by D C Alden
He stayed in the washroom for a while, perched on a lavatory seat, listening for movement from the bolted room, from the rest of the wing. It was quiet, only the sound of dripping water, the distant toot of a vehicle at the main gate, the disturbed wail of a patient from somewhere within the facility. Business as usual.
Fifteen minutes had passed, maybe twenty, when Bryce poked his head out into the corridor. The light under the door was still blocked out, the room ominously silent. On hands and knees, Bryce peeked under the door again. Sully’s body appeared not to have moved, a crush of white material filling the gap. Perhaps it was all a sham, Sully lying with his back to the door, his eyes open, a cruel smile on his face as Bryce released the bolt and pushed open the door. How long could he wait like that? Hours maybe.
The question was, how long could Bryce afford to wait? Would anyone come looking for Sully? For nurse Orla? She was Bryce’s full-time carer, whereas Sully oversaw the whole thing, monitoring, reporting – goading, always making sure Bryce remained isolated, confined to his wing, that the windows and locks were not interfered with. And now his gaolers lay on the other side of the door, one certainly dead, the other out cold. Probably.
Another hour passed, then another, but Sully never moved. Bryce watched from the utility room window as the grocery truck honked a greeting at the main gate, the red and white barrier lifted, the driver waving to the guard from his window. That truck usually arrived long after the staff did, around ten o’clock Bryce calculated. That meant fresh fruit and veg for lunch and dinner, not that Bryce ever saw much of it. His meals were usually a mixture of watery potatoes and overcooked vegetables, the meat barely identifiable, the same pallid-looking flesh appearing in next day’s curry or stew. So, it was mid-morning then. Soon it would be lunchtime and the ebb and flow of traffic would begin again, funnelling through the main gate with predictable regularity. Bryce took a deep breath, knowing the moment had finally arrived, knowing that further inaction and delay would result in his own fate being swiftly sealed.
He checked beneath the door, his eye finding the crease in Sully’s uniform just below the rusted screw of the door’s footplate. The crease was still there, unmoved, which meant Sully had lain completely immobile on the floor for more than three hours. If he was faking it then he was good, but now he had no choice. The longer he waited, the more chance Sully would start to revive and Bryce couldn’t risk that. He reached up and dropped the bolt, pushing the door open against the weight of Sully’s body. He peered around the jamb. Sully lay curled at his feet, immobile, his mouth and eyes wide open, his dark features now a sickly grey. The baton had skittered across the floor and lay at the foot of the bed. Without thinking, Bryce hopped over Sully and raced towards the weapon, scooping it up and spinning around to face the Turk.
Nothing. Sully remained on the floor, his knees drawn up into a foetal position. Bryce advanced slowly, poked Sully’s trainers with the baton. He moved closer, navigating the tip towards Sully’s genitals. Sully didn’t flinch, not even when Bryce prodded the hardened plastic tip deep into Sully’s crotch. The Turk’s eyes stared into space, a pool of saliva beneath his chin staining the linoleum. Bryce waved the baton near his face just to be sure, but Sully’s eyes remained open, unblinking. Bryce tucked the baton under his arm and grabbed Sully’s legs, straining with the effort as he pulled him clear and out into the middle of the room. He removed his white tunic and trousers and folded them carefully over the back of the chair. He began to undress, his back to Sully, unable to meet those accusing, lifeless eyes. How much of an unidentified drug he’d given him Bryce didn’t know, but it had killed him. Two tablets a day, the clear fluid inside carefully decanted into the syringe over the last month until it was full. A fatal overdose, then; another death on Bryce’s increasingly bloody hands. He couldn’t bring himself to confront that reality right now, forcing it from his mind. Later, maybe. Not now.
He changed into Sully’s uniform, rolling up the legs and cuffs. Still it looked too big, so he pulled on a pair of track bottoms and a couple of sweatshirts to fill himself out and tried again. Better, he thought, looking down at himself. He removed Sully’s trainers and slipped them on his feet, wriggling his toes and discovering they were a size too big. It didn’t matter, he had no intention of running anywhere.
He relieved Orla of her money, her cell phone, travel smart card, access keys and security swipe. Finally, he scooped up Sully’s identification card and placed the lanyard around his neck. From the window he saw the hospital was operating normally, the guards safely ensconced inside the gatehouse as a fine mist of rain painted the roofs and roads with a wet sheen. Just another day in paradise. He left the room without looking back, bolting the door from the outside.
