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.
Scott fell onto the concrete of the forecourt and sprinted for the Renault, cursing as he looked down to see blood from his torn calf seeping through the material of his overalls. He tossed the jeans and shirts into the back of the car, slid behind the wheel and drove off, struggling one-handed to free some paracetamol from their container. He shook two out and pushed them into his mouth, chewing them dry, almost gagging at the bitter taste. Then he swallowed another two, washing them down with a swig from the lemonade bottle.
In a short while he would pull in somewhere and change into a pair of the jeans and a shirt. It would give him a little more camouflage for his journey.
He gripped the wheel tightly, closing his eyes momentarily against the pain.
On the opposite carriageway a police car hurtled past him, lights flashing.
Scott drove on, past a sign which proclaimed: LONDON 143 MILES.
He looked at his watch, wincing once again at the unbearable pain inside his head. He swallowed two more tablets, wondering how long they would take to work. If indeed they did.
He drove on.
NINETY-FOUR
The cell door crashed open, slamming back against the wall, the impact reverberating found the small room.
Mike Robinson blinked hard, shocked from sleep by the sound and, now, by rough hands on him, pulling him from the top bunk.
Beneath him, Rod Porter was also being pulled from the warmth of his bunk, hurled across the room by the first of the warders who had barged into the cell.
'What the fuck is this?' snarled Porter but, as he turned, he was struck hard across the face with a baton. The hardwood split his cheek and he fell to the ground, blood pouring from the gash.
Robinson was thrown against the wall, a fist driven into his stomach, knocking the wind from him. Through pain-misted eyes he saw his locker torn open and its contents scattered, saw the bunks being overturned, saw the small cupboard that had housed James Scott's belongings ripped open. The photograph of the blonde woman Scott had spoken of (Robinson couldn't remember her name) fluttered to the floor where it was trodden on in the melee.
Then another blow to the stomach sent him crashing to the ground, where he was allowed to lie for only brief seconds before being dragged to his feet behind Porter. Both men were dragged on to the landing.
Other prisoners, woken by the noise, were shouting and banging against their doors, not knowing what the early morning disturbance was. As warders passed by cell doors they smashed their batons against them by way of warning, but this only served to inflame the inhabitants further. The cacophony of noise rose to deafening proportions as Robinson and Porter were dragged along the landing towards the stairs, almost hurled down them by their captors.
'What the fuck is going on?' shouted Robinson at one of the men pulling him.
'Shut it,' the warder hissed, driving a punch into his kidneys, almost throwing him down the metal steps behind Porter.
The noise from the other cells filled the prison.
'How could he have got away?'
Governor Peter Nicholson glared at Dexter, his eyes unblinking.
'I wish I knew,' Dexter said. 'He would have been weak from the operation. In pain. I can't understand how he managed it.'
'Well, he won't get far,' Nicholson said, an air of conviction in his voice.
'I can't see how he'll survive so soon after the operation,' Dexter added.
'I don't care if they bring him back dead but I want him back here.'
'You never did care, did you? It never bothered you whether the men who were operated on lived or died.'
'That isn't what's at stake here, Dexter,' Nicholson hissed. 'No one has ever escaped from a prison where I've been Governor and I don't intend to let Scott be the first.'
'Your pride doesn't matter any more, Nicholson. The man is already out. He got away, that's the point. He did escape.'
'We'll find him. He'll be brought back. I want to know how he did it.'
There was a knock on the office door and Nicholson called for the visitor to enter.
The door opened and Warder Paul Swain entered, supporting Porter. The other two men in the room saw the blood pouring down the convict's face.
Nicholson nodded and Swain threw the man down.
Robinson followed, landing heavily on his arm.
