Bad Medicine- A Life for a Life; Bed of Nails; Going Viral

by Puckett, Andrew

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because so many other people also seemed to be looking for it.’

  ‘Who, for instance?’

  ‘Wait a minute. Sally did find the password, that morning in John’s flat. She’phoned me and — ’

  ‘Did she tell you what it was?’

  ‘No, she told me to come round, which I did. And when I got there — ’ I swallowed — ‘she was dead.’

  ‘And fully dressed, I believe you said.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And then you were knocked out, and when you recovered, she was undressed?’

  ‘Don’t you see?’ I shouted. ‘Whoever killed her was looking for that password as well. They want John’s discovery.’

  ‘And who might this person be?’

  I leaned forward. ‘He’s called Dave. I don’t know his surname, but he also works at the laboratory.’ I told them as much as I could remember about him.

  ‘And so this Dave,’ said Johnson, ‘you’re saying he was in the flat as well?’

  ‘Obviously.’

  ‘And he hit you, undressed Miss Wytham and then dialled 999?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said defiantly.

  ‘And then vanished without anyone seeing him go in or out, although they did see Miss Wytham and they did see you.’

  ‘It’s what happened,’ I said, burying my face in my hands.

  *

  To be fair, Henry told me later that the police went to the laboratory and asked about John. They were told that he was off sick but expected back at the end of the week, and no, he certainly wasn’t working on a cure for AIDS. They also interviewed Dave and eliminated him from their inquiries.

  I was glad Henry was with me when I was charged, even if he didn’t believe me.

  ‘Christopher Randall, you are charged that on the 22nd May 198-, you did murder Sally Wytham…’ The words, spoken in formal, almost religious, tones — but it’s you, you, they’re talking to…

  Then in a dream to a specially convened Magistrates’ Court, where I was remanded in custody for a week. Then Oxford Prison, where my body and, in a clear plastic bag, my belongings, were officially handed over to the prison authorities.

  I spent the night alone in a cell. It was more luxurious than the police cell, not that that mattered. The light was left on and I was regularly checked, or so the noise from the Judas flap indicated. Then in the morning, handcuffed between two prison officers, I was driven to Winchester Prison.

  In quick succession, I was taken to the Governor, Doctor and Chaplain, but can’t remember anything they said. Then I was put in a cell with a grey-haired child molester called Charlie, ‘to stop me doing anything foolish’, as he explained to me.

  Actually, Charlie wasn’t so bad. At first, I ignored him and he simply shrugged and waited. When I did want to talk, he listened, and after a few days, he seemed almost normal. But then, so did I to him, perhaps.

  I spent my time in a daze.

  If I thought about Sally, opened my imagination to what had happened to her, I would experience a moment’s unbearable grief and curl up like a foetus on my bed, then my mind would shut off. So I stopped thinking about her. Perhaps the mind can only take so much.

  One night I woke up knowing that John must be dead as well. Dave had killed them both. And something else came to me, unbidden and irrelevant. The password.

  *

  Porridge. The exercise yard under the blue sky and achingly white cumulus. Meals. The screws, sometimes jocular, sometimes not, but always in charge. The clang of the door, the rattle of the Judas flap. Lights out. Charlie playing with himself.

  CHAPTER 9

  On Saturday I had a visitor, Jill’s brother Alan. I was surprised, because although we’d got on well enough, we weren’t that close. Perhaps he came out of a sense of duty.

  He was acutely embarrassed, his eyes kept darting around and the chair creaked under his weight. After ascertaining I had no immediate needs, he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  ‘How’s Alison?’ I asked.

  ‘Fine, thanks.’

  ‘And the kids?’

  ‘Terrific.’ He smiled, his eyes still for a moment.

  ‘How long have you got this time?’

  ‘Nearly a week. Sailing from Avonmouth on Wednesday.’ Alan’s a captain in the Merchant Navy.

  ‘Good of you to spare the time to come and see me.’

  ‘Oh, that’s all right,’ he replied awkwardly. ‘No trouble.’

  ‘Where are you going this time?’

