by Janet Wakley
Mel ignored Clive’s pessimistic response and reclaimed her small metal forceps, clipped inside the waistband of her trousers. “The lock is too old to have a metal escutcheon, so we might be able to gouge out the wood inside the lock and make a big enough hole to get the forceps in. Then we might be able to turn the key.”
Clive looked doubtful. “What if they hear us?”
“We’ve got no choice. There’s no other way of getting out of here. If we get caught we’ll have to hit them with the empty oxygen cylinder or stab them with the scalpel or something.”
Feverishly, Mel began scratching inside the lock, her method proving futile and ineffective. As the early moments of hysteria subsided, she began taking slower, deeper cuts. At last fragments of wood began chipping away, drifting to the floor in small splinters and adhering to her jeans as she crouched beside the doorframe. After several minutes of intense slicing in the small black hole, Mel tried to reach the shaft of the key with the forceps. The entrance was still far too small to allow the instrument to reach in. Resigned, she continued with her task.
“Let me have a go.” Clive took hold of the scalpel. With his composure restored and his need to be actively doing something, he took over the cutting with the delicate precision of a surgeon. Mel looked on as the pile of sawdust on the floor increased as testament to his methodical work.
“Someone coming!” Clive’s panic-stricken voice was a coarse whisper.
Speedily, he brushed aside the sawdust and raced back to his earlier position in the chair beside the bed. Pulling up the covers to Charlie’s neck, he hid the implements of their hopeful escape under the bedcovers and turned up the oxygen to Charlie’s face in order to hide the absence of breathing. Mel, warmer now from her efforts, pulled off her jumper and wrapped it around the top of Charlie’s head, masking the pallid colour of his face and shielding the cold empty expression. As the key released the lock in the door, they both deliberately averted their eyes from the incoming visitor and feigned active nursing care for their recipient. Mat stood in the doorway, a gun held loosely at his side. Tiny fragments of fresh white wood splinters lay close to his heavy black lace-up shoes.
Mel held a finger up to her lips, like an adult insisting a child be silent. “He’s just gone off to sleep again. He’s been pretty uncomfortable for a while.” She spoke in low tones as if concerned not to wake her charge.
Mat took the hint and nodded. “You’re alright in here then?”
Mel nodded. The door closed, the key turned and he was gone.
“Gosh, you’re a cool one. That was a bit close,” sighed Clive as Mel snatched back her jumper and dragged it over her head.
“Let’s hope he hasn’t taken the key with him.” Mel almost ran back to the door and pushed the scalpel into the lock. “Thank goodness, it’s still there.”
With renewed vigour they took turns to cut away more fine slithers of wood from the inside of the lock, sweeping away the evidence into the filth beside the wall. The wood was hard. Progress was slow. Periodically they paused to repeat their attempts to get the forceps to gain a grip on the head of the key. Manipulating the forceps by feel alone, it repeatedly slipped off the metal, failing to grasp the object in such a way as to control its movement.
“It’s no good, we’re never going to get out of here,” despaired Clive. “We should have hit him with something when he came in. Let’s put the empty oxygen cylinder behind the door ready.”
“It’s so heavy they’ll shoot us before you can even lift it up. Look, I can get the forceps onto the metal, but they keep slipping off. What have we got that will give them more grip?”
Clive rummaged amongst the contents of the bags. “Gloves any good? We can cut off a couple of the fingers and put them over the blades of the forceps. That might do it.’
It had the desired effect. At the second attempt, the key moved, but still failed to completely turn the key. Mel persevered, gripping the scissor-like handles so tightly, her knuckles shone white. After several more minutes, the key finally relinquished its hold on the keep.
Clive took possession of the scalpel. Filling their pockets with rolled up bandages, syringes and a handful of drug ampoules, Mel followed her comrade out of the room, pulling the door up behind them to hide the exposed light. The corridor was pitch-black. With their eyes unaccustomed to the total darkness, Mel had to hold onto the back of Clive’s sweater as they shuffled tentatively towards the front foyer of the building. Panic swept away their earlier revulsion at touching the sides of the filthy walls. Clawing their way forwards they inched their way towards freedom. They stopped and listened as they reached the foot of the main staircase, believing their abductors to be using rooms on the upper floors. Clive began to work his way towards the right.
