The rest of the office is as I expected, a mess. The equipment we brought down to get into the safe is strewn across the floor where it was left, along with the rubble from the roof. Wires still run up to the safe door which is wide open, and ropes hang down the singed black wall from the hole above. The cleaners are going to have one hell of a time sorting it out, I joke to myself.
At the far side of the office, the door is still blocked by the desk, giving me the confidence to open the bathroom door and move out into the office. I shuffle around the opening door, being careful on my aching feet. My eyes are fixed on the hole in the roof. I don’t know what happened up there in the end and what the current situation is. For all, I know Rabids are still alive up there and could attack through the hole at any moment.
Moving out into the office, steadying myself on the door frame, I feel my head go light and my legs go weak from the exertion and need to rest for a moment.
I nearly jump out of my skin as I go to sit on the arm of the couch next to me. Sir Malcolm’s body is lying across the couch as if he is taking a nap. I wasn’t expecting it and didn’t see the body until I went to sit. Dried blood stains his cheeks either side of his yawning mouth, the remnants of shooting himself through the roof of his mouth. I am sure if I looked, I would find the back of his head blown away. I don’t touch the old fella though. I just take a perch next to him on the arm of the couch, rest for a moment and wonder how it came to this.
Sitting there, I look over my battered body. My skin is absolutely covered in injuries. Scrapes and cuts on my skin are overwhelmed by the bruises. My arms and body have multiple bruises over them. From small light-coloured shallow ones to big deep ones that range from dark grey to almost black in colour at the centre of them. One on the right side of my belly is particularly black and red raw around the edges, with a small scab in the centre of it. That is where I stabbed myself with the syringe, in my frenzy I vaguely remember, flinch from the memory of the agony it brought.
Either side of the couch arm, my legs protrude down to the floor and it is they that have by far the biggest bruises. One virtually covers the whole side of my left thigh in a rainbow of colours, but bruises flow across both legs melding together, especially down the sides. My skin is almost as camouflaged as if I still had my combat uniform on.
Trying to look on the positive side, I take solace in the fact that my meat and two veg are still intact, resting between my legs on the arm of the couch.
Chapter 14
I’ve made it out of the darkness and look at the only other piece of equipment I have on me, apart from the Sig. I am pleased to see the second hand on my watch is still moving, so I assume that the time the watch shows me is accurate. The time is coming up to ten past five, but is that in the morning or afternoon? I have no idea—and what day? I look again and the date on the watch tells me it is only the day after the mission, which is some relief. I have been out of it for hours, not days, but that could be about fourteen hours or twenty-six hours? The dull light coming into the room doesn’t tell me what part of the day it is. The sun could be coming up or going down and I can see out the window that smoke still hangs in the air, only adding to the mystery.
I look at the time again and log it. Then I fumble to pull out the winder on the side of the watch. I wind the time forward until it passes twelve, but as it does the date doesn’t click to the next day. It is ten past five in the morning, meaning about fourteen hours have elapsed since I was infected and since I last saw Josh. I wind the time back to ten past five and press the winder back in.
Josh must have gone back to Heathrow, back to Emily. Are they still there, and how can I contact them or get to them? I’ve got to work that out, but in the meantime, I’ve got to get myself together. I’m going to have to move the desk away from the door and leave the office. I’m weak and naked, and if I’m going to find my children, I need to get my shit sorted.
An audible rumble emanates from my stomach which takes me by surprise. I don’t feel hungry—in fact, I feel queasy and sick. Is my body calling for food, can it handle it? Is the sick feeling caused by hunger? I hadn’t considered that; I had just assumed I was nauseous because of the infection.
Pushing myself up from the arm of the couch and back onto my delicate feet, I am still extremely weary. I have never been so drained. Nothing comes close, not even the culmination of SAS selection. I shuffle steadily over to the wall of