  ‘Same as usual. Portugal.’

  ‘I envy you.’

  ‘Nothing to be envious of. Never stay long enough to get to know…’ He tailed off as he realized the significance of my remark. ‘Sure there’s nothing else you need?’

  Twenty minutes later I was back in my cell with Charlie. Well, it had made a change.

  On Tuesday I was taken back to Oxford to be re-remanded. I didn’t really think they’d give me bail, but you never know, so I went.

  There were four of us in the taxi, the driver, two screws and me between them, handcuffed to the one on my right.

  It took about twenty minutes to get through the city (girls in summer frocks and women pushing prams, free, all of them) and on to the A34. Although the traffic was heavy, we kept up a pretty good speed, 60 or 70 in the outside lane, overhauling the lines of heavy lorries on their way to the Midlands.

  Nobody spoke much.

  I looked down at the cuff around my right wrist. It was a solid, square affair, more complex than the police ones. I moved my hand slightly. It wasn’t tight, and I wondered whether, if left to myself, I could pull it through. Some hope!

  I looked out. Didcot power station loomed ethereally through the summer haze, water vapour rising lazily into the sky from the six huge cooling towers. I remembered hearing about a glider pilot on a record distance attempt using them as a thermal to —

  A bang like a gun going off, and the articulated lorry overtaking on the other carriageway slewed towards us. In slow motion, it burst through the barrier on the central reservation…our driver shouted, tried to sheer away, but there was another lorry on his left…

  The artic hung over us, I remember watching its offside tyre shredding like paper, then it smashed into the back of us. We spun underneath the trailer. Darkness. Another smash as the roof caved in and we were dragged along sideways, prevented from overturning by the trailer wheels, metal screeching in agony as it tore apart —

  Stillness and absolute silence.

  Horns blasting and tyres screaming.

  I felt as though I’d been hanged, head nearly torn from my body. Voices like a dream. Then:

  ‘Jesus Christ! Jack! Jack, can you hear me?’ The driver was dead, eyes staring from an impossible angle. Jack, the screw on my left, was unconscious, maybe…

  The officer on my right started attacking the door with his free hand, then leaned against me and drew back his feet…it burst open.

  ‘Come on, matey.’ He wriggled out, pulling me after him, then led me between the wrecked cars (one or two people struggling out) and on to the grass verge.

  He looked around. Another crash-barrier ran behind it. He gave a grunt of satisfaction, found the key and unlocked his cuff. Then before I realized what he was doing, he turned my back to the barrier, wrenched my left arm over, my right under it, and locked the cuff on my left wrist.

  ‘That should hold you,’ he muttered, and ran back among the crashed cars.

  ‘Hey!’ I shouted. ‘You can’t leave me here!’ But he’d gone.

  I gazed around at the litter of vehicles. People stumbled about, some dazed, some trying to help.

  Already, my back ached. I could neither sit nor stand and the barrier, pressing into me, forced my back into an arch.

  I pulled at my hands, trying to find a more comfortable —

  The right cuff, still loose!

  I looked for the screw. No sign of him. I pulled hard and the cuff d
ug into the base of my palm, harder, harder…no good.

  The angle was wrong, twist it round, try again.

  I heaved.

  It wouldn’t budge…but the barrier did!

  I studied it. It was old and rusty, and to my left it disappeared into a clump of nettles. I couldn’t see where it ended, but perhaps…

  No one seemed to be aware of me. I began to edge along on bent knees. My foot slipped and I fell back…didn’t cry out, forced myself up again and along, legs moving like a crab, kneecaps screaming…

  I peered into the nettles…yes, it was bolted on to an upright stake.

  I pulled again, and it shifted, grated.

  I moved into the nettles, trying to kick them down, felt them stroking my hands, the sudden bite as they stung. Go on…

  Reached the stake. It was rotten and the bolt holding the barrier in place was loose.

  I took a breath and heaved, felt the wood crumble as the bolt pulled through…but not enough. Pulled harder. No good.

  In desperation, I lifted a foot and kicked back, felt the wood cracking…and the bolt coming free.

