. The chair creaked a little as its occupant leaned back and stretched.

  - Brrrrr! Oy, oy, oy! Now, now, now, now, now. What next ti, ti, ti, ti, ti, tiger?

  Funny, the way speech changes when the pressure of anyone listening is removed. Coffee drinker thought he was alone and clearly felt no need to adhere to normal patterns of speech.

  Adam immediately pinpointed the voice as Joe McKenna, the Institution security guard who had produced a baton during the earlier pigeon incident. Joe picked up the pharmacy invoice and spun himself a full 360 degree rotation in the chair.

  - One hundred and twenty six thousand smackeroos! All in the name of science and progress. What a fucking waste! Man, what I would do with half of that money.

  Joe broke into song:

  - Money, money, money…It must be funny… In a smack head’s world!

  For the first time since entering the office, Adam was amused. He cupped his hands over his face to contain the risk of involuntary laughter. The impromptu cabaret continued:

  - I don’t care too…

  Joe slapped the desk to represent the drop-beat in this Beatles classic.

  - …much for money… ‘Cause money can’t buy me drugs…Can’t buy me dru – ugs!’

  Adam managed to suppress the laugh yet again, but not the muffled cough that was following it out of his mouth and into his cupped hands. In reality it was the merest of sounds, but in this quiet setting, it was enough to reverberate around the darkness, all the way to the nearest ear. Joe’s ear.

  Joe stopped, silent, he stared straight ahead and listened. For a second, Adam thought he’d gotten away with it, until Joe reached under the desk and pulled out what looked like one of those bulky plastic guns, belonging to a 1990s arcade game. This device however, was not designed for firing bullets, but for delivering electrical current to disrupt voluntary control of muscles; a taser! In a smooth swipe, the same baton produced at the pigeon-scene was released from somewhere around Joe’s waistline and was now gripped by his other hand. In fairness, all of this was an excusable reaction to the threat of a potential intruder. It could have been anyone!

  Adam was literally cornered now, and his brain even at its optimum, adrenaline fuelled efficiency, could not think of a valid excuse for him being there. It was about three metres from Adam’s squatting position to the door. Even if he could cross that threshold quicker than Joe could react, his options once he exited the office would be limited to say the least. Especially if by that point, Joe had identified him. With no better alternative offering itself to Adam however, it was that or nothing.

  Adam felt around his feet and located what felt like a running shoe. He took aim and lobbed it in the general direction of the light. Under the circumstances, it was a decent effort, as the shoe hit the desk lamp, tipping it onto its side throwing most of the side of the room where Joe stood into darkness. The extent of Adam’s plan was merely to cause a sound that made Joe turn the other way, buying him a precious second to dart for the door. This disorientating change in lighting he’d now caused was an unexpected bonus! He leapt in a blur and stumbled to the door, his hand landing fort
uitously on the gold knob. As the door opened, he defied his athletic limitations, sprinting furiously, pumping arms and legs, gasping heavily. His only compass was an instinct to keep moving into open space. In spite of his own blind panic, Adam became aware that he heard nothing behind him. No footsteps, no heavy breathing, no cry for him to stop. Adrenaline can dull the senses, creating tunnel vision and impairing hearing, but that wasn’t it. Adam felt a sharp, sour pain that he could almost taste the flavour of, erupt around his torso. Then a dull thud inside his head that he heard more than he actually felt, before a peaceful darkness came and consumed him into a heavy sleep in the middle of the block A corridor.

  Guardians of secrets are in the thankless business of preventing the inevitable.