Captives (40 page)

    Lucas turned and headed for the stairs, noticing that the bus had slowed down slightly.

    He reached the running platform in time to see two of the other passengers rising, obviously having heard the shots from above. One of them, a woman in her early twenties, screamed as she saw Lucas raising the gun.

    He fired, hitting her in the left shoulder, the bullet shattering her clavicle. Blood spurted into the air as he turned towards the other passengers. There were four of them.

    He shot the older woman in the back of the head, watching gleefully as her grey hair turned red, her skull riven by the bullet. She pitched forward, slamming what was left of her head against the seat in front.

    The bus veered to one side and Lucas cursed as his next shot missed its target. Instead it smashed through the window at the front, glass spraying in all directions. He fired again, his next shot hitting a man in the chest, caving in his sternum and bursting one lung.

    Two passengers were left, a young couple at the front of the bus.

    The youth was already advancing towards him, his face pale, while the girl screamed madly.

    Lucas squeezed the trigger.

    The hammer slammed down on an empty chamber.

    Scarcely believing his luck, the youth ran at Lucas, crashing into him, knocking the gun from his hand. They both fell onto the running platform. However, despite his efforts, the youth was slightly built compared to Lucas and the older man fixed his hands around the younger man's neck, lifting his head up. He brought his knee up into the youth's groin and heard the grunt of pain.

    His girlfriend was still screaming.

    The bus lurched across the road and Lucas realised it was beginning to stop.

    He rolled over, hurling the boy from him into the road, then scrambled to his feet, snatching up the.357. He flipped out the cylinder and pushed in fresh cartridges.

    The bus had almost come to a halt now, the driver glancing behind him to see the madness on the bus.

    The girl screamed once more, even as Lucas fired.

    The bullet entered her open mouth, tore through the back of her throat and practically decapitated her as it pulverised sections of spinal cord. She dropped like a stone, blood spraying everywhere.

    Lucas immediately turned to the driver and fired off three shots.

    The first crashed through the glass partition and exploded from the front windscreen; the second hit the man in the back, squarely between the shoulder blades. The third took off most of the right side of his head. As his body went into spasm, the driver's right foot was forced down onto the accelerator, and suddenly the bus sped forward at incredible speed, crashing into a car and sending another spinning aside.

    It flattened the traffic lights at the junction of Piccadilly and Berkeley Street, picking up speed as it roared towards the front of the Ritz Hotel. The blue-uniformed doormen ran fearfully from the oncoming juggernaut, which bore down on the hotel entrance with the dead driver slumped over the wheel.

    Lucas shouted in triumph.

    Guests and others outside ran in all directions. The sound of screams filled the air.

    Then the bus hit concrete.

    There was a massive explosion as the vehicle went up, bursting into flames, portions of it flying across the street like massive lumps of shrapnel. Other pieces, propelled by the force of the blast, stove in great sections of the hotel's front. The revolving doors, with two guests inside, disintegrated as the bus engine was sent flying into them. The sound of shattering glass mingled with the deafening roar as the explosion shook Piccadilly. A searing reddish-white ball of fire blossomed out from the riven bus, a thick mushroom cloud of smoke rising from the inferno. Windows not shattered by the impact were forced inwards by the sheer power of the concussion blast.

    Immediately, cars parked outside the hotel, caught in the detonation, began to burn. A Mercedes exploded with incredible ferocity, part of its roof spinning across the street and smashing through the plate glass windows of a chemist's. It was as if the first blast had set off a chain of smaller eruptions as half a dozen cars disappeared beneath shrieking balls of flame. Those running for cover were lifted off their feet by the shock waves; some were hit by flying glass. There were people lying all over the road and pavements, cars immobile as their drivers scrambled to escape the inferno that had filled the road and engulfed the Ritz.

    In the shattered, blazing wreckage of the bus lay Gary Lucas, flames slowly devouring his skin, blistering lips still frozen in what looked like a grin.

