Kiss the Hare's Foot Page 8

  Mel saw the cold steely eyes of the big man sharpen and his lips tighten in a thin straight line as he continued to glare fiercely at Silas. In a flash she realized a confrontation was imminent and without thinking, seized the opportunity to quickly step forwards in an attempt to distract and defuse the situation, by addressing Charlie.

  “May we see how your tummy looks today, Charlie?” She hoped her voice didn’t sound as high-pitched and startled as it sounded to herself and Clive seemed to visibly jump at the sudden intervention. All three were uncontrollably tense and nervous. Charlie looked towards Mel with glassy disinterested eyes and, with the absence of any visible protestation, she proceeded to pull the covers from round his neck. Lifting his shirt tails up to his chest, they saw that the bluish bruising at least seemed to have changed very little from the previous day.

  Following Mel’s prompt, Clive spread his hand gently over the patient’s abdomen, palpating it from side to side systematically, at the same time watching Charlie’s face for signs of tenderness or pain. Satisfied, he looked towards Silas and invited his opinion.

  After a long pause, in which both Mel and Clive turned towards the surgeon, fearing that he would refuse point blank, he at last reluctantly stepped forward. He stared for a moment at the mottled, colourful trunk of the man before eventually placing a hand on the upper left lateral area just below the ribs. He then proceeded to repeat the palpation of the abdomen for himself. With both hands, he rocked the pelvis firmly to assess the possibility of injury to the pelvic bones. Satisfied, he straightened and speaking directly to Clive, as though a conversation had preceded the interaction, “I agree. Looks to me like an internal bleed, probably to the spleen.”

  Whether Silas’s absence of communication with Charlie was symptomatic of his objection to participation in the care of this wretched criminal, one couldn’t tell. He straightened still further; an exaggerated posture more like that of a military guard, with his head held high and opened hands held behind his back. Maybe his bedside manner was always aloof and rather pompous. At that moment in time Mel fervently resented his arrogance and intransigence, wanting him to at least accommodate the situation by pretending to willingly co-operate.

  Clive glanced from Silas to Mel. He too recognised the unsupportive attitude of their cellmate and looked anxiously to her for help. His face, now showing the early signs of morning shadow in the light of the room, was pale and drawn. The whites of his eyes revealed a light pink hue, which could not disguise the passing of a night spent worrying and little sleep.

  Mel hardly knew how to divert the attention of the big man, who frowned and glared with unblinking eyes fixed upon Silas. Once again she spontaneously launched into almost frenzied activity of straightening the bottom sheet, puffing Charlie’s pillow and asking the casualty how he felt and whether he wanted anything.

  The young man, who had assisted her the previous day, entered the room, bringing with him a mug of tea. Mel took the drink to check that it was not too hot before they jointly lifted the sick man forward and assisted him to sip from the mug. The task took several minutes and the effort of drinking quickly exhausted Charlie. They gently laid him back down to rest. The others watched and waited. Mel spoke to the young man, informing him that Charlie would need a good wash and change of clothing as well as a change of position. He smiled and nodded as though the circumstances of their situation were normal and unthreatening, and when Mel suggested that she and the two doctors should manage the tasks between them, he agreed to provide the necessary equipment. It would be good to also gain an ally amongst their captors, she decided.

  “That will have to wait.” The big man interjected, “Right now you can leave that and you can all follow me.” Turning, he led the way with his shuffling gait out of the warm light room back into the dark corridor.

  Meekly they followed, this time with Silas leading the trio and the three captors close behind. The fat man strutted slowly in his rolling motion down a passageway towards the rear of the building, the light of his torch swinging back and forth with each shuffling step. This was uncharted territory for the hostages and twists and turns in the dark corridors quickly negated Mel’s sense of direction. Here the pulsating hum of the generator was louder than before, a rhythmic mechanical knocking sound which had been inaudible from their basement prison.

  They entered a room which, like the previous one, was lit by a meter length strip light suspended at each end by cord and temporarily secured onto ceiling beams. Beneath the light was a long heavy wooden refectory table. An assortment of old ladder-back chairs and a couple of roughly constructed wooden stools flanked the sides of the table upon which a few loose leaves of paper sat in a pile, splayed like a fan, on the boarded surface. Drawing closer, Mel recognised them as the lists they had compiled the previous evening. The big man indicated to the seats on one side of the table and proceeded to take the central chair on the opposite side himself. Two of his henchmen seated themselves on either side of him; one remained by the door. Apprehensively they obeyed his nod of command and one by one took a seat facing him across the table. Mel found herself in the central position, with Silas to her right. The stark light from the strip bulb accentuated the pale sagging jowls of the ‘boss’. At such close proximity, his breath was short and laboured. His fat podgy hands now rested, clasped together on the raw uneven planks of the tabletop. Steely grey eyes scanned rapidly back and forth along the line of his captives.

  Mel leaned backwards on her chair, withdrawing as far as she could from the fearsome monster in front of her. Although his expression was brutal and severe, she had the unnerving feeling that he was actually enjoying this role of power and for a few moments he appeared to savour the scene of their three fearful faces awaiting his next delivery. She felt sick, as though about to be passed a death sentence.