In the washroom, Bryce shaved carefully, removing his stubble and tidying up his sideburns. He used a pair of nail scissors from Orla’s handbag to trim his unkempt ears and eyebrows, then washed his face vigorously with soap and water, scrubbing a healthier complexion back into his pallid skin. He towelled himself dry and studied his efforts. Shaved, trimmed, an official uniform, an ID lanyard hanging around his neck. All in all, not too shabby. He might pass a cursory glance, but any serious study would reveal what Bryce believed were screaming inconsistencies. No matter, he had to keep moving now.
He placed Orla’s items in his right pocket, Sully’s in his left. The trademark keychain hung from his belt in a jangling loop. Bryce used it to open the security gate, as he’d seen Sully do countless times before. He locked it behind him, then pushed open the unlocked double doors. Opposite was another set of doors, an occupied ward beyond. To his right a staircase. He made his way down to the next landing, then the next. More double doors, more wards. He kept moving until he reached another steel mesh gate at the bottom of the stairs. Through the intricate metal pattern he could see a long corridor that led towards another door at the far end. Beyond that, daylight beckoned, like light at the end of a tunnel. The lack of CCTV and the signs on the wall told Bryce all he needed to know: Visitor Waiting Room, Kitchen, Storeroom – this was a non-secure area. Further along the corridor, a cleaner wiped a lazy mop across the floor, a yellow warning triangle blinking in the gloom. Sully’s key slipped into the lock and it opened on well-oiled hinges. Bryce saw a notice board to his left, some sort of timetable pinned to it. He snatched it off the board and pretended to study it as he walked along the corridor. The visitor room was empty, and Bryce glimpsed a low table littered with magazines, several easy chairs and a battered vending machine. The kitchen was nothing more than a narrow room with a kettle and a microwave.
The cleaner eyed him as Bryce approached, the mop swishing across the floor in a damp figure of eight. He was African, Bryce judged, his ebony cheeks scarred with tribal markings. Bryce stopped short of the wet floor, leafing through the papers in his hand. He gave the man a friendly nod, betting his white uniform trumped the light blue fatigues of the cleaner.
‘Hi. Can you tell me where the staff locker room is? I’m new and I’ve lost my bearings.’
‘Nursing or auxiliary, boss?’ The cleaner spoke in strongly accented English. He eyed Bryce up and down, clearly expecting him to say nursing.
‘The nearest one,’ Bryce answered. He waved the papers in his hand. ‘MRSA check. I’m taking swabs, recording levels.’ Keep it simple.
‘Oh,’ the cleaner said. He pointed along the corridor. ‘Blue door, as you come in. Take de stairs to basement. The locker room is there.’
‘Down here?’ Bryce pointed, already moving away.
‘Yes, boss.’
Bryce went through the door and descended the stairs. He found the locker room easily enough, the stale air inside tinged with sweat. Thankfully it was unoccupied, just several rows of grey lockers and a few wooden benches in between. Off to the right was a washroom, toilets, and two shower cubicles marked male and female. From the full rubbish bins, the discarded clothes and wet towels on the floor, Bryce guessed that this was the auxiliary w
orkers’ changing room. He took the opportunity to nose around, carefully checking the lockers. Some were secured by small padlocks, but many weren’t. With one ear open for the door, Bryce went through them quickly, finding what he was looking for in a matter of minutes. The blue puffer jacket with a cheap branded logo on the breast pocket fit snugly over the bulk of Bryce’s uniform and sweatshirts, the beanie hat with the initials ‘NY’ an added bonus. Then he saw the clock on the wall.
