by Janet Wakley
“Bound to be a boyfriend somewhere, missing you?” Clive continued.
“Not any more. I dumped him a week ago. I don’t really know why I went out with him in the first place; he was awful. I should have been going on holiday today,” she said bitterly. “It can’t happen now.”
Mel’s resonance of self-pity was interrupted by the now familiar noise of the bolt sliding across on the door. Instinctively they rapidly rose to their feet and backed away from the steps as Starchy entered with a cardboard box containing their lunch. Placing it on the top step, he withdrew without speaking and the door again slammed shut.
“Well, I wonder what culinary delights they’ve brought us this time.” Silas attempted to lighten their gloom. “Who wants caviar, roast beef and a good bottle of red?” as he claimed the box and carried it over to the table.
The lukewarm pizza and tea did little to raise their spirits. At least they were getting food, although the rations were basic and unappetising. Mel imagined a car leaving the old house on repetitious errands to convenience food outlets and wondered what sort of distance it would need to travel in order to collect meals for all the occupants of this place. Perhaps, she reasoned, someone, a farmer or walker, might notice the constant and unfamiliar activity around the boarded up old building and get curious?
Time seemed to drag by interminably. They could only wait and listen for the inevitable sounds of approaching footsteps when next they descended the last few steps outside the heavy wooden door. Clive lay on his mattress and stared blankly towards the rough plastered ceiling. Silas, with stick in hand, wandered slowly around the irregular walls of the cellar, prodding again in the crevasses of the stone walling, intent on finding a previously overlooked exit to the room. Not for the first time he gave up, throwing the stick back amongst the debris from where he had found it with an accompanying expletive.
Despite the intensity of the past day, Mel still knew very little about her fellow cellmates.
“Silas,” she attracted his attention. “Is there anyone waiting for you at home? A wife, children?” She had not noticed a wedding ring, but was aware that many surgeons did not wear rings.
“Divorced,” he said smartly and without emotion. “Live alone. Just a daily housekeeper and a cat.” He declined to elaborate further.
Somehow she didn’t see Silas as a cat lover, but then even the most arrogant of people sometimes relate to animals, she surmised.
Without warning, heavy stomping outside the door, followed swiftly by the hard metallic clang of the bolt, sent her heart rate into orbit as Kurt and Mat entered the room accompanied again by the big bulldog-looking Hood.
11
Mat strode resolutely towards the central table of the cellar. He was now dressed in a navy blue boiler suit that looked rather too large for his height. Folds of material covered black leather shoes, touching the ground at the heels. He held under his arm a second, identical set, thrusting them towards Clive.
“Get these on. It’s nearly time for us to go. You’ll do exactly as I say and we’ll be just fine. Better, get rid of that tie. Don’t want to draw attention to yourself.”
Taking hold of the new garments pressed against his chest, Clive swallowed hard, fear gripping his ashen face. Mel thought, as he took a step backwards, he looked about to throw up. Not a promising start to an evening destined to be fraught with tension and stress. Sullenly he walked across to the row of mattresses and proceeded to discard his tie and remove his shoes in order to step into the overalls.
Mel looked towards Kurt, anxiously awaiting a similar instruction, but he was dressed as he had been before, in jeans and beige linen jacket with an open-necked shirt collar. He made no move towards her and they waited in silence while Clive donned the workman’s outfit over his suit trousers. When would it be her turn? Strangely, she almost wanted to get started, to get the job over with. Convinced they would be caught, one way or another, this nightmare would at least be over.
“We’ve a way to go,” said Mat, “so I’ll go through the plan on our way. Let’s make a move.” He spoke matter-of-factly as though they were purely venturing out on a casual journey. Turning back towards the door, the other two guards stepped aside to allow his exit.
Clive held back hesitatingly. He stepped towards Silas, extending his right hand. “I’ll try and keep you safe,” he said solemnly, quietly adding “we’ll get out of here together. I’ll do whatever I’m told if it’ll save our skins.”
Silas took his hand, shaking it firmly, but Mel noticed his eyes carefully averted Clive’s as he muttered in a barely audible low voice, something about doing his best and good luck. Was this the awkwardness of embarrassment or was she actually witnessing a deep mistrust in the relationship. There was that ‘look’ earlier when Clive had been struck by the fat man earlier in the day. What had she missed? There was something in that encounter that had affected Silas.
With a forced smile directed towards Mel, Clive lifted a hand as part wave and part salute. “Good luck, Mel. Be careful. See you back here later.” With that he solemnly climbed the steps like a man leaving death row and was gone from view.
Mel watched his departure, with an increasing conviction that his participation in such a venture was doomed from the outset. She doubted his ability to keep his nerve, even for the sake of all of their lives.
Kurt looked at his watch. From his right hand jacket pocket, he withdrew and examined a small black pistol, caressing it gently in his hands before carefully nestling it back into the folds of his pocket. Mel was visibly shaking when Kurt indicated that they too should leave. Excitement combined with fear gripped her stomach at the thought of leaving the dark oppressive dungeon. Like Clive before her, she approached Silas. With a faltering voice that sounded rather more high-pitched than usual, she promised not to let him down and return as soon as the job was done. She offered a hand to shake, but instead, Silas took her hand in both of his and told her sombrely to be very careful. She nodded, unable to determine whether he was demonstrating genuine concern for her welfare or paying his insurance premiums for his self-protection. A man more accustomed to being in control and taking charge of a situation, she imagined it was very difficult for him to be so dependent on others; to be so vulnerable.
