6

Three men entered; the man with the sheepskin coat, who had led Mel to the basement on her arrival, the big ‘bulldog’ looking man called Hood and the young lad who had assisted her with the casualty upstairs. Two of the men brought with them large, square cardboard boxes, which they placed on the ground at the head of the steps. Having laid down his load, the younger lad approached the central table to retrieve the box left earlier, which had contained their meagre lunch. Almost with embarrassment in the presence of the doctors, he leaned directly towards Mel. Smiling slightly at the nurse, he spoke quietly, “I’ve given Charlie some more water and he’s had a bit of soup too. Looks a bit better, I’d say.”

“That’s good, well done,” she smiled back, and was curious to know how such a sympathetic young man had managed to get himself caught up in this mess.

They waited silently until the trio had left before crossing the floor to investigate the contents of the new boxes. Mel opened one and the aroma of hot food flooded out. Until that moment she had been courting nausea caused by the constant stress of the day, but realised now how really hungry she was. Neatly wrapped in plain paper were three separate portions of fish and chips as well as two large flasks of tea. A bag of apples and half a packet of biscuits accompanied these offerings.

Not waiting to examine the other larger box, Mel retrieved the carton. Acting as ‘mum’ she transferred the food box to the floor next to the table and lifted out the welcome meals, placing one package at each placing and standing the flasks in the centre. Next taking out the apples and biscuits, sachets of salt, vinegar and sauce completed the feast.

“Looks like they’ve got you some more clothes,” said Silas, peering into the second box.

“Leave that. Come and eat,” Mel instructed firmly. “Have it while it’s hot.”

Gratefully they devoured the large portions of battered cod and pale, greasy chips using the short wooden pronged forks provided in each pack. They ate like starved children, not caring for etiquette, only that the hot food should restore their resilience and stamina. Until the wrappers were empty and the food washed down by steaming mugs of strong tea, all conversation was suspended. As Clive was about to bite into one of the apples, it was Silas who broke the silence.

“Perhaps we should save those for later,” he suggested before the apples were devoured. “We don’t know when we’ll get anything else. And, if we do manage to escape, we might be glad of them.”

Sadly Clive began to replace his apple but then, almost as an act of defiance, returned it to his mouth and bit into the crisp, juicy fruit. Clear sweet liquid ran down his chin, which he wiped away with the back of his hand. Silas refrained from objecting and after a few minutes, also accepted his share of the fruit.

The sustenance had the effect of lifting their spirits and as Mel left the table to inspect the contents of the second box, Clive said more cheerfully, “I expect the port is in that one.”

One by one, she lifted out the items packed into the box, like a child pulling out the contents of a Christmas stocking. On the top was a pair of faded blue jeans. Held against her, she was pleased to discover that with the legs turned up at the bottom, they would probably fit. She drew out several more items of clothing. Two extra large woollen jumpers and one medium sized, a man’s long sleeved shirt with a fifteen-inch collar and a pair of thick black socks. Beneath these items were three towels of assorted colours, new toothbrushes, other toiletries and a plastic comb. At the bottom of the box she discovered an A4 pad of lined writing paper and a black ink pen.

With the offerings came mixed emotions. Somewhat reassured that their well- being was being more thoughtfully considered than they had expected, was balanced against the realisation that they were going to be kept imprisoned in the smelly basement for an interminable time. The very idea of sleeping in such a place, using the collection of mattresses and blankets piled by the foot of the steps, filled Mel with dread. I can’t stay here, I really can’t. My poor parents. My holiday. I don’t believe this is really happening, Mel thought miserably and fought back the tears that pricked her eyes.

“Right, then,” Silas briskly intercepted her brooding and once again appeared to take command of their situation. “Get yourself into some of these clothes to warm you up. Clive, you and I will examine the walls of this place to see if there is any likely means of escape from this hovel. We’ll start at the doorway. I’ll take the left side; you the right.” Then, as if to motivate his partner into positive action, added, “There’s a draught coming from somewhere, to make the light swing. This place is so old there might be a way out that they don’t know about.”