  Suddenly, as though prompted by some unheard signal, he grasped the papers with his right hand from the centre of the table, gesticulating with them as he spoke. “Quite a little shopping list you’ve got here!” he snarled. “I think you’re taking the piss!” slamming them back down with his fist onto the wooden surface with a hefty thud. “You don’t need a whole bloody hospital; just the things you need to do a small operation. All you’re doing is stopping a bit of bleeding. It can’t be beyond you. You’d better think again and be quick about it. There isn’t very much time and we need to be out of here. You’ve all seen the man, he can’t go anywhere until he’s better. Quite enough time has been wasted on bringing you here. We’ve done everything to make you comfortable, but the bottom line is,” he paused for effect, “if he dies, so do you.”

  With eyes still roving back and forth along the line, he continued, “When you’ve redone these lists, you girl,” he directed his instruction at Mel, “will sort Charlie out. We’re moving him out of here to some place else to do the operation, so be warned now, one false move and none of you get to go home.” He paused, rising from his chair by pushing himself up with his fists pressed on the table.

  “Just to keep your minds focussed,” he growled, baring a thin row of teeth, “everything you write on your list you are going to help steal, so better be realistic about what you can carry.” He saw the stunned expressions of the trio and cast his icy gaze to each of the hostages in turn before continuing. “Two of you will be taken out tonight with a couple of my lads to get what you need. Any funny business, or you get caught, and your partner here dies.” There was no mistaking the satisfaction he gleaned from the impact this statement had upon the three. Mel’s mouth went dry; her muscles tensed and, despite the cold chill of the room, her palms felt moist with perspiration.

  “You will stay behind,” he pointed directly at Silas. “Two teams; two hospitals. We’ll get everything we need in one hit. You’ll be doing Charlie’s operation tomorrow, so better get your act together,” he ordered.

  Clive, sitting to Mel’s left, suddenly shot to his
feet, his stool crashing over onto the flagstones as the back of his legs propelled the seat backwards. “That’s going too far!” he cried out. “We’re not doing your dirty work for you! We’re not thieves! You said nothing about stealing from hospitals!”

  The ‘boss’ walked slowly and deliberately round the end of the table and stood facing Clive. He tapped his foot, fidgeting restlessly as he glared coldly at the doctor. He looked him up and down, his lips tightened over his teeth. His voice, now loud with rage, shook as he bellowed, “you’ll do as you’re told Roberts! Want your family to pay as well?”

  At this Clive started forwards, but they saw too late the colour drain from the big man’s face, the clenching of his fists and the drop of his shoulders just a split second before he threw a well-aimed punch to Clive’s jaw. Clive reeled backwards, falling badly onto the up-turned stool behind him and crashed to the floor with a groan. Instantly Silas was on his feet behind Mel, unable to contain his own temper and intent upon attacking his captor. Simultaneously two of the guards sprung into action and before Silas could reach the big man, the gangsters had him forcibly restrained, compelling him backwards into his chair. Pushed firmly down into the seat, each maintained their grip on his arms and shoulders, restraining him from further involvement.

  Instinctively Mel dropped to her knees at Clive’s side. Blood ran from the corner of his mouth, already dripping onto the floor, as he lay sideways across the legs of the stool with the wind knocked out of him. She tried to lift his shoulders to remove the obstacle from under his chest, but in his collapsed state, he was too heavy. Clive gasped for breath and spat blood from his mouth, attempting to wipe his lips with the back of his hand.

  “Come on, Clive,” urged Mel, her mouth still dry with fear. “We’ll be alright,” she added without sincerity. Her heart was pounding in her chest like a kettledrum, rhythmically beating as though to the tune of a fast dance. Grabbing his upper arm, she managed to pull him up from the stool and kick it away. He turned and sat upright for a moment slowly regaining his composure. Blood was now smeared across his face and he turned away to spit again more exudates from his mouth. He ran his blooded hand across the left side of his chest, onto which he had fallen across the upturned stool, and grimaced with the pain in his side.

  “You okay?” she breathed.

  Clive nodded sullenly and with assistance, struggled to his feet, clutching hold of the tabletop to steady him. Mel pushed the chair in which she had been sitting behind him and he painfully lowered himself into the seat. Bent slightly forwards, he took slow shallow breaths and tried to ease the soreness in his side.

  Mel glanced towards Silas, who was still being restrained by the two guards. The expression on his face had changed. From uncontrolled fury he now seemed mesmerized with shock. He was staring, frown lines deeply creased into his forehead and his mouth slightly opened. His eyes were fixed upon Clive. There was a look of disbelief upon his face and she thought that he had at last realised the seriousness and vulnerability of their little group. For several moments he continued to stare at Clive’s slumped back, seemingly to have temporarily forgotten his anger with the big man. He even appeared to be oblivious of the two henchmen holding him down.

  Clive groaned, and resting both elbows on the table, sank his head into his hands. Blood dripped slowly onto the wooden surface before him. Remembering the handkerchief Clive had given her upon her arrival to the cellar Mel pulled it out of her jeans pocket and offered it back to him. He took it from her hand. Squeezing it into a tight ball, he pressed it gently against his swollen lip. As a gesture of reassurance, Mel patted his shoulder gently as she turned away to retrieve the fallen stool. She supposed that they were meant to stay at the table to review the lengthy lists and didn’t want their captors to be antagonised further.