“Where are you going?” whispered Mel. “We can’t leave here without Silas.”
“He’s one of them. Charlie said so. Let’s just get out of here.”
“No. We can’t do that,” she whispered. “I’m quite sure he’s as much a prisoner as we are. I think they took him hostage just because they knew he was a surgeon and they had a hold over him. They’re not going to let him get out of here alive either. Come on, we’ve got to get him out. We said we’d all get out together. Would you have left me behind?”
“Alright, alright. Not a sound then. We’ve got to find those stairs.”
The darkness was disorientating, their shuffling footsteps noisy on the tiled flooring. They crept towards the far passageway that led to the stairway to the cellar, feeling their way in darkness. Mel clung tightly to Clive as he slowly trod across the floor, his left arm held out straight in front of him to establish the position of walls and doors. Occasionally Mel heard him spit or pause to wipe cobwebs from his face as they slowly made progress towards the cellar.
Once on the stair treads, they descended quickly to the solid wooden door. Gently and slowly, to minimise the harsh scraping noise as the heavy metal bolt slid from its housing, Clive pulled the door back. The single light of the cellar shone like a beacon, temporarily blinding the pair. Blinking, they looked inside. Silas lay curled up on one of the mattresses, covered like a cocoon under all the blankets with just his shoes protruding from the mound.
“Silas. Silas.” Mel whispered as loudly as she dared. There was no response. Scampering down the steps, while Clive remained in the doorway, she shook the sleeping form roughly. The response was immediate. Bolt upright, blinking furiously, his terror-struck expression softened quickly to recognition, as Mel stepped back from his explosive reaction. “Come on. We’re getting out of here. Charlie’s dead and we need to get out fast,” she commanded.
Silas was on his feet in an instant and heading for the steps behind Mel. Suddenly, he turned and headed the opposite way, scrabbling beneath the old workbench against the wall.
“Come on!” hissed Mel. “Don’t waste time.”
Collecting the hidden screwdriver from the debris on the floor, he hurried after Mel who, again taking hold of the back of Clive’s sweater, indicated to Silas to do likewise with her jumper and together the human convoy trod stealthily back up the stairs. As they reached the ground floor, they paused, listening for sounds of movement within the building. The constant throb of the distant generator reverberated like a dull but rapid heartbeat, pulsating its rhythm with a monotony that masked the sounds of human movement.
They turned the corner at the top of the stairs, their eyes straining into the pitch blackness. Unable to identify structures or shapes, even inches ahead, the density of the chilled air engulfed them. Linked together, they edged forwards, relying upon their memory of direction and distance to follow the route towards the foyer. Clive repeatedly placed a hand out to the side to establish his proximity to the wall of the corridor until its absence indicated their return to the spacious vestibule. He paused to listen before taking measured, slow, de
liberate strides across the foyer in the hopeful direction of the corridor on its opposite side. Mel and Silas clung on in his wake, almost colliding with each other as Clive misjudged the distance and punched the far wall with his outstretched hand. With a sequence of side steps, they found the opening into the corridor and continued their shuffling gait.
Mel wanted to run. The frustration of the tortuously slow progression through the filthy passageways was intensifying the panic she was struggling to control. Every scuff of a shoe, each suppressed cough, as the dust choked their throats, seemed to ring out in an exaggerated din that she felt must surely be heard by one of the guards.
Feeling their way past each doorway, they eventually reached the end of the corridor and the door into the vast hall. Cautiously Clive turned the large round handle, gently pushing the door open ahead of him. The light, which had previously lit their way through the vast monastic hall, had been extinguished and the large cavernous expanse now lay ahead black and endless. Clive halted the party once more as he tried to visualise the position of the far doorway.
“Straight ahead and slightly to the left,” whispered Mel in his ear. “About eleven o’clock.”
“We could feel our way round the edge,” murmured Clive.
