Ward Zero: The dead ward

by Linda Huber

  He leaned past her and opened the glove compartment. Sarah shrank into her seat, then moved to get out of the car to give him more space. His free hand grasped her arm in a painful squeeze, and shock leapt through her.

  What the hell – oh God, his face – what was happening? His lips were pressed into a thin line – a cruel line, and the normally smooth forehead was furrowed. And his eyes – they were horribly different eyes and she didn’t know them. Sarah’s stomach twisted, and she pulled in vain against his grasp. ‘Jack! What are you –’

  And that wasn’t a key – no – no – he was going to –

  A pulsing pain zapped through her body, and she slumped in the passenger seat, panic scorching her gut. All she could do was watch as he pulled half a brick from below his seat and raised it.

  And everything went black.

  He stared at her, panting. She was unconscious – wasn’t she? He gave her shoulder a little shake and her head dropped towards her shoulder. Blood was oozing through her lovely blonde hair on one side, making it stick to the side of her head. Sarah, Sarah – what had he done? He held his breath to hear hers, panic flooding through him when he couldn’t, but then he saw the rapid rise and fall of her chest. It was all right. She wasn’t dead. Oh fuck – that meant he still had to kill her.

  He leaned back in the driving seat, hands clutching his head. What a mess. He was going to have to kill the woman who should have become Mrs Jack Morrison. How had it come to this? For a moment he gave way to the sobs that were shaking his body, then a distant bike light further along the lane galvanised him into action. He jumped out to open the lock-up, and drove straight in.

  It was like Petra all over again, except this time he had nothing ready. Where were the cable binders? He rummaged in the toolbox, swearing when all he found were short binders. It was too bloody dark in here to do this. He should keep a torch in the car. Inspiration struck and he hurried to turn on the headlights. That was better. Now – there was plenty of that cord left. He seized the spool of cord and a Stanley knife and cut a couple of lengths. She was moaning gently, flopped over towards the driving seat. He bound her ankles together and dragged her from the car, dumping her in the spot where Petra had lain.

  Now for her hands… He laid her arms across her middle, then wound the cord round her wrists, good and tight, twisting until the knot was at the back where she couldn’t get at it. That was better – her arms wouldn’t flap about like Petra’s had. It looked more comfortable, too. But he only had filthy rags to gag her with. Poor lovely Sarah, except she was anything but lovely now. Her eye make-up was smudged and blood was trickling down a white cheek and he was going to have to kill her and he couldn’t… not Sarah…

  Sobbing again, he pulled a sack over her head and fled, gunning the car round to the side of the house, stalling three times in his panic to get there, to be home, to be safe. This was a hundred times worse than Petra or Netta.

  Jack paced up and down in his new kitchen, his hands clasped and pressed under his chin. He’d never felt so trapped, so afraid. The only way to get through this was to switch his emotions off. It was his own fault things had ended so disastrously – stupid bugger he was, mentioning Glynis by name. What a good thing they’d had those fritters, they’d kept Sarah occupied, but she’d have realised the significance of what he’d said as soon as she started to think about it. He couldn’t let that happen. Nausea spread through his gut and he forced it down.

  So he had to silence Sarah too. He should have done it straightaway, wielded the spade while she was still unconscious and got it over with. But it would be like killing a member of his own family. Like killing his mum. He’d wanted to do that so many times.

  But now it was him – or Sarah. Maybe he could give her another tap on the head, and dump her in the canal? Didn’t people say that death by drowning was pleasant? It would all be over in a moment, and the body would be gone. Yes, that should work…

  But ‘should’ was no use; he needed certainty. He might not have the same luck again – suppose someone saw him? Think, think. Sarah had to die, that was clear. And he couldn’t trust himself to kill her the same way he’d managed with Petra, or even Netta, that was clear too.

  An overdose? He’d need to get hold of something stronger than sleeping pills, and someone might get suspicious if he tried to buy a load of medication. The same applied if he tried to steal drugs from the hospital. Of course, he could always go to every chemist’s in town and buy a little in each. But if he hadn’t managed to get pills into Petra, he’d never be able to with Sarah. So anything she had to swallow was out.

