Standing at the half-open door to the bathroom, I am not keen to re-enter. Memories of my torturous night in there return and are heightened by the foul smell that drifts out to me from within the hell hole. I try to laugh it off and tell myself it’s just a bathroom, but the memories are still raw. I have never known such pain and suffering as I experienced in there. It was a nightmare of epic proportions and one I am sure I will relive on dark nights to come if I survive.
My hand pushes the door wide open slowly. I half expect something to jump out at me from the darkness as the foul smell grows stronger. Nothing jumps out, only more stinking air as light brightens up the bathroom.
Moving to the left of the door, I get my body out of the way to let in more light so that I can see inside better before I enter. As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I see what a revolting mess I made of Sir Malcolm’s bathroom. There are pools of liquid excrement on the tiled floor below the sink where I had been sitting and it is smeared across the floor around that area. The pool has a wide trail leaving it, going over to the shower where I had dragged myself across the floor. My old contaminated clothes sit in wet lumps near the back by the toilet where they landed. Thankfully, most of my equipment seems to have escaped the filth, but my phone, however, is swimming in the main pool and will have to be fished out.
I enter the cesspit and carefully retrieve the equipment I need, trying to avoid the filth. I throw or kick most of it out into the office, where I will sort it out. It is hard going, especially the bending down, when I have to brace myself against something to get back up. The final thing is my phone and I debate whether to just leave it? It has been sitting in that foul liquid for hours and probably won’t work. The battery will be dead for sure and I have no way to charge it anyway.
In the end, I get it, I use my rifle to drag it out of the liquid and then pick it up with a towel from beside the sink for inspection later.
With everything out that I want, I’m grateful to leave the bathroom behind and close the door. I wipe my boots off, on the carpet outside the door and then go to sit on the office floor, using the couch to help me down and rest my back on.
After taking a short rest, the first thing I retrieve from in front of me is my helmet, my best hope of communication. A quick test tells me the fucking battery pack is spent and the radio is dead, for God’s sake. That’s both my phone and radio out of action, so what now? Sir Malcolm’s phone will be dead, but at least it may not be damaged, and I remember it was in his pocket when I searched him for the files. I’ll get it when I get up.
I gather up the rest of the equipment; my holster is still damp, but I put it on nevertheless because it will free up my hand from continually holding the Sig. Some of the equipment goes in my pockets, but most of it I put away in the wet body armour, which I don’t put on. With everything stored away, I put the helmet up onto Sir Malcolm’s legs so that I don’t have to bend down again and then lever myself up using the couch. I find Sir Malcolm’s phone easily, which does prove to be dead. I pick up the helmet and my rifle and go to leave the office, retrieving Sir Malcolm’s phone charger from a socket on the way.
Getting to the kitchen, I empty some of the equipment from the body armour, that I need to check, onto the table. I use the kitchen roll to dry off the body armour as best I can before hanging it over the back of the chair to dry some more. That done, I wash my hands off with soap and cold water in the sink before salvaging whatever food is left in the fridge, and a drink, and finally plonk down on a chair exhausted, to eat and consider my options.
The task ahead of me is considerable and seems almost impossible. The more I think about it, the more daunting the whole scenario becomes. I will be lucky if I make it out of the building alive, never mind reaching Heathrow. I have to break it down into segments to try and make it manageable