“Shall I take the lead?” Silas pressed his colleague.
Ignoring the offer, Clive stepped forwards, again taking long measured strides and his arm held out in front to both focus his direction and protect him from the impact of any unexpected collision. The sudden scurry of tiny feet as a rat scuttled away, disturbed by the human intrusion, almost caused Mel to cry out. Her heart pounding in her throat, she held onto Clive’s sweater with both hands, trying desperately to restrain the urge to push him forwards more quickly. The muffled sounds of their feet as they crept across the flag-stoned floor still seemed to echo in the huge empty room. They reached the far side at last, but where was the door?
“Hold hands,” instructed Silas. “One of us should be able to find it. We can shuffle sideways first to the left, then back to the right if we’re not in the right place.”
Obediently the trio formed a line with Silas taking the left hand side. They located the doorway some six feet to their left and entered into the last of the passageways. Cold air raced towards them, entering the building through splinter cracks in the low rear doorway. Clive, now forging ahead in his haste to escape the foul incarceration, stopped short before the stout wooden door. Although not locked, it had been obstructed by two large sturdy lengths of wood, wedged into position to deter entry by any unwelcome visitor.
“What’s up?” hissed Silas, pressing forwards so that Mel was sandwiched between the two. “Let’s get out of here, quickly.”
“They’ve barricaded the door. There are heavy posts propped across the doorway. We’ll have to move them to get out this way.” Clive pulled at the obstructions in frenzy, tugging breathlessly at the solid rough wood in short sharp snatches.
Mel stepped to one side, still keeping a hold on Clive’s pullover in the darkness, and allowed Silas to push past. Cobwebs, like gentle probing fingers, clutched at her hair.
“Together. We’ll pull it together,” he ordered, his voice rising to a course whisper. “One, two, three, pull.” The post held firm.
“Again. One, two, three, pull.” Suddenly and without warning, the obstruction relinquished its hold, forcing its attackers to stagger backwards off balance as the weight of the beam transferred to their outstretched hands. Recovering, the two men lowered the wood to the floor, the low thud resonating through the passageway like a small explosion. Panicked now, they reached again for the outside door, but a second post, similarly positioned, held back the trio from the outside and freedom.
“Again, come on! We’re nearly out!” ordered Silas. “Got a hold? One, two, three, pull.” Increased strength, afforded by the surge of panic, ensured the release of the second post and more quietly this time, they placed the second board down beside the first. The door, secured now only by a heavy bolt on the inside, slid easily from its keep and the rush of cold fresh air struck them as they launched themselves out into the night. Extreme and diverse emotions spurred the three as they burst from the door; excitement and overwhelming relief was stemmed by the knowledge and continuing fear that they could be about to be shot by pursuers.
24
Clive instinctively turned towards the side of the building, heading in a lumbering run for the dirt track.
“No!” called Silas, who once more seemed to have assumed the role of leader. “Not that way. They’ll get us on the road. We need to go cross-country. Come on, this way.”
Without waiting for a reply, he started off at a run through the long grass to the side of the rear outbuildings. Mel and Clive followed, stumbling over the uneven ground, lit only by the fine gold slither of a new moon. The undergrowth was wet, instantly soaking into their trousers so that the material clung to their calves. Silas, with a glance over his shoulder to ensure the others were following, ran ahead with an unpredicted turn of speed and agility that left the others straining to keep him in sight.
“We’ll head for those trees over there,” commanded Silas, pausing briefly to allow them to catch up.
The row of trees outlined against the night skyline, under the force of the wind, bowed like ghostly gesturing arms summoning them forwards. Beneath the slender trunks dense vegetation, several feet high, offered the sanctuary of a hedge. Once beneath its cover, they would be able to get their breath back and plan their next move. The distance however, was deceptively greater than it looked as Mel and Clive, running with clumsy high steps to overcome the rough stubbles of grass, struggled to negotiate the uneven ground in the darkness. Adrenaline fuelled their desperate race to get as far away as possible from the old priory, its dark and silent structure looming behind them like a menacing fortress against the night sky.
