Kiss the Hare's Foot Page 4

  Clive looked alarmed and instinctively placed a hand on Mel’s arm as she began to rise from the chair. “No!” He gripped her fiercely, trying to resist the break-up of the small group, but to defy the orders seemed perilous and Mel pulled away as the fat man stepped forward snarling at Clive. Courageously she quickly walked between the two and presented herself in front of the fat man, hoping to successfully avert a possibly violent confrontation.

  The fat man hesitated, jowls billowing as he respired noisily through open mouth. Then he turned on his heel and began to retrace his steps back towards the door. Thrusting his hips forwards alternately, he shuffled up the stairs, leading the way out of the cellar. Without daring a backward glance, Mel followed reluctantly a short distance behind and heard the door slammed shut and bolt drawn across in her wake, separating her from the others. The two henchmen brought up the rear as they trooped in single file, the tardy pace set by the swaggering form of their boss. At the top of the stairs the fat man progressed in his rolling motion back along the passageway towards the main entrance. His familiarity with the layout of the building seemed to negate the need for torchlight, so that Mel followed the sounds of the shuffling man in front of her, trying to avoid contact with the filthy walls. As they reached the foyer once more, he turned to the right and led the way beneath the grand stairway and opened a door out of sight from the main arched doorway. Panting heavily, he continued along a short, dark passage to a further door where he paused to knock twice before turning the handle to gain entry.

  A thin young man stood aside as they filed into the room.

  In contrast to the cellar, the room was brightly lit. A modern strip light had been crudely attached to the vault-like ceiling. Gazing around her she saw that three tall lancet windows, with their pointed arches, in common with the rest of the building, had also been boarded up on the outside. Apart from a moulded piece of masonry set into the left hand wall on which an arch rested, it appeared to only hint at a monastic past, perhaps serving as a refectory or parlour in years gone by. The room was some twenty feet in length and a small fire crackled half-heartedly in a huge stone grate centred on the farthest wall, but its modest warmth was at least welcoming. Oddments of wood lay piled beside the grate. A crude attempt had been made to make the room appear habitable. A large empty wooden dresser was placed diagonally across the corner to its left, whilst two old sagging armchairs, upholstered with threadbare maroon velvet and sprouting stuffing were on either side of the fireplace. In the centre of the room, like the focal point of an exhibition, was a single low divan bed. To Mel’s surprise, the bed not empty.

  Her eyes were immediately drawn to its occupant. Black hair, greying at the temples, contrasted with white translucent skin of a male face, probably in his mid to late forties. His eyes were closed but his sleep was not restful. A bluish hue surrounded his eyes and lips and his breathing was shallow. He looked to be a man close to death. She stared from just inside the doorway not knowing what was expected of her, but tentatively stepped forward to more closely study the face of this unknown victim. Observing her interest, the fat man spoke.

  “You are here to save this man’s life. In fact your lives now depend on that fact.” He paused for a moment, allowing time for his words to sink home before continuing, more softly than before, “whatever you need, we’ll get.”

  Mesmerized by the sick man, Mel asked over her shoulder, with a voice that was hardly more than a hoarse whisper, “what has happened to him?”

  “He’s been beaten up. That’s all you need to know.” The fat man’s voice was suddenly tempered with an almost quiet reverence in the presence of the sick man. “Thought he was okay, but then took bad a couple of days ago.”

  Emotions were mixed. At last the reason for their abduction seemed apparent, but here, in these circumstances, their ability to make any positive effort to save this man’s life looked already hopeless. The ghostly figure lying in the bed looked, to Mel’s eyes, past the point of no return. She stepped back, surveying the room again. Although warmed by the fire, there was still a damp chill in the air and the dirty secretive hiding place was the worst possible environment in which to nurse such an ill patient. “Why did you not take him to a hospital?” she asked naively. “He is very sick. There’s not much we can do for him here.”

