Captives (43 page)

    A brief image of Plummer flashed into his mind.

    Then Carol.

    He set off across the open ground towards the trees. Beyond it there was a road.

    He would be well away before first light.

    
Free.

    He ignored the pain in his head as best he could, but as he ran across the muddy ground a thought occurred to him.

    The effects of the morphine were beginning to wear off.

    And when it did, the pain would return.

    Pain unlike anything he'd ever felt before.

    Scott looked back over his shoulder, as if fearing he was being followed.

    The prison seemed to be a part of the night itself, the huge walls apparently hewn from the solid blackness.

    He ran on.

    He knew what he must do now.

    

    

    The pain was returning.

    Unchecked by pain-killers, it filled his skull more intensely as each moment passed.

    Scott fell against a tree and leant there, slumped and dishevelled, trying to get his breath, trying to think about something other than the excruciating agony that was lancing through his head. He put both hands to his temples and felt the bandages there. He fancied he could feel his cranium swelling with each beat of his heart.

    He had reached the road now. Looking back in the direction of Whitely, he could see that the prison had all but disappeared in the tenebrous blackness of night. Rain was falling heavily now, the cold droplets beating onto his head. He stumbled onto the tarmac and began walking, not even sure which direction he was heading. Scott didn't know how far the nearest town was but, he surmised, there must be a house of some kind in the vicinity. It was farming land around the prison. Surely there would be somewhere for him to seek shelter. He flicked off the torch and jammed it into his belt along with the long bladed knife, using both hands to wipe the rain from his face as he walked. Every step seemed an effort. And, with each contact he made with the ground, that searing pain would spear through his skull, making him wince, once almost making him topple over.

    
Make it stop.

    He leant against one of the trees at the roadside, hoping the pain would subside. Then he pressed on, turning a bend in the road.

    To his left, across a dark field, he saw some lights.

    A house.

    Just ahead of him was a wooden gate that opened onto an unguarded dirt tract. Scott assumed it led to the house. He could see rain falling in the puddles that had formed in the ruts of the track. As he tried to edge his way forward, avoiding the worst of the mud, one foot slipped in the slimy ooze and he sank up to his ankle in the clinging muck.

    Cursing, he shook himself loose and prepared to trudge on towards the beckoning lights.

    The approach of car headlamps made him duck back into the bushes.

    The car, he guessed, was about a hundred yards off, its lights cutting a swathe through the gloom as it drew nearer.

    It was moving slowly, the driver obviously taking care in the treacherous conditions.

    Scott, his head throbbing, remained hidden in the sodden bushes.

    If only he could stop it…

    He touched the hilt of the carving knife almost unconsciously.

    The car was less than fifty yards away now; soon the headlamps would pick him out.

    He moved quickly, walking out into the road, lying down on the wet tarmac. It was an old trick but it was all he could think of.

    He lay on his side, facing away from the car whose engine was now audible. His left arm was stretched out beneath his head, his right resting on his hip, close to the knife.

    The pain filled his head as he lay there, rain beating against his pale face.

    The car rounded the corner, its lights picking out his immobile form. He heard the driver slam on the brakes, the slight squeal of rubber as the car came to a slippery halt on the greasy surface. He lay there, rain soaking through his overalls, waiting.

    Waiting.

    The car was still where it had stopped, its lights bathing Scott in a cold white glow.

    This wasn't right. The driver should have leapt out of his car. Instead, Scott could only assume that the man was still sitting behind the wheel wondering what to do.

    
Come on. Come on.

    He heard a door open, heard a woman's voice in the background saying something about being careful. Then he heard a man's voice too.

    There were two of them in the car, perhaps more; he couldn't see from the position he was in.

    He heard footsteps coming closer, hesitant and unsure.

    His right hand slipped a couple of inches so that it was touching the hilt of the knife.

    The footsteps came nearer. A shadow fell over him, the driver silhouetted in the powerful headlamps.

    'I think he's alive,' the man called, moving nearer.

    He could hear the engine of the car idling.

    The man could only be a few feet from him now.

    Scott heard more footsteps. Drawing closer.

    Closer.

    The man knelt beside him; Scott could even hear him breathing. He felt a hand on his shoulder, turning him gently on to his back.

    'Oh, Christ,' murmured the man, noticing Scott's prison uniform, spotted as it was with blood and excrement, reeking of filth.

    Scott's eyes snapped open and he found himself gazing into the terrified features of a man roughly his own age.

    Scott struck out with his left hand, catching the man full in the face with a punch that broke his nose. He fell backwards, cracking his head on the concrete of the road, opening a gash on the back of his skull that immediately began oozing blood.

    Scott was up in a second, hurdling the prone man, heading for the car.

    He saw and heard the woman scream as she locked the passenger side door, then leant over to secure the driver's side of the Renault.

    Scott grabbed the handle and tugged, managing to beat her to it.

    She screamed again and tried to back away from him,

    but he grabbed her by the hair and pulled her across the driver's seat, hurling her from the car into the wet bushes at the roadside. One of her high heels came off and she scraped her face on the branches as she fell, blood running from a cut on her cheek.

    Scott slid behind the wheel, jamming the car into gear.

    The man was rising, coming towards the car again, blood streaming from his nose.

    Scott floored the accelerator and the car roared, forward like a bullet.

    It slammed into the man, hurling him into the air and sideways into the bushes where he landed on his back close to his companion, who screamed again as Scott roared away, exhaust fumes filling the air, mingling with the acrid stench of burned rubber.

    The Renault hurtled off down the road, leaving the woman to crawl over to her injured companion.

