'A couple of minutes,' he answered, 'as soon as it got dark, he started.'
Lambert looked at Hayes but the sergeant looked blank.
'Get Kirby down here fast,' snapped the Inspector, watching as Hayes scutded off.
Peering once more into the cell, Lambert said, 'Why isn't the light on in there?' He looked up at the hundred watt bulb, unshaded, in the ceiling of the cell.
'I was just going to do it when I looked in and saw what was going on,' explained Davies.
Lambert stroked his chin thoughtfully, remembering how violently Mackenzie had reacted to light that morning.
'Turn it on,' he said.
Davies flicked a switch and the cell was suddenly bathed in cold white light.
Mackenzie screamed and raised his hands, snatching at the light bulb, trying simultaneously to shield his eyes and to reach the blinding object. His head throbbed as he tried to shield himself from the glare and he backed into a corner like a dog who knows he's about to be beaten. As Lambert watched, Mackenzie slumped to his knees, bowed his head and covered it with his arms. He was growling, the sounds gurgling in his throat. The Inspector watched amazed as Mackenzie slowly raised himself up again, one arm shielding his eyes, and staggered towards the light. Then, with a howl of rage, he leapt and smashed a fist into the bulb, shattering it and ripping the flesh from his knuckles. He seemed not to notice the pain, relieved only that the room was, once more, in darkness. Blood dripped from his lacerated hand but he grunted and raised a dripping fist defiantly towards the peephole.
Lambert slammed it shut and exhaled deeply.
'Jesus,' he breathed, softly.
'What do we do, sir?' said Davies, listening to the sounds coming from inside the cell.
Lambert had no answer for him. He pushed past the constable and headed for his office. Davies squinted through the peephole just in time to see Mackenzie tear the wash basin from its position on the wall. He lifted it above his head and flung it to the ground where it shattered. Large chunks of porcelain flew about the room like white shrapnel. Water from the ruptured pipes jetted into the cell spattering Mackenzie, but he ignored it, turning once more to the tiny window and gripping the bars in a frenzied effort to tear them free.
Davies closed the flap. He swallowed hard and sat down outside the cell, the noises of destruction from inside ringing in his ears.
While he was waiting for Kirby to arrive, Lambert phoned home to tell Debbie that he'd be late, but he got no answer. She couldn't be home yet, he reasoned. He slammed the receiver down and said to no one in particular, 'Where the hell is Kirby?'
Hayes emerged from the duty room carrying a steaming mug of coffee. He handed it to Lambert who smiled.
'I could do with something stronger, Vic.'
The sergeant grinned and pulled a silver flask from the pocket of his tunic. He unscrewed the cap and poured a small measure of brown liquid into the Inspector's mug. Then he repeated the procedure with his own.
'Purely medicinal, sir,' he said.
Lambert smiled broadly and drank a couple of mouthfuls.
From down the corridor they could still hear the frightful noises coming from Mackenzie's cell.
'He's mad,' said Hayes, flatly.
'I hope so,' said Lambert, enigmatically. 'I really do hope so.'
Hayes looked puzzled.
The door leading from the annexe opened and both men looked up. It was only constables Ferman and Jenkins arriving for night duty.
'What's all the noise?' asked Ferman.
'Never mind that,' snapped Hayes. 'Just get on with your job.'
Ferman raised two fingers as he walked past, making sure that he was behind Hayes when he did it. The two men disappeared into the duty room.
Kirby walked in, his black bag clutched firmly in his hand. He nodded curtly.
'About fucking time,' snapped Lambert, impatiently. He hurried out from behind the enquiry counter and led the doctor down towards the cell.
'My receptionist told me you called,' explained Kirby. 'I'd been out on an emergency.'
'Well, we've got an emergency here, right now,' growled Lambert.
Kirby caught him by the arm. 'Look, Tom, my responsibilities are to my patients. I'm a G.P. first and foremost, a bloody police doctor second. Understand?'
The Inspector held his gaze for a moment. 'Listen to that,' he said, inclining his head towards the cell.
Kirby heard the sounds of pandemonium and frowned. He followed Lambert to the cell door and peered through the peephole. Mackenzie was hanging from the bars with his talonlike hands, blood from his injured limb pouring down his arm.
'He broke the light bulb,' explained Lambert, 'the light drives him crazy. It seems to cause him pain.'
'How long has he been like this?' asked Kirby, not taking his eyes from the hole.
'Since it got dark,' said the Inspector, flatly. 'What can you do?'
Kirby let the flap slide back into position, covering the hole. 'Nothing. If I give him a shot of something there's no guarantee it'll knock him out. That's assuming I can get close enough to administer it in the first place.'
'There must be something you can give him,' snapped Lambert.
'I've just told you,' said Kirby, his tone rising slightly. 'I've got Thorazine in here, but there's no way of knowing if it'll work and I, for one, don't intend going in there with him like that.'
The two men stood silently for a moment, looking at one another. Then Kirby said, more gently, 'Just leave him. I'll look at him in the morning. If he's calmed down.'
'And if he hasn't?'
The doctor peered through the peephole again, 'This will hold him won't it?' He banged on the metal door.
Lambert nodded, 'Yeah.' There was a note of tired resignation in his voice.
'I suggest we both go home, Tom. If anything more happens during the night…' The sentence trailed off and he shrugged.
Lambert touched the metal door gendy, listening to the bellowing and crashing coming from inside.
'I just hope it does hold him,' he said, quietly.
Lambert lay on his back in bed, staring at the ceiling. Outside, the wind whispered quietly past the windows. A low, almost soothing whoosh, which occasionally grew in power and rattled the glass in its frame, as if reminding people of its power. But, at the moment, it hissed softly past the dark opening.
The clock on the bedside table ticked its insistent rhythm, sounding louder than usual in the stillness of the night. The luminous hands showed that it was after three in the morning.
Lambert exhaled and closed his eyes. Images and thoughts sped through his mind with dizzying speed.
Mackenzie. The disappearance of Gordon Reece. The medallion.
The medallion.
He had shown it to Debbie earlier on and she had confirmed his own suspicions that the inscriptions were, indeed, Latin. Well, the central one at any rate. The gibberish around the rim of the circlet foxed her too. She said that she would try to find out what the inscriptions meant. There were reference books in the library which might tell them. He had dismissed the idea, telling her that there was probably no significance in it anyway. But something nagged at the back of his mind. Something unseen which had plunged teeth of doubt into his mind and had held on as surely as a stoat holds a rabbit.
He sat up, trying not to disturb Debbie. She was asleep beside him, her breathing low and contented. As regular as the ticking of the clock.