Mel followed Kurt out of the cellar, retracing the route through the big house towards the rear door into which they had entered more than twenty-four hours previously. With the aid of a torch, they made their way back through the labyrinth of passages and through the great hall before finally arriving at the rear outside door. Mel tried to walk slowly, pretending that the darkness was difficult to negotiate, but all the time noting carefully the number of doors and rooms they passed on their way, for future reference if an escape should become possible. It felt as though they had been encased in their dark, smelly prison for an eternity.
As they stepped out of the door into the fresh air, the sudden brilliance of the daylight was blinding. A cacophony of sounds overwhelmed Mel’s senses. Corrugated tin sheets and loose wooden panels banged and rattled in the howling wind. The distant hum of the generator beat out a constant rhythm and nearby alder trees swayed, their leaves scattering in drifts and gathering against the corners of the stonewalls of the buildings. Virtual silence had engulfed their isolation from the real world, noises muffled in the dense oppressive still air of their tomb. The stark contrast hit her like a tsunami. A cold, crisp late afternoon, the sun gleamed valiantly through white papery clouds, scudding across its face as it sank gently towards the horizon. Squinting through watery eyes, Mel gulped a lungful of cold fresh air. Gosh, it was so sweet and clean. For a moment or two she was quite unable to walk on as she began a series of violent sneezes, the fresh turbulent air forcing her to clear the dust from her nostrils.
Kurt appeared hardly to notice the dramatic change in conditions and firmly took hold of her elbow, steering her round to
the end of the building where a dark unmarked box van stood waiting with engine running. White vapour belched from its exhaust to be quickly dispelled by the forcefulness of the wind. The rear number plate, Mel noticed, had deliberately been smeared with mud. Only its first letter ‘B’ was barely discernable through the dried incrustation. The sudden and abrupt appearance of Starchy, the short thin-faced driver from behind the vehicle had the semblance of part of an illusionists act. Pulling open one of its rear doors, he held it wide for Mel to embark. Without objection, she scrambled up into the body of the vehicle. Kurt followed; his tall muscular build crouched into the lowly confinement. He instructed her to sit on a pile of covers which were strewn in a pile on the floor. Co-operatively, she pulled a thick piece of upholstery fabric up against the partition wall, which separated the carrying section of the van from the drivers cab. It was sufficient to create suitable padding against the uncompromising metal floor and she sat with her back leaning against the partition, facing the rear, where light entered by two small windows set into the upper section of the doors. It was good to see the sky, at least.
Kurt did likewise, taking up a position to Mel’s right, keeping the pocket containing his gun well away from the nurse. Moments later, the doors were slammed shut. The movement of the van over the rough terrain bounced and shook its human cargo unmercifully on its route to the nearest roadway. Lurching and pitting as it made erratic and painful progress, both the rear occupants struggled to remain seated, managing only by placing both hands flat on the floor to brace them against the onslaught.
Turning eventually onto the relatively smooth surface of a minor road, Kurt wasted no time in producing a folded piece of paper from his inside jacket pocket. Without comment, he passed the sheet. Their share of the swag to be stolen filled the page. Mel took the paper from him and began to read. She felt that sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, rising again. I must hold my nerve, she thought. If I blow it now, I’ll blow it for all of us. Concentrate, she told herself firmly. There were two columns of items, neatly printed in ink. Despite having been copied from the original lists written by Silas, spelling errors were evidence of a task undertaken by someone unfamiliar with medical terminology.
“Gowns, masks, sterile and non-sterile gloves, (various sizes). Green and pink venflons, Gelofusine and Saline litre infusion bags. Intravenous fluid giving sets, sutures.” Silas had thankfully included on the list all the ties, nylon and catgut sutures with their corresponding size numbers and quantities. “Re-breathe circuits, oxygen masks and tubing.” It read like a bizarre shopping list. Anaesthetic drugs were absent, doubtless included on Clive’s schedule. “A large General Instrument Set.” Heavy! Fifty-three metal surgical instruments set in a sturdy flat metal tray and wrapped in green sterile sheeting with double layers of paper wrapping. How will we walk out with that? she thought desperately. Worse was yet to come. Mel baulked at the item on the foot of the page. “Morphine”. A legally controlled drug, always protected from abuse and theft by the security of a locked metal cabinet. The keys to this would inevitably be in the possession of a senior nurse.
“What about the morphine? There’s no way we can get that. It’ll be locked away in a special cupboard, ‘cos it’s an opiate.”
“Find the cupboard and I’ll open it.” Kurt said flatly.
“How are we going to walk out with this lot?” Mel asked with credulity, staring aghast at the sheer volume of items.
“You don’t need to worry about that.” He spoke with the deliberate and painstaking pronunciation typical of a German. His steely grey eyes betrayed a cold calculating ruthlessness that deterred debate. Mel stared gloomily at the list and tried again to concentrate on memorizing the inventory, but with renewed trepidation.