    Scott could see her in his rear-view mirror, sobbing helplessly as she sought to revive the man who, for all Scott knew, could have been dead. Come to think of it, the speed the car had been travelling when it hit him probably would have killed him. Scott took one more look in the rear-view mirror but the former occupants of the car were nowhere to be seen.

    He put his foot down.

    He knew he had to get out of this prison uniform and into some normal clothes. The journey back to London was going to be difficult enough without advertising where he'd just come from.

    Back to London.

    He gripped the wheel tightly.

    Back to London.

    He guessed it would take him about five or six hours. He should be there before morning.

    Back to Plummer.

    His head was throbbing mightily now, but there was a fearful determination etched on his face.

    Back to Carol.

    He glanced at his own reflection in the rear-view mirror and saw the bandages that covered the top of his head and most of his forehead. He slowed, stopped and tore most of them off leaving just the one that covered the wound of his operation.

    The dashboard clock said 2.06 A.M.

    The pain seemed to be getting worse.

    Scott gripped the wheel more tightly. He must get out of these overalls.

    But before that, there was something else he must do.

    

    

    There were two Scania trucks parked in the car park of the petrol station. Apart from the two juggernauts, Scott could see no other vehicles.

    He drove past them once, trying to see into the cabins, but there was no sign of their drivers. He winced as the pain struck him again, even more forcefully, like a physical blow. The Renault went out of control momentarily but he brought it into line and drove on, slowing down as he reached the covered area that formed a canopy leading up to the door of the service station entrance.

    There was one figure in a red overall inside the building. A man in his early twenties. Scott could see that he was reading a newspaper.

    Scott parked the Renault around the corner and sat behind the wheel for a moment, waiting for the pain inside his head to diminish.

    It didn't.

    On shaking legs he forced himself out of the car, ensuring that the knife was hidden as he approached the double doors that led into the service area. Like many along motorways it sold not just books, papers and magazines but also food, drink and even clothing. Scott could see several pairs of jeans hanging up inside, as well as some shirts.

    He approached the double doors and pulled at one.

    They were locked.

    The young man in the red overalls looked up and ran appraising eyes over Scott.

    'Use the night window,' he called, indicating the small hatch where he sat.

    Cursing under his breath, Scott ambled along to the window, reaching behind him once to touch the hilt of the carving knife.

    The young man was looking intently at him, or, more to the point, at his clothes. The grey, blood-flecked, reeking prison overalls made Scott ridiculously conspicuous. He may as well have worn a day-glo sign on his chest proclaiming 'Escaped Convict'.

    'What do you want?' the young man asked, his eyes constantly drawn to Scott's overalls.

    'I need to use your toilet,' he said.

    'We lock it at night. I'll have to give you the key,' the young man told him.

    Scott nodded, watching as he retrieved a bunch of keys from the counter.

    'I need some things too,' Scott said. 'I want to come inside.'

    'Sorry, but it's company policy. This place has been robbed too often in the past year or so. You tell me what you want and I'll get it for you.'

    Scott gritted his teeth, both in pain and also frustration. Even if he could get the jeans, the shirt and the pain-killers he wanted, how the hell was he going to pay for them?

    'The keys for the toilet,' said the young man, extending his hand, the keys lying on his palm.

    Scott stepped back slightly, forcing the young man to extend his hand through the narrow gap at the bottom of the cash window.

    'Take them,' said the attendant warily.

    Scott looked deeply into his eyes, those bloodshot orbs blazing with intent.

    He moved so quickly the youth had no chance to pull away.

    Scott grabbed his arm just above the wrist, simultaneously yanking the youth forward, slamming his face into the glass with such force that it dazed him. Then, with his free hand, he pulled the knife from his belt and brought it down with terrifying force onto the young man's outstretched wrist.

    The blow severed the hand with one cut.

    The appendage fell to the ground, blood spurting from the torn arteries, jetting onto the forecourt as Scott held his victim up against the glass, gripping on above the stump of the wrist that was spewing crimson violently into the air. He jerked the boy forward again and again, each time slamming his head against the thick glass, until he also opened up a hairline cut along his scalp. The glass was smeared with crimson.

    Scott continued to hang on to the handless arm, tugging with such force that it seemed he must rip the youth's arm from its socket. He allowed him to lean back a few inches then pulled savagely on the arm forcing the young man's head against the glass with sickening and powerful force.

    A crack appeared in the glass.

    Then another.

    The fingers of the severed hand at Scott's feet were jerking as if in time to the impacts of the boy's head against the glass, which had now spider-webbed. Crimson poured down the attendant's face; Scott fancied he could see bone gleaming whitely through the pulped and torn flesh on his face and forehead. He finally let go of his victim's arm, allowing the body to sag to the floor. Then he gripped the hilt of the knife in his fist and drove it hard against the splintered glass.

    It broke immediately, pieces of glass flying inwards, showering the prone body of the attendant.

    Scott looked around, then pulled himself up into the frame of the small window. It was a tight squeeze. He groaned as he tried to pull himself through, yelping in pain as he cut his calf on a chunk of broken glass. Blood began to soak through the overalls as he fell into the motorway shop, sprawling onto the unconscious attendant.

    Scott struggled to his feet and hurried over to the rack of jeans and shirts. He pulled half a dozen pairs off the hangers, grabbed an armful of shirts. Then he hurried back behind the counter, picking up a large bottle of lemonade, his eyes scanning the shelves for pain-killers. He stuffed packets of aspirin, paracetamol and any other pill he could find into his pocket. He grabbed two tins of Elastoplast. Then, carrying his haul, he clambered back over the unconscious attendant and out of the broken window, dropping two pairs of the jeans in the process. One pair fell across the pulped face of the attendant, hiding his terrible injuries. Blood began to soak through the denim.