    

    

    Scott was waiting when the cell door was opened. He dutifully followed the two warders, walking briskly between them, his eyes occasionally straying to right or left as he heard voices behind the thick steel of the doors.

    The trio marched along one of the catwalks around landing C and descended the iron steps carefully.

    It felt good to be able to move about again after the cramped conditions of solitary. As the three men reached the exercise yard, Scott sucked in deep breaths of air. The sky above was the colour of wet concrete but he didn't care. Anything was better than the cold, insipid yellow walls of his cell.

    
Life.

    He sucked in another lungful of air, remembering his conversation with Nicholson.

    Risks. What kind of risks?

    He didn't care. There was a chance of escape, perhaps.

    A chance to get away from this place. To return to London.

    To Plummer.

    To Carol.

    He marched faster as they drew near the hospital wing. Despite himself, Scott felt a shiver of fear run along his spine.

    Was the means of release within that gaunt edifice? And, if so, what form did it take?

    Release.

    He clung to the word like a dying man clings to life.

    The trio entered the building, Scott recoiling from the pungent odour of disinfectant. He was led down a long corridor. At an office door one of his escort knocked and was told to enter.

    Scott waited, glancing at the other warder. He remained impassive. Finally Scott was ushered in, the first warder hesitating inside the door.

    'You can leave,' said Dr Robert Dexter.

    'He's dangerous,' the warder insisted.

    'Wait outside,' Dexter said, and the uniformed man left reluctantly. He waited until the door was closed, then motioned for Scott to be seated.

    'Do you know who I am?' Dexter asked.

    'Should I?' Scott enquired.

    Dexter smiled thinly.

    'No, I suppose not.' He introduced himself quickly. 'And you are James Scott.' He had a file open before him. 'A convicted murderer.'

    'I didn't kill those men…' Scott began.

    'That's as maybe, but as far as the law is concerned you're guilty. You're going to spend the rest of your life inside.'

    
Life.

    Dexter looked at the file, even though he already knew the contents well enough.

    'You lived alone; you have no family. No wife. No children,' he said quietly. 'No one.'

    Scott regarded him coldly.

    'Nobody to miss you,' Dexter continued.

    'Try telling me something I don't know,' Scott snapped. 'You seem to know such a lot about me. Who the hell are you? A doctor? Big deal. What's that got to do with me?'

    'More than a doctor, Scott. A surgeon. I specialise in disorders of the mind. God alone knows there are enough in this place.' He smiled thinly, but it faded quickly.

    'I still don't understand what this has got to do with me,' Scott told him. 'I couldn't give a fuck if you're a brain surgeon or a gynaecologist. Perhaps you'd be better off if you were. There are plenty of cunts in here, most of them wearing uniforms. Why should it matter to me?'

    'The same way it mattered to the five men before you. Four of them were released from here. Four convicted murderers, like you, allowed back into society. Most had only served a year or two of their sentence.'

    Scott sat forward.

    'They were just like you,' Dexter continued. 'Alone. They had no one. That's why we chose them. The same way we've chosen you. They knew of the risks and they accepted them.'

    'Nicholson said something about risks. What did he mean?' Scott wanted to know.

    'The operation always carries a risk…'

    'What fucking operation?' Scott snapped.

    'The insertion, into the forebrain, of a tiny electronic device. Once it's placed there, after a few months you'll be released.'

    Scott sucked in a deep breath. His mouth felt dry, and when he tried to lick his lips he found that his tongue was also as dry as parchment.

    'No one except the Governor, myself and my immediate staff know about this. It's up to you whether or not you decide to go through with the operation, but think about the possibility. Release.'

    'What about the law? They'll know I'm gone, that I've escaped.'

    'But you won't have escaped, you'll have been released. And there'll be no police interference. All the arrangements will be taken care of here.'

    Scott stroked his chin thoughtfully.