Clive wiped his hands on the paper wrappings from the meal and rose obediently from the table. Examining the two larger woollen jumpers on the table, chose a navy, high necked garment and exchanged it for his brown suit jacket, placing the latter on the back of his chair. Stretching the jumper over his rounded proportions and feeling more comfortable, he joined Silas by the door. Once again Mel reluctantly removed the warm camel coat. It had become rather like a cloak of security which, although too large and cumbersome, at least offered some protection from the filth of her surroundings. She could hardly run in it though, being completely impractical for almost any activity, so she took the opportunity to dress in the jeans and shirt. Even the smaller of the jumpers, a v-necked green pullover, was too long, with sleeves needing to be folded back to uncover her hands. The change of attire actually gave her a slight feeling of liberation; now that she was able to move around without the encumbrance of clasping the heavy coat to her body, decided to clear away the wrappings of their meal from the table. While the others prodded and poked at the walls and alcoves of the room, she gathered up the screwed up wrappings in which their food had been presented and discarded them into one of the boxes, placing them beside the door. Then she watched as the two men slowly and methodically worked their way round the basement in opposite directions. Each had acquired a piece of wood; Clive with the back stick of a chair and Silas with a heavier piece of four inch timber, roughly severed at one end and with which he prodded and poked into each crevasse of the walls. The many stone buttresses, which gave support to this part of the foundations of the great house, protruded into the room providing dark recesses beyond the reach of the single light source suspended from the centre of the ceiling. Some were no more than eighteen inches deep while others appeared like short blind alleyways, protected from intrusion by a proliferation of spiders’ webs and the stench of musty earth.

Wanting to be of some use to the project, Mel decided to position herself by the door in case it should be necessary to alert the others of approaching footsteps. She examined in greater detail the only entrance to their prison. The thick wooden boards of the door were reinforced on the inside by one central and two diagonal supports. It was hinged on the right hand side by two giant metal pins, which sank into deep rings bolted into the stone surround. Quantities of grease had recently been applied, encasing both hinges, effectively restoring them from the rust of disuse. It was as substantial and solid as the walls surrounding them.

“Might be something here,” Clive called, tell-tale optimism evident in his voice. “This recess is deeper than the others and there’s a definite draught coming from somewhere here. I can’t see, though. It’s too dark. I can’t even see what I’m treading on.”

Silas abandoned his part of the walling and joined him. Clive was hidden from view in total darkness.

“I can’t feel the end of this alcove,” Clive spoke excitedly now and continued tapping his stick in wide swinging motions, each time hitting the sidewalls as he inched his way into the darkness. For a while they reached and stabbed into the blackness until finally, Clive exclaimed that he could go no further. It was another dead end. Despondently they emerged from the cavity and less optimistically now, resumed their examination of the remainder of the walling. The basement appeared to remain an impenetrable prison below ground, with no possible means of escape. Discarding their sticks amongst the undisturbed debris at the side of the room, they reluctantly resumed their places at the table.

“Even Alcatraz wasn’t this filthy.” Clive complained brushing the dirt off his hands.

Silas nodded. “Well, we’ve got to do something. I’m not staying in here tonight. They’re bound to be back. Like I said before, we should find the biggest pieces of wood we can and take them by surprise. If we can strike them as they come into the room, we might be able to get passed them and lock the door behind us. It’s got to be our only chance.”

“Silas, you’ve been watching too many James Bond films.” Mel rejoined them at the table. “You’ll just get us shot and I really don’t fancy dying down here in this dungeon!” His pugnacious plan scared her.

“So come up with a better idea then, nurse,” he snarled, dark eyes glowering with contempt. Mel refused to be intimidated. She despised his arrogance and feared that his unpredictable and tempestuous nature would bring them all to harm. For a while, no one spoke.

Mel’s frustration slowly turned to anger. Neither man seemed capable of rationalising their predicament and formulating a worthwhile plan for escape. Silas, still furious at the assault on his personal and social standing, took every opportunity to demonstrate his ill-temper and saw only a violent conclusion to secure his release. Clive, on the other hand, was absorbed in self-pity, demoralised to the point of defeat. If their chance of survival was to improve, Mel became increasingly convinced that of the trio, maybe she would have to take the lead. Scared of what the future might hold, she was even more scared of doing nothing.