“Someone’s bound to ask who we are and what we’re doing in the theatres,” said Mel. “These departments are kept locked at all times especially to keep strangers and unauthorised people out. We’re bound to be challenged.”
“You don’t need to worry about that,” he repeated with confidence. “Anyone asks you who you are, you’re an agency nurse. You understand?” Pausing, he continued, “Hospitals are an easy target; little security and always full of unidentified visitors. So long as we don’t cause suspicion, we should be just fine.”
Mel wasn’t so sure.
They travelled on in silence for several minutes. The makeshift seating was hard and uncomfortable. Each turn of the vehicle unbalanced their position in the empty van; its cavity rattling and echoing like a tin drum. How much further? The combination of stress and noise was encouraging the onset of a headache.
“There are things you need to be told.” Kurt said at last, more amiably this time. “You will stay by me and do as I say. Do not attempt to speak to anyone unless they speak to you. Remember, you are an agency nurse. It is your first shift; don’t know where things are. Don’t let them get suspicious. Walk away if you have to. If you’re asked for your I.D., it is in your bag in your locker. You forgot to put it on. Say you will go and get it. You will be fine. Just remember, I will shoot anyone who gets in the way, so don’t try drawing attention to yourself or squealing for the police.”
The van appeared to stop and start several times, it’s speed generally reduced to that of a crawling pace, suggesting that either they were in a busy town or a traffic jam. Deprived of visibility was both disorientating and frustrating. As the vehicle crawled along, the introduction of a strange scrunching noise added to the sound of the engine. Within a few minutes, the van was brought unceremoniously to a stop. Motionlessly the anxious occupants listened as the driver’s door was heard to slam as the driver alighted to the roadside. Kurt shifted uncomfortably, his right hand never far from the opening of his jacket pocket. Concerned, he crouched forwards, pensively, straining to hear the sounds from outside. Mel remained still, hardly daring to breathe.
Without warning, the handle of the rear doors sprang into life and the offside door was tentatively opened a few inches. Kurt’s hand was already in the jacket pocket, holding the pistol in readiness at the unforeseen interruption to their journey.
“We got a flat,” the driver spoke without fully opening the rear door. “I’ll have to fix it. Gis’ a hand, it’ll be quicker. We still got ten miles to go yet. Must have picked it up along the rough track,” he grumbled.
The sound of slow-moving traffic rolling by meant they were still on a busy highway. Several people passed right by the van. Kurt looked strained, uncertain whether to leave Mel unguarded in the back of the van or leave the driver to manage the change of wheel himself. He chose the former, believing that Mel was probably too scared to try and do anything stupid. With a fleeting glance at his hostage, in one swift movement he leapt down from the tailboard and the door was closed behind him. Was this a golden opportunity to escape that had unexpectedly presented itself? Mel momentarily considered the possibility of attempting to make a run for it; flagging down a slow moving car. No, she would probably get herself shot together with some unsuspecting passers-by on whom she would have to depend for her escape. It was too risky. There had to be a better time.
Tools clanged noisily on the tarmac outside. A series of small intermittent jolts rocked the van as the jack raised the rear corner. Watching the rear doors uneasily, Mel’s heart suddenly lurched into her throat. Flashes of blue light skimmed across the rear windows, in a steady cyclical motion. She listened intently at the side of the van, her eyes never straying from the rear door in case it should unexpectedly open. Voices now. Male. A stranger was speaking to the men and she strained to catch the gist of the conversation.
“Should’ve pushed it right off the road. It’s causing an obstruction where it is. How long will you be?”
“Not long now, officer,” Kurt responded politely.
A policeman!
“You need to clean your van up too. Your number plate is badly obscured by dirt. It�
�s a legal requirement to display the registration plate. I should book you really, but this time I’ll just warn you. Just make sure you get it done directly.”
“Yes, officer. I’ll be taking this to the garage, so I’ll run it through the car wash at the same time.”
“See that you do.”
That’s incredible, Mel thought. How lucky can her abductors be? Why don’t the police check their licence and insurance and things; ask what they’re carrying, or something? They can’t just leave it at that. They don’t realise they’re holding a hostage who is about to steal from a hospital. Perhaps she should shout, or bang the side of the van. Would Kurt shoot his way out of danger? The dilemma was critical and happening now. The wrong decision could be disastrous. It wasn’t fair to put others deliberately into danger. She decided, however, that if they looked inside the van, she would definitely call for help.
The officer, however, acknowledging that the flat tyre had to be exchanged, could do little about the position of the van and decided to purely protect the area by keeping the patrol car parked to the rear with its blue lights flashing until the work was done. Mel crawled gently to the rear doors and drew herself up level with the windows. She could clearly see the two officers seated in their car some yards behind the van. Frantically she waved, hoping to attract their attention. If they were looking for her, maybe they would call for back-up on the radio, without leaving the car and without alerting her captors. She had to try; she had to hope. The officers, however, continued talking amongst themselves, oblivious to her presence. The signals went unheeded and disappointment almost reduced her to tears.