    'You said you experimented on five men, but you said four were released. What happened to the other one?'

    'He died. There were complications, the risks that Nicholson mentioned.'

    'What happened to him?'

    'A massive brain tumour developed where the device was implanted. There was nothing I could do to save him, but he'd known about the possibility of failure from the beginning. It was a chance he was willing to take.' Dexter eyed the other man coldly. 'Are you willing to take that chance, Scott? Six months at the most and you'll be able to leave here. Six months. Not life.'

    
Life.

    'If I agree, how soon can you operate?' he wanted to know.

    'Tomorrow.'

    
Six months,
Scott thought.
Six fucking months and then out. Back to London. Back to Plummer.

    
Back to Carol. The bitch.

    
Six months.

    Fuck it. He wouldn't wait that long.

    He looked directly at Dexter, his eyes unblinking, his voice even.

    'Do it,' he said quietly.

    

    

    'Could there have been a mistake?'

    Police Commissioner Lawrence Sullivan looked up from his desk at Phillip Barclay.

    The pathologist shook his head.

    'The body that was pulled out of the wreckage was Gary Lucas,' Barclay confirmed. 'The dental records matched and so did the fingerprints.' The pathologist sighed. 'And, like Lawton, Bryce and Magee, I found that Lucas had also been suffering from a massive brain tumour. There was enough left of the head to ascertain that.'

    Sunshine was pouring through the windows of Sullivan's office. Gregson could feel the warming rays on his arms as he sat looking at his superior.

    
Now tell me I'm wrong, you smug bastard,
he thought.

    'What were the final figures on dead and injured?' Sullivan wanted to know.

    DS Finn flipped open his notebook.

    'Twelve dead - that includes Lucas - and twenty-four injured,' he announced.

    'I suppose you think this supports your idea, Gregson?' said the Commissioner.

    'It seems hard to argue with the facts now, sir, I would have thought,' he said triumphantly.

    'The facts, according to you, being that Bryce, Lawton, Magee and Lucas didn't die inside Whitely. Their deaths were, for some unknown reason, faked. Correct?'

    'How can you argue with the evidence in front of you, sir?' Gregson wanted to know.

    'I can argue with it because this,' he held up a blue, bound file, 'is the report of a Government committee chaired by an MP called Bernard Clinton. It seems that he and three of his colleagues visited Whitely not long ago to investigate the overcrowding there. He doesn't mention anything unusual. In fact, he compliments the administration there for their work in trying to alleviate "overcrowding." ' Sullivan dropped the file onto his desk with a thud. 'No mention of anything like a conspiracy. No mention of faking the deaths of murderers, then releasing them.'

    'Well, I don't expect he was shown the process, sir,' snarled Gregson.

    'What process, for Christ's sake?' Sullivan demanded. 'Four men died in Whitely. Their crimes were imitated…'

    'The crimes were re-enacted by their original perpetrators,' Gregson interrupted angrily. 'What the fuck is it going to take to make you realise what's going on?'

    Finn looked warily at his companion, then at their superior.

    'What do you want, Gregson?' Sullivan asked.

    'I want exhumation orders for those other three men,' the DI said flatly. 'I want to go into Whitely. I want those graves dug up. I want to see that Lawton, Bryce and Magee are in the coffins they're supposed to be in.'

    'You're insane,' Sullivan hissed.

    'Just like I was insane to dig up Lucas? If I'm crazy then so is Finn, because he saw that empty coffin. So is Barclay, because he's told you that it's Lucas we've got downstairs, just like it's the others we've got down there keeping him company. I'm beginning to think it's you who's crazy, sir. You refuse to believe what's right in front of your nose.'

    'There'll be a dismissal notice in front of your nose if you ever speak to me like that again, Gregson. Do you understand?' Sullivan rasped, 'I've seen the evidence, I've heard the facts but I can't issue exhumation orders for those other three men.'