  “He’s not going to hospital. That’s the reason why you’re here. Better get your friends downstairs to do their doctoring. We need this man up and out of bed again. He’s important. There’s no argument about it an’ there’s no time to waste, so it’s up to you to get ‘em to do their stuff.”

  “Then why didn’t you ask one of the doctors to come and examine him?” Mel felt out of her depth.

  “Cos you’re going to have to make them treat him. I guess right now they’re both full of ideas of escape and retribution. But I think you’ve already realised there’s little chance that you’ll be found here, and even less of getting out alive until he’s made good, so the sooner you all agree to co-operate, the better chance there is of a satisfactory outcome all round.” Coldly, he added deliberately, “just remember, if he dies, so do all of you.”

  The enormity of that statement hit home like a well-aimed sledgehammer and Mel felt her stomach tightening. Trying desperately to fight against the rising panic, she struggled to think clearly and professionally about this hopeless situation. Time was needed to think and also to gather as much information as possible before returning to the others. “Can I examine him? What’s his name?”

  “I ain’t telling you that,” he retorted.

  “I need to call him something,” Mel pleaded. “Please give me some name I can call him by - that he will recognise and respond to” she added passively.

  The fat man fixed her with an icy stare, then appeared to relent, saying quietly, “Charlie. He’ll answer to Charlie.”

  5

  The modern divan looked out of place, centred as it was in the neglected historic design of the large room. A green and tan duvet spread like a dark cloak over its form. Too big for the bed, its edges draped the boards of the floor. One grubby pillow supported the sick man’s head. Cautiously she stepped closer.

  “Hello, Charlie, can you hear me?” Nervousness made her voice sound strange and distant. There was no response. She tried again, louder this time, adding a gentle shake of his left shoulder. “Hello, Charlie. Can you hear me?” At last he stirred with a slight nod and partially opened his eyes. Thank God, he was just about conscious.

  The warmth of the fire and the clumsiness of the camel coat necessitated the removal of the cosy shroud. Slowly she folded it double and laid it on the arm of the chair alongside the bed, taking care not to allow it to touch the dirty floor.

  “Charlie,” she attempted to communicate her intentions. “I am going to take a look at you. Let’s see what we can do to get you back on your feet.” She said, aware that her every move was being scrutinised by the fat man and his two guards. “I’m going to start at your head and work down. Okay?”

  Almost imperceptibly, Charlie nodded his understanding. Tension in his facial muscles and a deep frown line suggested to her the presence of persistent pain.

  It was important to work logically and thoroughly. Recalling the details of a preliminary examination, the nurse began her examination at his head. She dared not risk missing a vital clue since the doctors held in the cellar would expect a full and detailed report.

  Leaning towards him and using both hands she felt the contours of his head, feeling for abnormal swellings or indentations. She looked into both ears for signs of fluid or blood. Nothing. Mel examined his pale green eyes. His pupils appeared to react normally as each eye in turn was covered by her hand and then exposed once more to the bright overhead light. His lips were dry and beginning to crack; his breath was stale.

  Slowly she lifted the top of the duvet to reveal his sweat-stained shirt, which
lay creased against his chest. Trousers and shoes had already been removed, lying now on one of the chairs beside the bed. Gingerly she released the buttons of his shirt and spread the material aside. His upper chest strained with each respiration and the very effort of breathing was obviously exhausting him as he lay motionless. His eyes were again closed. A harsh purple area of bruising covered most of his right shoulder; another about the size of a saucer started at his lower rib on that side and disappeared towards his back beneath his elbow. Aware that movement would be painful, and hardly wishing to expedite his demise, Mel cautiously peered as far as she could under his back, by pushing the mattress down with her hands to create a small void. There did not appear to be any signs of open bleeding.