“Co-operate! That’s what we’ve got to do,” she almost shouted in defiance, breaking the silence with such abruptness that both men turned to look at her in surprise. “We’ll have to show them that we’re prepared to co-operate and use the time to plan an escape.” The men stared at her, neither offering a comment. Mel, embarrassed now, and feeling that their silence signified a sympathetic indulgence of her feminine frustrations, blundered on regardless. “It’s no good shouting about and sulking. We’re here now and we need to outsmart them if we’re going to get out of this mess. There are loads more of them than us, so we’ll have to outwit them somehow. I’m sure we can do it if we set our minds to it, work as a team.” Mel’s voice faded to not much more than a whisper, like a receding wave on a beach. She stared back at the faces of the two doctors, her moment of anger spent. “I still think we should go along with them; make out we’re prepared to try and help the sick man upstairs. If they think we believe that they will let us go, they might start to trust us. I’m sure we’ll get a better opportunity to escape from upstairs.”

“There is absolutely no way I will co-operate with these thugs, Silas snarled. “I don’t care if the man dies. With a gun to my head, I won’t do anything to help them and I certainly don’t intend to go play-acting, pretending that I care in the slightest about the health of their gangland friend.”

“I’m inclined to think he’s right.” Clive agreed cautiously. “We really can’t go along with their ridiculous plan. To even attempt any sort of medical intervention, much less a surgical operation, would probably render us culpable for his murder. I’m not even sure that ethically we should even be considering assisting a man who could quite easily be transferred to a hospital where he would be given the correct and appropriate treatment. This is not just a first-aid situation. He has been brought here with the intention of keeping him hidden. It seems to me that to help them would implicate ourselves in their criminality.”

“We would only be co-operating to save our own skins.” Mel protested fervently. “I’m not suggesting we attempt to do anything dramatic. We just go through the motions of some basic nursing care, a drip, perhaps if we can get the equipment. Make out we are keen to save his life and make preparations for whatever he needs. We must let them think that we believe our good behaviour will get us free. They might relax enough for us to make a run for it. If we bodge some half-brained scheme to charge at them in the doorway, and fail, we’ll never get another opportunity. They’ll see to that, I bet.”

Silas glared at Mel, folded his arms and sighed heavily. “Well, perhaps you’ve got a better idea,” said Mel. For a while no-one spoke.

“Actually, it wouldn’t do any harm to pretend, would it?” Clive said at last, warming to the idea. “Like Mel says, it might buy us some time and at least get us out of this hole. We’ve been imprisoned in this basement quite a few hours already. It’s probably dark outside by now.”

Silas pondered these thoughts. His vexation at least temporarily suspended, he pulled from his neck his already loosened bow tie and released his top shirt button. Mel noticed for the first time the long slender fingers of the man, more used to wielding the fine instruments of surgery than brandishing lumps of wood as weaponry. She watched as, despairing of the lack of fight and resolve in his fellow-hostages, he rose from the table and after examining the final jumper in the second box, also exchanged his suit jacket for the more comfortable and practical garment.

The atmosphere remained strained and with no other useful occupation to take up their time, it was Mel who tried to fill the void of silence and create a distraction from their miserable predicament.

“Tell us about your family, Clive,” she gently prompted the anaesthetist.

The request took the doctor by surprise and it was several moments before he could transpose his thoughts to quite another milieu. At last, leaning back in his chair, he re-entered a world that comprised a busy family life. He spoke fondly and at length of his wife, a part-time general practitioner, coping with a third, rather difficult pregnancy of some six months. His two existing young children, a Labrador and two pet rabbits completed his household. Humorous tales of family holidays, for a while at least, temporarily entertained his companions about an existence far removed from this present nightmare experience. They let him talk without interruption. Feeling that there was little else they could do but wait and hope that as time passed, somewhere outside their whereabouts were being traced and perhaps at this moment in time a rescue was being organised on their behalf. Somehow, though, Mel didn’t have much faith in that thought.