  Set fire to the lock-up? The wooden roof would go up straightaway, and there was oil and petrol in there so it would all burn like hellfire – he could leave the car in there; it would explode. But there was a lot of concrete too, and there would inevitably be something left of the body. A DNA test would tell the police it was Sarah, and how could he explain away her presence in his lock-up when it suddenly caught fire for some strange reason? So that was out too.

  Starvation? How long could anyone live with no food or water? Four days? Five days? Six? He didn’t know, and leaving her to die in the lock-up would be dangerous. Tomorrow morning people would be walking past on their way to the station.

  Unless… suppose he were to take her somewhere, somewhere nobody ever went, where no-one would dream of looking? Somewhere he could dump her and forget about her? That might work. He’d need to be careful to leave no trace of himself on the way there or back, but he had access to sterile hospital garb so that didn’t have to be a problem.

  Hospital garb…

  Of course, of course. He punched the air with both fists. Everything was going to be all right. Sarah could die in peace after all.

  He knew just where to hide her.

  It was black dark, and something was pressing hard against her head. She couldn’t think what it could be, in fact she could hardly think at all. It felt like a too-small metal band around her skull, squeezing, squeezing. No… No, it was pain. A searing, jagged pain was winding round from the back of her neck to right above her eyes. This was by far the worst headache she’d ever had. And… what was in her mouth? She couldn’t close her lips, and something was pressing on her palate. Was it a breathing tube, oh no, was she in hospital? She couldn’t see, and the pain, dear Lord, she felt so sick. And she could barely move.

  She must be in hospital. Please let her go back to sleep… She had never felt this weak.

  Mim... Gran... Mama... Who could help? Somewhere in the back of her head a tune was playing, a tinny nursery rhyme. Her lamp with the stars that made pictures on the bedroom wall. She sank into the memory.

  Jack’s hands were clammy inside the surgical gloves. He glanced at the dashboard clock – quarter to midnight. He should do this quickly. There was no need to hang around. He backed the car into the road and drove round the block to the lock-up.

  There was complete silence when he swung the door up. Was she still unconscious? No – the effects of the stun gun didn’t last longer than a few moments, and the blow on her head hadn’t been a hard one. She’d be playing dead, terrified he was going to batter her face in like he’d done with Petra.

  He deliberately didn’t speak to her. If she started to moan, he didn’t know if he’d be able to stand it. So – a quick zap to her leg with the stun gun, another little bash on her head with the same instrument, and she was blessedly unconscious again. It was the only way he could do this. Moving swiftly, he drove the car into the lock-up and closed the door on the night.

  She was still, and his heart raced when he heard the slow, rhythmic breathing. Maybe he’d hit her too hard. But come on, Jack. You’re going to leave her to die; it made no difference if she had brain damage or not. He stared at the body slumped on the floor. Just like Petra, except Sarah’s head wasn’t flat and she hadn’t bled enough for it to be seeping through the sack. So not much like Petra, and all the better for that. Grasping Sarah’s shoul
ders, he pulled, and up she came to lean against his legs, all floppy and uncooperative, good. Grab under her knees now, Jack… she was lighter than Petra. He staggered towards the car, her perfume assaulting his senses quite horribly, and manoeuvred her into the back seat, covering her with the blanket that had covered Petra last time. At least her face wasn’t flat…

  Swallowing the panic, he drove away from the lock-ups and towards the main road, the night sky dark above him. No-one was around to see.

  He drove this way nearly every day. It was his working world, the hospital, and it was a huge, rambling old place, a rabbit warren of corridors and cellars. Some of the older parts had rooms tucked away whose existence most people had long forgotten, if they’d ever known in the first place. No-one would find Sarah where he was taking her.

  He steered through the main gate and drove towards the porter’s HQ at the back of the admin block. Who was on call tonight? Ted, yes, and he’d be asleep unless he was out on a shout. Either way he wouldn’t worry Jack and Sarah. Tears sprang into Jack’s eyes. Jack and Sarah. It could have been. It should have been. He wasn’t a bad person, he wasn’t… Panic fluttered back into his throat.