  Now…down on my knees…along till I feel the bolt…push my hands, arms, back into the nettles, trying to get them round…

  A scratch of metal to metal. Further, go further —

  I fell forward on to my face as my hands came free, then shakily got to my feet.

  A man was staring at me, puzzled.

  I turned, stepped awkwardly round the barrier — he’d see the cuffs now, can’t help that — through more nettles, then toppled over the edge of a bank and slid down, like a sledge.

  I saw the brambles just in time and rolled into a ball.

  They gripped my jacket and trousers as I pulled myself upright and tore free. Ducked through a wooden fence and fell into a ditch.

  It was dry, soft with new grass, and I just lay there for a moment, breath sobbing.

  Then sat up. The ditch ran straight and clear, both ways.

  I pulled at the handcuffs again. No good. It might be different if they were in front of me —

  In front.

  I raised myself on my knees and bent forward, trying to force my hands under my backside… Not quite: my jacket pulled under my armpits.

  Up again, crouch, force hands under buttocks, pull, pull, and bend!

  Shoulder-sockets bursting, my hands came to rest on my thighs.

  Tried to pull my feet through — heels in the way. Kicked off my shoes, lay on my side and, one at a time, my feet squeezed through.

  I lay gasping for a moment, then looked at my hands. They were covered in angry red weals —

  Have they missed me yet?

  I pulled on my shoes, stood up and started running. North.

  Needed to get to the other side of the road, but how? Daren’t climb the bank —

  I tripped on a stone and fell, but my outstretched hands took the force. On and on, along the bottom of the ditch. Then I found it.

  A drainage tunnel, a hollow tube of concrete beneath the road. A circle of light at the far end. I scrambled in.

  The cuffs made crawling almost impossible. If only…

  They’re in front now. Try again.

  I sat against the concrete and forced the ball of my right thumb into my palm, and with the left hand, pushed…It wouldn’t quite go, not quite…

  Put my hand down, placed my shoes either side and pulled, shoved with my feet…

  Slowly, like toothpaste, my hand squeezed through.

  I massaged it for a few moments, then started crawling. The cuffs, dangling from my wrist, jingled like Christmas bells on the concrete… They must have missed me by now… Keep going.

  The hole of daylight grew bigger suddenly. I fell through it and the sun beat my face. Which way?

  North. I knew where I was going now. Another ditch, muddier this time.

  I ran. How far to the road? A mile? Then how far to Didcot Station?

  The ditch grew shallower, ceased. I was beside a cornfield. The ground was easier, but also, I could be more easily seen.

  Cars brushed by overhead. Keep going.

  Must have missed me by now. Keep going.

  Jog, jog, my innards jiggled up and down like blancmange, my windpipe grew raw as I dragged in air. Keep going. Just keep going.

  Then there was a fence ahead. Bushes, and a garage.

  Steal a car? No, not a hope, have to try and thumb —

  No, they’ll have the police cars out soon…but if I lie low, the dogs will find me…

  I ducked through the fence, skirted the garage and reached the road. Looked down — the cuffs! Stuffed them into my jacket pocket.

  My trousers and shoes were filthy, but my jacket wasn’t too bad, except at the elbows. And I was wearing that badge of respectability, a tie, put on especially for the magistrates. I limped across the road and started walking, recovering my breath.

  Always look back as you thumb; if the driver can see your face, he’s more likely to stop. Lesson from student days. I looked back.

  Cars passed monotonously.

  Perhaps I should forget it and start running again. Could I run two or three miles? No, I’d be picked up before then — by the wrong people.

  Cars, cars, grinding by. A driver gave me a V-sign, and you, you —

  A blue Mini, woman driver, forget it. She sailed by, then miraculously checked, and stopped.

  I ran. She was leaning across, opening the door. Thin ascetic face, glasses. Schoolteacher.

  ‘I’m only going as far as Didcot, but — ’ She broke off as she took in my filthy state.

  I tried to smile. ‘I — I apologize for my appearance.’ Swallowed desperately. ‘I was involved in the pile-up on the A34.’ Genius! ‘Perhaps you know about it?’

