Poor old Dave squirmed in his sleep and wrapped his arms around himself, but he didn’t wake up. He was wearing his Superman pyjamas. Truth be told, he looked more like a ‘Man of Stodge’ than a ‘Man of Steel’, but she loved him anyway.
Before the boiler died, the flat’s heating had been programmed to come on an hour before they were due to get up, which meant that Mel could hang her clothes over the bedroom radiator when she went to bed, knowing they would be lovely and warm when it was time to get dressed.
Without the benefit of central heating, Mel had been forced to find an alternative method of warming up her clothes, and her solution was – if she said so herself – pretty fucking ingenious. Picking up her unwieldy hairdryer, she turned the blower up to max and spent a few seconds running it over each item of clothing before putting it on, taking special care to ensure that her socks were toasty warm. Dave, who constantly astonished her by his ability to sleep through virtually anything, didn’t even stir at the incredible racket coming from the rickety hairdryer as it rattled away in her hand.
When she was finally dressed in the dark blue uniform of a ward sister, Mel turned the bedside light and the electric heater off and gently re-covered Dave with the quilt, kissing him on the forehead as she tucked him in. As she closed the bedroom door on him, he was snoring contentedly.
◆◆◆
Deontay Garston carefully spread two lines of fine white powder across the glass surface of a compact mirror that rested precariously upon the car’s dashboard. Then he rolled a lottery scratch card into a small tube and inserted it into his left nostril. Bending forward, he inhaled the first line vigorously.
“Oh, man! That’s good stuff,” he told his three cohorts before repeating the process with the other nostril. Almost immediately, the strong opiate began to take effect. Still sniffing, he turned to the scruffily dressed man sitting next to him in the driver’s seat of the stolen car, a top-of-the-range Ford Scorpio.
“You’re clear on what’s expected of you, Mullings?” he asked again, despite having gone over the plan with the others more than a dozen times. He didn’t care if he got on their nerves – there was a lot riding on this, and he was determined that everything would go smoothly.
“I’m cool, man. Don’t worry,” the drug runner cooed. He had a great big spliff on the go, which was probably why he was so mellow.
Garston turned his attention to the sultry black woman sitting stiffly in the rear. He had some lingering doubts about the hooker, but there was no doubting her loyalty to Winston. Besides, with the time restraints imposed on him, there just hadn’t been a chance to recruit anyone else; and at least she knew how to use a syringe safely, which was more than any of the others involved in the escape could say.
She had a pretty face, with intelligent brown eyes, high cheekbones, and smouldering lips. It was a pity it was marred by the distinctive scar that ran down one side of it, all the way from her right ear to her chin. That would be remembered by anyone who got a good look at it. Hopefully, that wasn’t going to happen.
“Ready Angela?”
She shrugged lethargically, “I guess so.”
The lacklustre response angered him. He knew she was sulking because he’d refused to let her shoot up with heroin before the breakout, forcing her to make do with a few puffs from Mullings’ joint instead. Garston reached into the back of the car and took hold of her wrist. “Just make sure that you don’t let me down,” he warned. “Fuck up today and you won’t just have me to answer to, you’ll have to explain yourself to Claude as well. Do you understand?”
Just to make sure she did, he squeezed her arm until she winced.
“Okay, okay!” she cried.
He waited a long moment before releasing his grip, taking more satisfaction than he should from the way she immediately cowered away from him.
He patted her bony knee and smiled at her. “That’s a good girl,” he said, patronisingly.
The last member of the team was a sullen-looking bald man in his mid-twenties. His name was Errol Heston, and he was a nightclub doorman who Garston occasionally used when he needed someone to rough up the punters who owed him money or encourage the hookers who were underperforming to work a little harder.
Garston was already beginning to experience a cocaine rush. A feeling of confidence and wellbeing surged through him, making him feel invulnerable. Any uncertainties he had about how things would pan out evaporated, and he knew that his brilliant plan would work like a Swiss watch.
“Let’s get it on,” he announced, opening the passenger door with a grin of hyped anticipation.
The car was parked in a no waiting area outside the entrance to The Royal London Hospital; positioned so as to ensure an easy getaway, but not so as to cause an obstruction to an arriving ambulance. The last thing they wanted to do was draw attention to themselves from the hospital security staff or the police.
He took a moment to scope out his surroundings. When he was satisfied that no one was paying them any undue attention, he removed his three-quarter-length Burberry and casually tossed it into the back of the car. Underneath, he wore a long white doctor’s coat over a pair of surgical greens. An authentic NHS nametag was pinned to his chest, and it proclaimed