A long time had passed since Bryce had seen any sort of timepiece. Sully and Orla had never worn watches in Bryce’s presence, no doubt to add to his sense of disorientation. He paused for a moment, watching the red second hand moving around the dial, the larger hands working their way up towards the hour. Part of him felt like some sort of prehistoric cave dweller encountering this wondrous instrument for the first time, and he watched it for several moments. The clock read eleven forty-two. By Bryce’s estimation, the lunchtime period began at twelve. That was when the main gate got busy, when foot traffic flowed through the cage alongside the gatehouse. A voice inside screamed at him to go now, run. But Bryce fought the impulse and instead locked himself inside the male shower room. He sat on the small wooden bench and waited, willing the minutes to pass. He arranged the items around his pockets, selecting one or two for easy access. Someone entered the locker room outside and Bryce heard a muffled conversation and a peal of laughter. Locker doors slammed, then the room was quiet again. Bryce waited a while longer then stood up and pulled on the beanie hat, tugging it over his shorn head and covering his ears. He stepped outside, walking briskly towards the locker room door. The clock on the wall read 12:04. He hoped, prayed, that he didn’t bump into the owner of the hat and jacket in the next five minutes.
At the top of the stairs daylight beckoned outside the security door. Bryce waited in the stairwell, studying the door itself. There was no obvious lock, just a swipe card reader and a hand plate. The windows on the door were impregnated with wire, but that was the extent of the security measures. He climbed the last step, turned to his left and fished for the swipe in his pocket. It was nurse Orla’s. A buzzer sounded and Bryce pushed the door open and stepped outside the building for the first time since he’d arrived. As he walked, he filled his lungs with fresh air, tilting his chin towards the sky as a fine drizzle cooled his face. It was a wonderful feeling, to be free from the prison behind him, to feel the cleansing elements of nature, the rain on his skin, the cold air that cleared his head and fogged his breath. The urge to run was almost overwhelming, but he kept his pace deliberately casual, following the path towards the main gate. He noticed others around him, medical staff and hospital workers in white, blue and green uniforms, all wrapped up against the weather, all converging towards the main entrance. A jam of cars inched towards the gatehouse, brake lights pulsing, the red and white barrier raised and lowered as they passed out of the facility. He joined a queue that shuffled towards the cage, a short corridor of steel fencing that ran alongside the gatehouse. He watched the people in front of him carefully, using their swipes on the reader one at a time, entering the cage and swiping the other reader to exit the facility. The man in front, a large, shaven-headed orderly, swiped his access card and pushed the gate as it buzzed. Bryce held nurse Orla’s swipe in his hand as his eyes flicked towards the gatehouse, to the computer screen that glowed behind the smoke-glassed windows. He saw the orderly’s face flash up on the screen, his name and personal details. Bryce’s heart hammered as he quickly dropped Orla’s swipe back into his pocket and fished inside his coat for Sully’s. He found the cell first and pulled it out.
‘Come on, come on,’ muttered an impatient voice behind him. Then his fingers found the card and he swiped the reader. The inner gate buzzed loudly and then Bryce was inside the cage, his head turned away from the control room, nodding as he faked a conversation on the cell. He swiped again and the outer gate unlocked. He pushed it open then walked through, out onto the grass-lined footpath that led to the main road. The hairs on his neck stood on end as he felt every eye on the facility watching him, the confused look of the guard inside the gatehouse, his hand poised above the large red button that would trigger the wail of the sirens and send the facility into lockdown. But nothing happened. Cars passed him in a steady procession, pausing at the junction ahead and turning out into the country lane.
Across the road a bus waited in a cutaway, the destination glowing digitally above the driver’s window: BAGSHOT. Bryce followed those ahead of him, crowding onto the bus. He used Orla’s travel card and wedged himself in by the window. After a minute or so, the doors hissed closed and the bus moved off. The illuminated sign announced ALTON GRANGE. Bryce had never heard of the facility, at the same time realising he would never forget it. He watched the gatehouse slip by, the bus accelerating past the wire-topped fences that ran along the treeline until they disappeared and all he could see were grey slate roofs in the distance. After a while, they were gone too, swallowed up by the mist. He’d made it.
His legs began to shake and so he moved further down the bus. He found a seat by the window, his face pressed against the glass. The mixture of diesel fumes and damp clothes made Bryce feel ill, but he daren’t reach up for the sliding window. Instead, he took several deep breaths and concentrated on the world outside, the passing fields, the trees and hedgerows. Escaping the facility was just the first hurdle. Don’t pat yourself on the back just yet, Gabriel. There was still a long way to go, a leap into the unknown that could end with him being back behind bars before the day’s end. Or worse.
