'Out of Whitely.'
'You couldn't get out of fucking bed.'
'With your help I can,' Scott hissed, wincing as he felt the stab of pain in his skull.
'Help me, Porter.'
'How?' the other man asked. 'You look as if you're ready for the fucking morgue.'
'I'm not going to any morgue,' Scott snarled, his eyes blazing, 'I'm getting out and you're going to help me. Now listen to me. There isn't much time.'
Porter sat on the edge of the bed as Scott began to speak.
Rain clouds were filling the skies, hastening the onset of evening.
It would be dark in three hours.
NINETY
The needle slid easily into his vein and Scott looked down at it, welcoming the morphine as it was pumped into his system.
Anything to stop the pain.
Dexter swabbed the puncture and fixed a small plaster over it.
'You should be all right for the rest of the night now,' he assured Scott. 'One of the orderlies will be around if the pain gets too bad, but I've told them not to disturb you until the morning.'
Scott sucked in a deep breath.
Dexter reached into his pocket and pulled out a pen-light which he shone first into Scott's left eye then his right, watching the pupils react accordingly. He nodded to himself.
'You should be fine until the morning,' he said. He turned to leave, pausing at the door to take one final look at Scott. He walked out, leaving the patient alone.
He glanced at the wall clock.
8.36 P.M.
The pain in his head was just a dull ache now, thanks to the morphine. He wondered how long it would stay like that.
He closed his eyes.
Silence.
Scott awoke in a stillness broken only by the spattering of rain against the windows. Through the gloom he could see the clock.
11.06 P.M.
He blinked hard, feeling a slight pain in the roof of his skull. He turned his head slowly from side to side; the pain was never very far away. Yellow light spilled beneath the door from the room beyond. He could hear no sounds of movement from the other side of the door.
Scott slowed his breathing and then, with infinite slowness, raised his head from the pillow.
The dull ache remained but did not develop suddenly into the searing pain he had come to know so well. For that, at least, he was grateful. He propped himself up on one elbow and rose a few more inches, swinging his feet out of bed, touching the cold floor with his toes.
He sat upright.
No pain.
Steadying himself, he prepared to stand, aware of the weakness in his legs.
He stood up.
A wave of dizziness hit him; for a moment he thought he was going to collapse. The room spun madly around. He shot out a hand to steady himself, almost knocking over the jug of water on the bedside table. It teetered precariously for a second but remained upright. He leant against the bed, closing his eyes, waiting for the dizziness to pass. He stood up more slowly this time, pressing each of his feet in turn hard onto the floor.
He took a faltering step, afraid that the dizziness would return, or worse than that, the pain.
Neither happened.
He walked with relative ease towards the door, turned and walked back again. He repeated his movements, still aware of the silence beyond the closed door.
He had to know if there was anyone there.
From what Porter had told him, he knew he had to get into the adjacent room.
Porter.
Scott hoped he'd managed to fulfil his part of the plan. Not that it would matter if he had or not, if Scott couldn't get into the next room.
He reached down for the door-knob; his hand rested on it.
If the orderly was there he would want to know why Scott was out of bed.
If he wasn't, he couldn't be far away.
If…
Scott glanced down at the door-knob again.
He swallowed hard.
Still silence from the other side.
He hesitated, looking across at the bedside table. To the jug of water.
Scott turned and headed back, sitting on the edge of the bed. He waited a moment then pushed the metal jug. It landed with a loud clang on the floor.
No one came running to see what was happening.
The door didn't open.
Scott got to his feet and crossed to the door, this time turning the knob immediately. He peered out into the room beyond. It was empty but for a small desk and some cupboards round the walls.
On the corner of the desk was a steaming mug of tea.
Scott realised that the orderly who'd left it would be back to claim it.
He had to move fast.
The laundry chute was directly opposite him, a hole in the wall about three feet square.
Scott closed the door behind him and made for the chute, clambering in feet first, feeling the cold metal against his back when the surgical gown opened. He supported his weight against the frame of the chute, aware of the dull ache in his skull.
He let go of the frame.
His weight carried him faster than he would have liked; in seconds, he found himself coming to the bottom of the chute. He went hurtling off the metal lip and sprawled on a pile of dirty sheets, rolling over once.
He grunted in pain as he hit the bottom and flopped over onto his back, the pain in his head intensifying for a moment.
It was almost pitch black in the laundry room, the only light coming from a furnace that stood in the centre. It was used to burn any linen too soiled to be used again. The small chamber was lit by a hellish red glow from the furnace's mouth.
Scott got to his feet, touching his head tentatively, aware of the stench around him.
The sheets he was lying on were smeared with excrement. Scott grunted and dragged himself upright, wiping the reeking mess from his hands with a clean portion of the sheet. Still, they had served their purpose to break his fall. As he looked around he could hear the low rumble of the furnace. The stone floor beneath his feet was warm.