Silas sat quietly and listened, fidgeting with his fingers. His black eyebrows were drawn together, a mat of frown lines lying on his brow like the ridges on a sandy beach. He found it impossible to relax. Tension refused to leave him and he crossed first one leg over the other and then, a few minutes later, reversed the action. Though trying to be attentive to Clive’s distraction, his eyes, Mel noticed, darted constantly towards the door.

Time dragged. Several times Mel resisted the temptation to ask Clive what he thought the time might be. What was the point? It wasn’t as though they were going anywhere. Just as Mel was beginning to believe that there would be no further contact with the members of the gang, the door was eventually opened and the same trio returned to once again take their places at the top of the steps.

“One at a time you can go up to the bathroom upstairs,” the man in the sheepskin spoke. “You, Doctor Roberts,” he pointed to Clive, “you’re coming with me, first. You others had better make up some beds ‘cos you’re all stayin’ here tonight.”

“Will you leave the light on tonight? Please,” Mel pleaded as the thought of this god-forsaken place in pitch blackness filled her with panic. But without answering, he ushered Clive out of the room and they were left with the dismal prospect of a cold and uncomfortable night.

“I hope you’re satisfied,” Silas reprimanded as the door was once more slammed shut and glared at Mel with dark piercing eyes. “We should have had a go at them when they came in, while we were all together. Now we’ll be stuck down here in this cold, damp pit all night!”

Mel didn’t answer. Instead she walked over to the pile of mattresses and blankets. Looking around her, the floor was filthy. Over by the workbench in the far corner she spied the remnants of a broken broom-head with a few worn bristles remaining. It would have to suffice in order to clean an area of floor sufficient for the three mattresses laid side by side. With long, slow strokes, she began sweeping rhythmically, clearing an area close to the left side of the steps, trying desperately not to create more dust than necessary.

Despite this, years of untouched filth rose in thick clouds, touching her face as she crouched to sweep away the worst of the dirt. With one hand held over her mouth, the taste of the dirt and the thick air made her cough uncontrollably as her airways resisted the onslaught. Not daring to look over towards the obviously disapproving Silas, she waited a few minutes for the dust to settle again before tugging at the pile of mattresses to drag them onto the prepared floor space.

“Here, let me help.” Silas at last volunteered begrudgingly as the sight of Mel struggling became too much to bear. Reluctantly he took hold of the side handles of one of the mattresses, and together they placed it on the ground. With all three eventually lined along the floor, the six blankets were equally distributed between the beds. There were no pillows. Seeing the fawn camel coat hanging over the back of the chair, Mel laid it open on one of the mattresses and proceeded to roll it like a sausage, positioning the coat at the head of the central mattress so that it overlapped onto the outer beds. Better than nothing, she thought. That done, she returned to her seat at the table where together they awaited Clive’s return.

“How did they know Clive’s name?” the question suddenly occurred to Mel, like a bolt out of the blue. “That man called him by name - Doctor Roberts. When I was taken, the man asked me if I was a nurse, so they can’t know who I am. They do know you’re a surgeon, though. I remember the fat man mentioning it when I was upstairs.” She tried to ignore Silas’s animosity by engaging him in more thoughtful discussion.

“I don’t think this whole set-up is as random as we think,” he said. “It looks increasingly as though some detailed planning has gone into this. Three abductions from different hospitals in different counties, the police won’t stand a chance at either connecting the three of us or finding us here. It’s been contrived to cause confusion and leave no clues. I’m quite sure we’re going to have to manage our own escape, because I don’t believe anyone will ever find us here.”

He was right, of course. Realistically there was little chance of being rescued from this hell.

Reflecting upon the earlier events of the day, Mel’s mind again absconded to the holiday she had so been looking forward to. Now it seemed a distant dream. How differently the morning had started. It had begun like any other routine day with no hint of the trauma about to unfold. Now, imprisoned in this derelict and isolated building, within the space of just a few hours, not only her holiday, but more precious than that, her very life, suddenly looked uncertain. She had planned to spend this evening packing her suitcase that night. New evening and beachwear hung in her wardrobe, the passport and tickets ready in her bedside drawer. Her parents would be beside themselves by now and she visualised her mother repeatedly watching from the lounge window as she became increasingly concerned by her daughter’s lateness. Not for the first time that day, Mel fought back the tears that stung the back of her eyes.