  With a sigh of satisfaction, the fat man turned and headed in his rolling motion towards the door, telling the man in the sheepskin coat to give them a pen and make sure they got on with it. His exit was like the recoiling of a tidal wave. The two men holding Silas simultaneously released their grip and each took up a standing position at the ends of the table. The third man closed the door and maintained a stance in the doorway like that of a military guardsman standing at ease with his hands clasped behind his back. Looking round the long room, Mel saw it was the only doorway.

  “Are you okay?” she asked again.

  Clive nodded, almost imperceptibly. He was a man defeated, engulfed in misery. Sitting slumped in front of the table he continued to dab gently at his bloodstained mouth, occasionally stopping to examine the now reddened handkerchief, checking to see whether the bleeding from inside his mouth had ceased. His lip was fat and puffy. The redness surrounding his mouth was now spreading to merge with his previous encounter with the fat man and the whole of one side of his face was now quite disfigured and swollen.

  Numbly Mel gathered up the collection of now crumpled papers that represented the lists they had laboriously poured over the previous evening. She didn’t know where to start.

  9

  Silas looked angry. Deep frown lines still creased into his forehead like furrows in a ploughed field. His straight black hair was dishevelled and contrary to his normal semblance of immaculate grooming. Furtively he looked around the room and at his captors, doubtless estimating the chances of making a run for it from the room. He was like a caged animal, ready to bolt at the first opportunity. The odds were clearly stacked against the likelihood of success. Eventually he looked towards Mel who, he realised, was watching him anxiously and biting her bottom lip until it shone white with the pressure. After a few moments he reluctantly submitted his attention once more to the lists, which she had now spread across the table. With his interest at last tentatively engaged, Mel pushed two of the sheets and the pen towards him.

  After a hesitant start, Silas took on a determined and focussed approach to the revisit of their homework. Ignoring Clive, who remained in a state of shock and nursing his injuries, the surgeon set about revising the earlier, somewhat extravagant lists with a passionate dedication. With firm strokes he deleted from the sheets the operating table, anaesthetic machine, oxygen cylinders and also the diathermy machine, essential for the cauterisation of blood vessels. If the boss was to be believed about another location for the illegal surgery, they had to presume that at least basic facilities and equipment would be available for the operation. Together they adjusted the quantities of intravenous fluids, choosing to limit the choice to that of plasma-expanding fluids and saline. Blood for a transfusion had always been out of the question since it was impossible to know Charlie’s blood group, much less to get an appropriate match. An asterisk marked those items that were heavy or bulky, such as the instrument sets, metal bowls, fluids, drapes and hand scrub bottles. Next they curtailed the quantities of consumable necessities to further reduce the weight and volume of items such as gloves, syringes, tubing and sutures. Trimming the lists to the barest minimum, they nevertheless remained lengthy and the collection of such equipment from departments unknown to the captives was looking to be both an insurmountable task as well as one in which capture was likely. Throughout the work, speech was kept to a minimum with only the occasional grunts as items were pointed to for deletion or amendment.

  Periodically Mel looked over to Clive. He was the picture of misery. Leaning forwards onto the table, he dabbed gingerly at his mouth, on one occasion tentatively prodding his lower teeth with his forefinger to explore the firmness of the structures within. Silas gave him a quizzical, sideways glance and opened his mouth as though to speak, but changed his mind. Momentarily Mel’s eyes met with Silas’s, but she was unable to interpret his thoughts from the intense lour of his expression and he promptly cast his eyes downward to resume his attention on the lists.

  The three guards maintained a silent but relaxed vigil. Only when there was a light knock at the door did they become alert and attentive.
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br />   Two flasks of coffee, plastic cups and a handful of biscuits wrapped in a paper towel were delivered by the same young man who had brought the soup and rolls the previous evening. Calmly he set down the refreshments on the table. This time he didn’t leave, but assumed a seat on a wooden stool at the end of the table.

  Once again Mel tried to calculate how many people were staying in this desolate great house. Seven? Eight? Nine? Were there others whom they had not yet seen? At all times, the building was silent; no voices or noises of co-habitation. Did they come and go discreetly during the hours of darkness? She hypothesized the possibility that however many there were they were staying in rooms well away from the cellar, although natural soundproofing from its position below ground may have been giving them a false sense of isolation. When the time came to attempt an escape, it would be advantageous to have some idea of where the other residents were likely to be.

  “Enjoy your coffee,” the young man offered amiably. Curly light brown hair, already thinning on the crown, lightly touched the thin white line of a neat scar, high up on his forehead. It would have been hardly noticeable were it not exaggerated by the contrast of a tanned skin, perhaps the remnant of a long hot summer. Fine manicured fingers dispelled the likelihood of a manual worker. His casual attire, clean-cut features and quiet manner, appeared somewhat out of place amongst the rough and ruthless types they had so far met in the gang, like Hood, Starchy and the ‘boss’.