There were times, many times, when Carol could see herself this same way in ten years' time, lying in the bath regretting her wasted life. And yet how was she to change itl She sighed, knowing that it was not in her own power to do so. Her fate lay, to a large degree, with men like Plummer. He had wealth, power and influence. He commanded respect. He was her escape route.
And then there was Scott.
She closed her eyes more tightly, as if trying to blot him out of her thoughts. If only it were so easy to remove him from her life. She knew deep down she was afraid to tell him their relationship was over, not because she couldn't bear to speak those words but because she genuinely feared how he would react.
Feared? A little melodramatic, wasn't it?
He'd be hurt for a while but he'd get over it.
Wouldn't he!
Perhaps Zena had been right. She was a bitch.
She pulled herself out of the water and reached for a towel, wrapping it around herself, using another to dry her hair. She padded through into the sitting room and switched on the television. There was a black and white film on one channel, a discussion programme on another. She switched the set off and started drying herself, standing close to the two-bar electric fire that was the only form of heating in the room. She had an electric fire in her bedroom but the radiators on each wall were merely eyesores; they didn't provide the central heating she craved on cold nights like this.
As she was drying her hands she looked at the gold ring Scott had given her, the metal black in places. She ought to clean it.
It could wait.
She finished drying herself and pulled on a long sweater to cover her nakedness, then wandered into the kitchen to make herself a warm drink before she went to bed.
At first she didn't hear the phone ring.
The water was gushing from the tap into the kettle, obliterating all other sounds.
Then she heard it and turned towards the sound coming from the sitting room.
Who the hell was calling her at 1.30 in the morning?
She sighed. Scott. Checking that she was okay.
She put down the kettle and walked back into the sitting room, picking up the receiver.
'Hello,' she said resignedly.
Silence.
'Hello.'
Still no sound.
She felt her heart beat faster.
'I'm watching you.'
The voice cut through her as surely as if it had been cold steel.
She gripped the receiver until her knuckles turned white.
'How did you get this number?' she said quietly, trying to control the fear in her voice.
Silence.
'I know your sort,' she said, her show of bravado fooling neither herself nor the caller.
Only silence greeted her remark.
Slam the phone down.
'I know all about you,' the caller said, and now Carol was certain that it was the same voice as the other night. Not that she'd had much doubt in the first place.
Now she did slam the phone down.
For long seconds she stood looking at it, her eyes fixed to it as if it were some kind of venomous reptile that was about to bite her.
Take it off the hook.
She actually had her hand on the receiver when the phone rang again.
She snatched it up and pressed it to her ear but this time she didn't speak.
She heard a sound at the other end. A wet sound. Like someone licking their lips.
'I'm still watching you,' said the caller. Then he hung up.
Carol stared at the receiver, but all she heard was the dull monotone of a disconnected line.
She didn't put it back on its cradle.
She simply dropped it.
TWENTY-SEVEN
10 MAY 1977
The explosion had been massive.
It had torn away the roof of the kitchen area, sending slates and lumps of stone hurtling skyward like shrapnel. The remains of the structure had simply collapsed in upon itself as if the walls had been made of paper. Tongues of flames thirty feet high had erupted from the wreckage, the pieces of burning debris showering down on the roof of the asylum like fragments of comet, some actually tearing through, others bursting again, causing more havoc, spreading the fire more rapidly than anyone could have imagined.
It took less than six minutes from the initial blast to transform Bishopsgate Institution into a blazing inferno.
The whisper was gas leak, the result was devastation.
The fire brigade had been called and ambulances were outside the building ready to ferry the dead and injured away. The air was alive with a cacophony of sirens and the roaring of flames. Firemen directed jets of water at the flames while their companions struggled to help the staff of the institution evacuate patients.
Smoke, belching from the burning building, hung like a thick black shroud over the blazing asylum. The air was filled with millions of tiny cinders, as if a plague of small flies had infested the air.
Inside his office Doctor Robert Dexter pulled on his jacket and ran out into the corridor. An intern hurtled past him, his white jacket smoke-stained, his hair singed. Dexter could hear screams of rage and fear as he started along the corridor, aware of the acrid stench of burning.
He saw two more interns running towards him, both sweating profusely, their faces dark, their uniforms dirty.
'The West Wing is clear,' said one of them. 'We managed to get everyone out.'
'The firemen are evacuating the rest of the building,' said his companion.
Dexter nodded.
It was then that he saw Colston round the corner.
Dexter ran towards his colleague, his face pale.
'We've got to get out,' said Colston, his breathing rapid. 'The whole place is coming down around,us.'
As if to emphasise his words there was a loud creaking noise, a wrenching timber. A shower of sparks burst from the ceiling and covered the two men, who both ducked down. The smell of smoke was stronger now and Dexter could actually see the first wisps of it curling round into the corridor.
'We've got to get to Ward 5,' said Dexter.
'Let the fire brigade take care of it,' Colston said agitatedly, coughing now as more smoke filled the corridor.
Dexter grabbed him by the shoulders.
'And let them find what's in there?' he hissed, his gaze firmly on his colleague.
The realisation seemed to hit Colston and he nodded. Together they hurried up the corridor, relieved that