  Grazes and small cuts covered the backs of both hands; one wound about one inch in length looked angry and red, suggesting the onset of infection. No wounds had been dressed or, it seemed, cleaned. On his left side, a large area of bluish bruising, more the size of a dinner plate, extended from his lower ribs to below his hip. His abdomen was firm to the touch and appeared distended. Charlie visibly winced as the area was gently palpated. With the absence of direct open wounds, it appeared, to Mel’s dismay that the cause of this man’s deteriorating condition was likely to be internal. Fractured ribs, perhaps, but more importantly, internal bleeding was a problem they would have no chance to rectify in a place like this. She closed his shirt and re-covered the upper part of his body.

  Next, she continued her examination of his lower body. Both limbs appeared uniform and without injury and, avoiding the need to remove his socks, pressed each foot in turn, asking Charlie each time whether this gave him further pain. Without opening his eyes, he responded by shaking his head to the questions.

  Eventually returning the duvet to its original position, Mel took hold of Charlie’s wrist. His heart rate, as she anticipated, was rapid and sometimes irregular, necessitating three attempts before a reasonable calculation could be made. Without a watch to help with the count of the feeble palpation, she could only estimate it to be approximately 120 beats to the minute. Similarly counted respirations were fast and shallow, somewhere in the twenties to the minute.

  The fat man, who had stood unmoving throughout the examination, waited quietly for the resultant conclusions.

  “He is really very, very sick,” Mel finally faced the man, trying to push from her mind his earlier threats by appearing to be calm and co-operative. “It looks like he may be bleeding internally. If I’m right, he’ll have to have an urgent operation, which we cannot possibly carry out in a place like this.” She raised her arms indicating the atrocious environment around them. “He really will have to go to a hospital. He may not have much time left and there’s honestly not much we can do to help him here. Maybe he could be admitted under a false name?”

  The fat man’s unblinking eyes grew cold and hard as he glared angrily at her.

  Unexpectedly, the young man who had been waiting beside the door blurted out, waiting with a gloat of satisfaction, “I said he was bleeding inside, didn’t I?”

  Mel noticed properly for the first time a man in his early twenties, black hair spiked with gel and displaying a few pitted scars from an outbreak of acne at a younger age. Narrow green eyes beneath thick black eyebrows darted back and forth between the fat man and their sick patient. Short in stature, an over-sized hoodie covered the top of black jeans which hung low on his hips so that the hems crumpled over once-white thick-soled trainers. He hovered nervously passing his weight from one foot to the other, his hands slightly clenched with his thumbs constantly moving over the curled fingers.

  “Shut up!” the fat man snapped back at him and turning to Mel, instructed, “Your doctor friends will sort him out. I want you to understand that if he doesn’t make it, neither will you. You’ll go back and tell them what he’s like and draw up a list of what drugs and things you’ll need to fix him.” Then, returning to a softer tone, added, “If Charlie needs an operation, then that’s what he’ll have. One of those doctors is a surgeon so he can do the business. If you don’t reckon he’s got much time left, you’d best get on with it.” Without averting his glare, he barked to his guards, “take her down again.” He turned and lumbered towards the door.

  Mel wondered how he knew that one of his hostages was a surgeon. Maybe they had not been taken quite as randomly as she had at first supposed. But if that was the case, why her? Why take a post-anaesthetic recovery nurse and not a trauma nurse from A & E?

  Whatever the reason, she had to make the best of it and try, if she could, to make sure that this seriously ill man survived at least for a while longer.

  “Can someone give Charlie some water to drink?” Mel called after him, alarmed that the sick man might be left for several more hours without any basic nursing care. If he should die before the morning, her future and that of her comrades hardly looked promising.

  “See to it,” the fat man called over his shoulder as he staggered away and was immediately swallowed up by the darkness of the building.

  Mel, slightly relieved that the big man and one of the guards had gone, remained at the bedside.

  “I’ll give him some water to drink,” the younger man stepped forward. “I tried before, but he tends to choke on it.”

  “You fetch the water and I’ll give you a hand,” she offered.