  Sarah was beginning to stir as he parked in his usual workday space. Jack zapped her with the stun gun again and ran inside. He burst into the storeroom and seized a set of green overalls, almost overbalancing in his hurry to put them on. He pulled one of those ridiculous shower-cap affairs over his head; it would prevent him dropping DNA-loaded hair all over the place. Hell – what if he’d already dropped hairs on Sarah? But they’d had dinner together, and who was to say they hadn’t cuddled in the car park? Everything would be all right, as long as no trace of him was found at the scene of her death. His hand hovered over the box of face masks, but no – that wasn’t necessary. Back to the car now, quick, quick.

  He drove to the far end of the hospital, keeping well within the slow speed limit. It would never do to make himself conspicuous. Sarah was taking funny little throaty breaths in the back of the car. She would come round soon; she would be afraid, but she wouldn’t suffer long, he was sure.

  The building he was heading for was psycho-geriatrics, right at the back of the complex beside the rehab block and maternity. It wasn’t psycho-geriatrics these days, of course, that was an old fashioned term they’d conjured up at the time of the Second World War. Nowadays it was home to ordinary geriatrics, but a lot of them were psycho anyway, poor sods. The in-joke at the hospital was there’d been a huge red cross painted on the psycho-geri roof during the war, but the Luftwaffe hadn’t bombed it. So the same building still stood today, half-wooden, probably half-rotten, old, old, old – with cellars. It was a piece of hospital history down there, a forgotten corner where spiders and cockroaches reigned undisturbed.

  And best of all, the psycho-geri cellar wasn’t linked to the tunnel system under the hospital. It was quiet, secluded, and never used. The perfect place to hide and die…

  Oh, Sarah.

  Jack parked on the far side of the building, as close to the back doorway as he could get. But no-one would be around to see him so there was no need to worry. He unlocked the door with his pass key, propping it open with a chunk of stone that lay nearby. Then he pulled Sarah from the car, arranging her floppiness over his shoulder in a kind of fireman’s lift this time. Breathing heavily, he slid inside and down the stairs. It was dark as the grave down here. Rather appropriate. Round the corner he went, through the first cellar door into a narrow hallway, and thank goodness, he could put a light on now. He clicked the switch down. It was a nice dim bulb, good.

  There were four rooms down here, and he unlocked one of them. It was used to store unwanted equipment – he’d brought a couple of machines down last autumn. Stacks of old mattresses were propped in one corner, relics from the Second World War too, by the looks of them, but at least Sarah could lie there and die in relative comfort.

  He lowered her to the floor and pressed the light switch, but this time nothing happened. Well, maybe that was better. There was enough light from the hallway for what he had to do. He pulled four mattresses into a pile, lifted Sarah again and almost flung her down there. Thank God he was strong. She made a little moaning sound, so he pulled up the sack and tightened the gag a little. Her eyelids were fluttering and she was sheet-white. Quickly, he pulled the sack back over her face and tucked it into the gag at the back of her neck, twisting it to make it hold. Sorted. He could go now; no-one upstairs would hear Sarah even if she did moan. The walls were thick and the geriatrics were yowling all the time anyway. Moans echoed round this old building like something from a horror film. He checked the cords round her wrists and ankles, then covered her completely with a drape from one of the machines. There! She looked like a proper corpse now, and soon she’d be one. Dead on her hospital bed. Regret washed through him. Goodbye, Sarah. Blinking back tears, he locked both doors behind him, and hurried round to the car.

  The main thoroughfare was deserted as he drove to the hospital gates, and even in the town centre there wasn’t much traffic, thanks to the burst main. Jack turned into the High Street. All he wanted was to go home, go to bed, and sleep. He had to be fresh for tomorrow when the terrible news that Sarah was missing would reach him as one of the first. But there were a couple of things he had to take care of first.