Looming ahead through the windshield and the rhythmic swish of the wipers, Bryce saw the neon glow of a hypermarket. People got out of their seats and joined the throng at the doors as the bus slowed, then drew to a stop. Bryce kept his head down as he allowed himself to be swept along by the crowd and onto the pavement. He moved with them towards the hypermarket, lost inside their protective cordon, sheltered from the fine rain by a covered walkway that led to the store’s wide entrance. He slowed his pace, allowing the others to pass, then turned and watched the bus disappear to the north, heading towards its final destination at Bagshot, the cell phones, swipes and travel card stuffed in the crack of the seat. He would be untraceable now, the eventual manhunt hopefully focussed in the wrong direction. He was kidding himself, of course; once they discovered his escape, no stone would be left unturned until Bryce was back in protective custody. No, killed while escaping, that was a more likely outcome. So Bryce had to think out of the box.
Inside the hypermarket he found the DIY section and purchased a pair of cheap navy overalls with some of Orla’s money, spending some more on a prepaid cell phone and a local ordinance survey map. He used the public toilets to change, stuffing Sully’s white uniform into the waste bin and covering it with wet paper towels. Then he left the store, heading south to the other side of the town.
He found a coffee shop with ‘Season’s Greetings’ sprayed in fake snow across the windows and wandered in, taking a seat near the counter. There were several patrons, women with toddlers and small groups of labourers and Bryce relaxed, knowing he didn’t look out of place in his overalls, winter hat and coat. No-one would recognise him, either, not forty pounds lighter with a broken nose and shaven head. Feeling reasonably relaxed, he ordered a roast chicken salad sandwich – made with fresh farm produce, the menu promised – and a glass of freshly-squeezed orange juice. He picked up the media tablet from its receptacle and flicked through the news items with his finger. Sully was right, the world had indeed moved on. There was no mention of him and he daren’t use the search option, knowing that all public searches were tracked and logged. Instead, he read about the tensions on the Iran-Iraq border and the peace march held in London by Sunni Muslim groups that ended with the firebombing of the Iranian embassy. A Catholic priest had been arrested in Leicester for displaying a nativity scene outside his church and a car bomb had been detonated outside Glasgow Rangers’ Ibrox stadium prior to their Britis
h Premiership fixture against Manchester United. Fourteen people had been killed. Bryce clicked the depressing tablet back into its base unit.
The food arrived, the middle-aged waitress all smiles as she proudly laid the plate before him. Bryce thanked her and ate, the sandwich probably the finest he’d ever tasted in his life. He wasted not a single crumb, savouring every delicious mouthful and washing it down with the orange juice. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt so satisfied after such a simple meal, and he sipped at a coffee while he digested his food and pondered his next move. He needed to get far away from Alton, but it was too early, too light, to start trudging along the side of a busy main road. He needed somewhere to hole up for a while, somewhere where he could idle away a couple of hours before he made the call. Then he would know, either way, how all this would turn out. He bought another sandwich and a small bottle of water to go, stuffing them into his pockets.
The Windmill pub was set back off the road a few hundred yards south of the coffee shop, an old building with a thick thatched roof, a Tudor frontage and small framed windows, behind which a warm glow beckoned. The building marked the southern boundary of Alton, the road beyond carving through green fields and gently sloping hillsides. Still the rain fell, vehicles hissing past, headlights on, wipers frantic. Bryce cut across the empty car park and ducked inside the pub. It was dark and cosy, with low beamed ceilings, and a fire burnt in the open hearth opposite the small bar. It wasn’t busy, just a few locals scattered around the tables, all in working clothes. Again, Bryce congratulated himself on his choice of attire. He strode confidently across the red patterned carpet to the bar.
‘Orange juice, please.’ The barman, a spotty youth with shoulder-length hair, cracked open a bottle and dumped it in a glass over ice. Bryce handed over some cash and found a table in a dark corner near the fire. He slipped out of his coat and settled down, stretching his legs out before him. The clock above the bar read three fifteen and the world outside had turned a darker shade of grey. He wondered if they’d found the bodies yet, but thought it unlikely. No-one ever came up to his ward except Sully and Orla. But still, Bryce kept a wary eye on the road outside, watching for police cars or any other unusual traffic, listening for the wail of distant sirens. So far there was nothing to worry him unduly, but that wouldn’t last. He spent the next hour carefully studying the local map until the streetlight across the road blinked into life. He got to his feet, pulling on his coat. It was time.