  ‘No, I don’t think…’

  ‘I’ve got to get to London for a meeting, it’s vital. Didcot’ll do marvellously, I can catch a train, if you could just drop me at the station.’

  She hesitated. ‘All right.’

  I eased in beside her and pulled the door shut with my right hand. The radio mumbled softly.

  She pushed the car into gear, looked back and let in the clutch.

  ‘Was anyone hurt?’

  ‘A few. One seriously, I think. The police seemed to have everything under control.’ Good, nice touch. If I could just get to Taunton —

  ‘They didn’t mind you leaving the scene, then?’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘The police.’

  ‘No. They seemed glad to get people out of the way.’

  ‘Now you mention it, a police car did overtake me, going very fast.’

  ‘Did you see any ambulances?’

  She shook her head. ‘No.’ The cooling towers of the power station loomed over us. ‘You weren’t hurt at all, then?’

  ‘Only cuts and scratches, as you can see.’ Fine, fine.

  The radio bleeped the time signal.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said, ‘I like to hear the news.’

  My heart hit my throat — but they couldn’t, not yet.

  Round a roundabout. ‘The Prime Minister said today…’ Another roundabout. ‘The latest round of disarmament talks…’

  The station five hundred yards ahead. ‘BBC Radio News at midday.’

  I sagged with relief.

  ‘A newsflash just in.’ I closed my eyes, forced them open. ‘Crash in Oxfordshire…escaped prisoner…wanted for murder…five feet ten, well dressed…do not approach.’

  Silence.

  Say something.

  ‘You — ’ I coughed. ‘You wouldn’t happen to remember the times of the London trains, would you?’

  Silence.

  ‘Er — every hour, I think.’ She knew.

  A hundred yards.

  ‘I’ll pop in and check, then if there’s time, slip over to that garage about my car.’ Lies, as we both knew. ‘I can’t tell you how grateful I am.’

  ‘It’s — all right.’

  She pulled int
o the station. I opened the door awkwardly, right hand again. ‘Well, thanks very much.’

  ‘It’s all right.’

  I didn’t watch her go, just dived into the entrance hall.

  It was an open station, thank God, no ticket collectors. I went up to the information board and tried to scan the blurry figures…

  Thunder and a gentle vibration as a train from London came into the platform overhead.

  I walked, almost ran, through the gate, right, up the stairs, emerged as the 125 slid to a halt.

  ‘Didcot, this is Didcot. The train on Platform One is for Bristol Temple Meads only. Bristol Temple Meads only.’

  Perhaps… How quickly would she get the police? Where were the ticket inspectors, front or back? They were especially zealous now, with open stations.

  A roar, as another train pulled in on the opposite platform for London. Good, it might confuse them.

  Front or back?

  I walked down the train. Doors were slamming.

  Damn! First-class carriages. The whistle blew. Never mind, go in the loo. I ran to the back of the train and jumped on.

  There was no loo. Too late to get off, the train was moving.

  I waited until everyone had sat down, then walked through the carriage as fast as I could without running. Two or three pairs of eyes flickered from my shoes and trousers to my face.

  Then I was through. Found the nearest cubicle and locked the door. Pulled down the seat cover and sat.

  Reaction set in.

  CHAPTER 10

  I don’t know how long I sat there, trembling uncontrollably, heart threshing against diaphragm. Can’t remember how long it took before I could think again.

  Had I done the right thing? My guilt would be confirmed in everyone’s eyes now, but wasn’t it anyway? I think I knew then what I had to do — if I could just remain free.

  If. What were the statistics? Ninety per cent of escapees recaptured within three days? Something like that.

  Concentrate on the present. My appearance. As I pulled my hand from my pocket, the cuff jingled. My hands throbbed.

  Stood up and peered into the mirror — and peered. I simply didn’t recognize the face that stared back. My hair was on end, my beard ragged, face covered in mud and scratches — all that — but it was the eyes. They stared back at me, wide and wild, with a fanatical glare.