  Slowly, he drove along the High Street until he came to the travel agent’s opposite the bank, and parked. There was a bus stop about twenty metres away where a handful of late pub-crawlers were waiting for the last bus out to Bellside. They were a bit of a raucous crowd – one of them was being sick into the gutter. They might notice the car, but they wouldn’t be able to tell how many people were in it, and they certainly wouldn’t be able to describe him.

  Sarah’s handbag was on the floor by the passenger seat, and he rummaged until he found her mobile. Good, it was on. The surgical gloves were thin; it was easy to punch in the number of the biggest taxi company in town.

  He listened as the ringing tone trilled in his ear. Careful, Jack. You’ve got one chance to get this right.

  ‘B.B. Taxis.’ It was a man’s voice.

  ‘Oh, please, help me, come and get me! I’m in the High Street and there’s a man here and I think he’s following me!’

  Jack paused, pleased. He’d always been good at theatricals, and although he hadn’t done a female voice for a long time it had worked perfectly. He’d convinced the taxi operator, anyway.

  ‘Where are you, love?’

  ‘Opposite the bank. Oh God, he’s crossing the road – he’s coming!’

  ‘Walk up towards the bus stop, love, there’ll be other people there. Taxi’ll be with you in two minutes.’

  ‘Oh, please hurry, plea-’ Jack broke the connection, noticing happily that a bus was pulling away from the stop. His timing couldn’t have been better. He leaned over to open the passenger seat door and tossed Sarah’s bag into the gutter, where it landed beside an empty cigarette packet and some greasy old chip paper.

  Nice one, Jack. You’re safe; it’s all right. He pulled the car into a U-turn in the now-deserted High Street. Fifty metres further on he passed a taxi cruising along, obviously looking for a distraught female in need of a lift.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Friday, 21st July – morning

  The doorbell rang, loud and insistent, and then again. Caitlyn tutted in irritation. If that was someone selling something at this time in the morning she’d tell them where to go. She glanced in the bathroom mirror to check she didn’t have toothpaste on her chin, ran downstairs, and yanked the front door open.

  ‘Come quick! We can’t find Sarah and Mim’s scared!’ Frankie was already on her way back next door.

  Head reeling, Caitlyn looked round for her bag then followed the child across the front wall and into Mim’s hallway. What on earth? ‘We can’t find Sarah’ – what was that supposed to mean? She hurried through to the kitchen where Mim was sitting with her hands twisted against her chest.


  Caitlyn saw at a glance how afraid the other woman was, and her stomach lurched. ‘Mim? What’s going on?’

  ‘Sarah didn’t come home last night and I can’t get in touch with her.’ The words were stark and Mim’s voice unrecognisable.

  Caitlyn dropped into the chair opposite Mim and tried Sarah’s number on her own phone. Nothing. ‘She was going out with Jack, wasn’t she? To a restaurant? And then –?’

  ‘And then she didn’t come home.’ Mim’s voice was shrill with panic. ‘I was up till after twelve watching Dances with Wolves, and I checked my mobile before I went to bed but she hadn’t texted. I know she’s a grown woman and she can do as she likes, but Caitlyn, it’s not like her. I hardly slept a wink.’

  ‘And she definitely hasn’t been home?’

  ‘Her bed hasn’t been slept in and the outfit she was wearing last night isn’t in her room.’

  Dread dropped into Caitlyn’s stomach as her eyes met Mim’s over the table. Something was wrong here, very wrong. Standing in the doorway, Frankie began to cry. Mim beckoned the girl to the chair beside her and stroked her head.

  Caitlyn tried to think. ‘Have you called Jack?’

  Mim rocked back and forth on her chair. ‘I don’t have the number and I can’t remember his surname! Sarah must have mentioned it but –’

  ‘It’s Morrison.’ Caitlyn picked up her phone again and went into the online directory. And of course, Jack Morrison wasn’t listed. She swore under her breath and Frankie buried her face in her arms on the kitchen table.

  Caitlyn touched the girl’s head. ‘Try not to worry, Frankie. We’ll find her. It’s probably just her phone battery conking out.’

  Mim patted Frankie too. ‘She could be on her way home right now.’