Cramp gripped Mel’s calf muscles, suddenly resisting the demand for extreme exertion and her lungs screamed for air. With mouth open, she gasped with a rapidity that dried her mouth and ached in her throat. She could hear Clive’s lumbering, heavy footed stride behind her, his excess weight an encumbrance that slowed him down and she was aware of him falling farther and farther behind.
“Silas, wait,” she called into the wind. “Wait!” The row of alder trees looked hardly any nearer. She slowed, giving Clive time to catch up. As she turned to look back over her shoulder, her heart shot into orbit. Behind the doctor, dark shadows bearing torches, ran from the small rear doorway of the priory. The dancing lights scattering like a fan as they evacuated the building in pursuit of the escapees.
“Get down!” Mel grabbed Clive’s arm and pulled him roughly to the ground. Cold wet grass cushioned their fall as they lay face down on the coarse tangled undergrowth. It was too late to warn Silas and they could only hope that he was too far ahead to be picked up by the scanning torch beams. Paralysed with fear, Mel listened helplessly to the loud banging of her heart and the rapid heavy breathing of her companion, who tried desperately to stifle the sounds by burying his face into the tufted mounds. Moments passed, as they listened to the voices, running footsteps and the roar of an engine as the big van and a car sped out of one of the outhouses and careered away round the end of the building, apparently heading for the dirt track that led to the road. Silas had been right; they wouldn’t have got very far that way. But could they find their way to safety across the bleak wet fields at night?
Daring to lift her head, Mel watched as three torch lights explored the derelict outhouses and broken stone walls. The jerky and erratic flight of a pipistrelle bat, in a frantic explosion of energy as it gathered flying insects on the wing, made the night sky come alive. As the torch lights at least temporarily disappeared from view, Mel pulled again at Clive’s sleeve.
“Come on,” she whispered. Fear urged them forwards and they crouched as they stumble
d on, praying that they too might now be beyond the range of the torch beams. Unable to resist a backward glance, the rutted ground snared Mel’s foot, catching her unawares and tipping her forwards into a head-long dive. She hit the ground with an unceremonious slap, knocking the breath out of her and causing her to utter an involuntary grunt from the force. Momentarily stunned, she lay still.
“Get up, quickly,” the deeper voice of Silas growled softly. “Come on, we must get beyond those trees before they start searching over here.”
Scrambling to her feet and wincing slightly at the ache that now racked her right ankle, she followed Silas who once more set off at a sprint. The going was hard. Twice more Mel jarred her ankle on the undulating ground, but fear spurred her on as they gradually gained on the line of skeleton trees which, clad in green algae on the trunks, now shimmered in the moonlight and gave a mystical unreality to the scene. Clumsily the uncoordinated trio blundered on. The widening distance between the three made it difficult to follow in each other’s footsteps so that with eyes only focussed upon the irregular terrain, each managed the trek in their own way. The pace began to slow to a more manageable rate as the distance covered allowed them a growing confidence. It was short-lived.
A shriek of horror, followed by a loud splash, momentarily stopped Mel and Clive in their tracks. Ahead of them, Silas was in trouble. Frantic splashing forewarned the pair that he had fallen into deep water and they rushed forwards in the darkness towards his cries for help.
“Mind the edge,” yelled Mel as the long grasses gave way to the deep abyss, hidden from view by the density of its camouflage. Silas’s momentum had propelled him forwards, plunging him headlong into its depths. What had appeared from a distance to be a thick hedgerow beneath the row of trees, revealed itself now to be a dyke of some ten feet in width with a profusion of reeds, tall and thick, disguising its steep banks. Shocked and spitting the freezing dirty water from his mouth, Silas thrashed wildly, grasping at the tough reed stems. Eager hands now reached out to grab at the sodden pullover, puffed out like a balloon and gathering a coat of slime from the stagnant water. As they hauled him back up onto firm ground, the trio collapsed to their knees, exhausted, wet and muddy. Silas shook uncontrollably, water pouring from his clothing. His breath came in gasps and he continued to repeatedly spit the foul water from his mouth.