  Keenly the young man strode from the room and Mel waited, not for the first time, under the supervision of the rough looking Hood. She wondered whether he ever spoke; whether he really thought that such a ridiculous plan of abducting medical staff from hospitals stood any chance of restoring their friend to health or whether he was just eagerly waiting for the inevitable conclusion of killing his captives. His expressionless face held no clues and he just stood steadfastly beside the door, ensuring that she neither escaped nor harmed the casualty.

  After only a few minutes, the young man returned with a milk bottle full of water and a blue plastic beaker.

  “Thanks,” she said, taking the bottle and cup from him and pouring some of the water into the beaker. “Can you go to the other side of the bed and help me sit him up a bit?”

  Obediently the young man responded and together they raised their patient’s shoulders high enough to enable him to sip the water. Little by little, Charlie managed to sip half a cupful of the clear cold liquid, but exhausted by the effort was relieved when they laid him back down to rest. His coarse rhythmic breathing showed that he was instantly asleep once more.

  “Thank you.” Mel smiled at her helper, who shyly met her eyes with a nod of his head. Perhaps, she thought, it might help to gain some trust and co-operation from at least one of their captors. “He will need more every hour. Do you think you will be able to manage that? I don’t know when I will be allowed back to help you.” She was aware that Hood was overhearing every word but still he showed no reaction. The young man nodded and seemed almost relieved to be given a worthwhile task that might make a difference to his patient.

  Mel retrieved the camel coat from the foot of the bed and again swathed herself in its soft warmth. As the three of them retraced their steps towards the basement prison, she suddenly felt weary and depressed. “I need to use a bathroom,” she announced and was surprised when, without objection, as they neared the top of the stairs leading down to the cellar, the guard stopped and indicated with a gesture to follow him along a further corridor and eventually to a door on his right. He stood aside and indicated towards the door.

  The room was barely lit by splinters of daylight trespassing into the cold bathroom through gaps in the window boarding, which haphazardly covered the outside of two small cracked panes of glass. They were disappointingly too small and narrow to envisage the likelihood of an escape. But despite the approaching evening, there was still sufficient daylight to see. She closed the door behind her. Open holes in the wooden doorframe showed where a locking m
echanism had been torn off. The room was spacious and plain, offering minimal basic facilities in stained and cracked sanitary-ware, which years ago had presumably been a pristine white. The colour of the toilet was as bad as its smell. It had clearly not been used for years. Cobwebs swathed the bowl, which Mel cleared with her foot and shuddered at having use such an abominable facility. The high iron cistern, attached to the wall, no longer possessed a pull-chain and Mel doubted that it contained any water for flushing anyway. Next she turned her attention to the basin taps, and tried each in turn. One tap refused to turn and the other coughed and spluttered, eventually spitting out brown-stained liquid, more rust than water. Just as she was despairing of ever feeling clean again, she spied a tall metal jug, which had been placed just inside the door. She had walked right past it, unseeing, when she entered the room. Heartened to find that it at least contained clean, cold fresh water, she used it sparingly to rinse her face and hands, aware that the other two hostages would be likely to follow her example in due course.

  As she reopened the door, her captors stood waiting. “That is absolutely disgusting in there. I think it could at least be cleaned up a bit,” she moaned.

  Neither Hood or the young man responded, appearing to ignore her remark.

  Without a word and in crocodile fashion, they escorted her back to the cellar. As the door was opened and her minder stood aside, the damp earthy taste of the thick cloudy air once again rushed out to greet her, so that a sudden instinct to turn and resist her imprisonment momentarily gripped her. But before she could attempt to seize the moment, a push from behind thrust her forwards into the cellar, so that she lurched down the steps and trod clumsily on the hem of her coat. The door was slammed shut behind her with a haste that seemed almost as though her intention had been recognised.

  Clive stood up from the table and stepped forwards, relief at her return clearly showing on his face. “You’ve been ages,” he complained. “Are you alright?” One fist twisted inside the other.