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 mechanism 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.

“I’m fine,” Mel lied and instantly wondered why everyone used such a stupid response when things were clearly not fine! “I don’t think you’re going to like what I have to tell you both, though.” She reclaimed her chair at the table. Silas remained silent. She felt their eyes upon her and paused to be sure of their full attention before beginning.

She told them of the sick man and the reason for their abduction. “Basically, if we don’t help him recover, they’ll kill us all.” Her mouth was dry, the impossibility of the task sounding so ridiculous as she spoke the words out loud.

“Did you examine him? What did you find out about him?” Clive was the first to speak.

“Well I’ve examined him as well as I could, but I honestly don’t think there’s much we can do - he looks pretty close to death already.”

“Come on then, nurse, let’s have it,” growled Silas.

Mel ignored his condescending attitude and directed her report to Clive. “He’s aged about mid forties and we’re to call him Charlie. He does respond to that, but I don’t know whether that’s his real name. I was told he’s been in a fight, some days ago I think. He is bruised all over. He is as white as a ghost, slightly cyanosed and his breathing is fast and shallow. He struggles to breathe. I couldn’t get an exact heart rate without a watch, but it was about 110 or 120. He’s just about rousable but he seems to drift in and out of consciousness all the time. Neurologically he seems okay - no obvious head injury. Although he hasn’t spoken, he does understand what is said to him. He doesn’t appear to have any broken bones, just a few cuts to his hands though. One on his right hand looks as though it might be infected. The worst thing though, from palpating his abdomen, I think it looks as if he may be bleeding internally.” She paused long enough to observe the reaction of the two doctors, but they said nothing and remained stupefied by the facts laid before them.

“He is very dehydrated, but I have been able to give him a small amount of water to drink. A young man helped me to sit him up a bit.”

Clive continued to sit silently. Leaning forwards, he sank his head into his hands. Knowing the reason for their capture brought no comfort. Silas, predictably, threw his head back in defiance. Projecting his chin forwards he scraped his chair backwards on the stone floor and rose from the table. Unrestrained fury emitted from his every sinew. Clive and Mel watched wearily as, with an eruption of expletives, Silas strutted the floor like a possessed peacock until finally, exhausted by his own outburst, he stood facing them at the table. His face flushed red and small beads of sweat glistened on his forehead, despite the chill of the room.

“There’s no way I’m having any part of this!” he expounded through tight lips. “We’ve got to get out of here. These people are animals. There’s no way we can ever contemplate helping them in the way they want. It’s unethical, immoral and quite out of the question!”

The finality of his statement filled Mel with dread. Clive remained leaning forwards, staring down at the wooden table top and resting his elbows on the table with hands clenched so tightly that the whiteness of his knuckles looked like small pebbles.

“We need to think about this,” Clive muttered quietly after a long pause. “We need to buy some time if we’re going to get out of here. It’s not going to be easy and we’re going to have to plan it carefully.”

“That man up there might be dead by the morning,” Mel moaned. “We can hardly buy time if he dies.”

For a moment no one spoke. Silas turned his back to the table and, strangely subdued now, stared hopelessly at the shadows which dressed the walls of their prison. For a while no one spoke, each absorbed in their own profound world of isolation, snatched away from comfortable, social lives into a sinister and dangerous milieu.

Mel watched as Silas began to pace the floor, cursing softly under his breath. Clive continued to stare at the tabletop as though a solution was ingrained in the worn surface, if only he could see it. Subconsciously he continued to grind one fist into the other; a habit that Mel realised was already beginning to irritate. The earlier feeling that they were forming some sort of alliance in their predicament, now seemed to be fragmented. None of the three captives seemed able to summon either the capability or emotional resources to cope positively with their plight. They were equally tormented and scared.

“We’ve just got to escape out of here,” Silas spoke at last. “The longer we stay cooped up in here, the less likely we are to be able to escape.”

“That’s easier said than done,” replied Clive, looking up. “Even supposing we could get out of this cellar, we can’t be absolutely sure how many of them there are and they’re bound to be on their guard right now. They will probably expect us to try and get free. Perhaps we should just wait until they think we can be trusted and then....”

“That’s stupid!” roared Silas. “I’m not staying here one minute more than I have to. I suggest we try and jump them the next time they open the door. There are some pieces of wood over here, we can use them to overpower them and then run for it.” Enthusiastically he strode over to the side of the room and started kicking at some of the debris left by the workbench, looking for an appropriate implement with which to carry out his proposed attack. “You can stay here if you want to, but if that sick man upstairs dies, they’ll hardly leave us here to tell the tale. We can all describe the men we’ve seen and we even know the names of a few,” he added bitterly.

Joining in the conversation, Mel tried to offer a compromise. “Perhaps we should appear to co-operate, at least for a few hours, while we plan how we’re going to get out of here. From what I’ve seen upstairs, this place is a maze of corridors and big rooms. We can’t do anything to help the sick man while we’re locked up down here. They’ll have to take us upstairs before long and it might be easier to pick an opportunity then to run for it. They’ve obviously locked us up in this basement because they know it’s completely secure.”

“We may not have very much time though if that man is as sick as you seem to think he is. The next time they come down here it might be to finish us off anyway,” Silas added weight to his plan.

At that moment the conversation was abruptly interrupted by the sound of the door bolt being slid noisily across. They had not heard the approach on the stairs. Had they been overheard? Had the man died? Like rabbits caught in headlights, three heads spun round to once again stare at the opening door.