by Ken McClure
The first thing he came into contact with was a sack made of coarse hessian; it was full. He stretched up, put his hand inside the neck and pulled out a handful of small hard round pellets. He smelt them; it was animal feed. He also found a metal scoop inside the sack and put it in his pocket. It was a weapon of sorts, he supposed.
The room was a food store. The only thing other than sacks of feed-stuffs in the room was a floor-standing machine which, judging by feel, was some kind of processor. It had a large loading hopper on top and an exit pipe with a grille over its front lower down. There was a control panel on the front with two buttons on it, one raised and one recessed. The recessed one must be the On switch. It always was on industrial machines; a safety measure.
Dunbar froze as he heard voices. They were quite loud but he couldn’t make out what they were saying. He put this down to his wooziness until he realized that they were not speaking English. The throat-clearing sounds suggested Arabic. There were two of them and they were probably coming to give him his next injection — or worse. Feeling as ill as he did, and armed only with a pellet scoop, he could do little to stop them.
A mobile phone started to bleep and the men’s talk stopped, to be replaced by one side of a phone conversation, again in Arabic. When it ended it became apparent that one man had been called away. Both voices receded and Dunbar heard the front door open and close. He waited for returning footsteps and did not have long to wait. At least with only one opponent the odds were a little more even. He lay down again, hiding the metal scoop in his right hand behind the small of his back. He wished his head would clear. He felt as if he were in a drunken stupor.
He opened his eyes fractionally so he could see something when the door was opened. The lock turned, the door swung open and he saw the silhouette of a tall, well-built man with a syringe in his right hand. He seemed to stand still in the doorway for ages, like an executioner contemplating his victim’s neck on the block as some announcement ceremony went on around him.
Dunbar desperately wanted to swallow but did not dare. He closed his eyes completely as the light was clicked on. The next few moments were going to decide whether he lived or died. The light on his eyelids dimmed as the man’s shadow fell on them. Dunbar sensed him kneel down to his left. He could hear his breathing, smell a suggestion of foreign food on his clothes.
He felt his arm being grasped firmly but not with undue roughness. The man suspected nothing. Timing was all-important now. At the first touch of the needle point Dunbar rolled smartly away to stop it piercing his skin. He brought the metal scoop from behind his back and swung it at his assailant’s head. It connected with a dull clunk and threw the man off balance, but Dunbar knew the blow wasn’t heavy enough to knock him out. The man was already recovering and soon Dunbar was going to be in real trouble. He’d used up his adrenalin in fighting the effects of the drug.
Fuelled by panic, he struggled to his knees and swung his right fist at the Arab but his arm felt like lead and the punch carried no weight at all. The Arab evaded it with ease and grinned as Dunbar slumped back to the floor. There was no point in trying to throw any more punches; he hadn’t the strength to make them count. He backed away instinctively, now just hoping to survive as long as possible. The Arab recovered his syringe and checked it leisurely before coming after him.
As Dunbar retreated, he stumbled against the sack of animal feed, which spilled over. He grabbed a handful of pellets and flung them across the floor under the Arab’s feet. It seemed odds against, but for once he got the luck he needed. The Arab lost his footing and pitched forward, saving himself from falling by reaching into the hopper of the processing machine. Instinctively, Dunbar groped for the On switch on the control panel — it took only a second but seemed like an eternity — and pressed it.
The machine sprang to life and drew the Arab’s arm into the blades. Mercifully, he fell into unconsciousness as the scream died on his lips. The machine jammed. Dunbar hit the Off switch and was enveloped in silence.
‘Your kind of justice, I believe,’ he murmured. ‘An arm for an arm.’
SEVENTEEN
Dunbar knew his only chance of survival was to get out of the building before the other man returned or the security men came across from the gate-house. What about the staff? He decided they couldn’t be here. Research must have been suspended while Ross and the Arabs were using the farm as a prison. He was totally disorientated. He didn’t know what day it was or even whether it was day or night. He dragged himself to the front door and then stopped when he realized that he couldn’t go out this way. The door faced the gate-house. He would be seen. It might even be broad daylight out there. There was only one alternative and it wasn’t an attractive one. He would have to go out through the slurry pipe he and Jimmy Douglas had used.
He balked at the idea. He wasn’t at all sure he had either the stamina or the courage for it in his current condition but there seemed to be no alternative. But then what? There’d be no car waiting three hundred yards up the road this time and he didn’t have the strength for a prolonged cross-country run. Despair was on the horizon when he remembered Jimmy Douglas’s Land-Rover and the keys the hotel laundry had returned to him. Please God he had them with him and please God they were the only set of keys for the vehicle. Jimmy had said something about having it picked up. He felt in his pocket and found the keys.
If the police hadn’t taken the Land-Rover away, and there was a good chance that they hadn’t, he could use it… but only if he could reach it. His stomach turned over at the thought of the slurry pipe. Going out through it posed a whole new set of problems. It was going to be even worse than coming in. At least last time he’d been able to open the drain covers from the outside and step down into the pit. This time he’d have to open the covers from below. For that he would have to submerge himself completely in the sump.
Dunbar started to prepare mentally for the nightmare ahead. He imagined himself outside in the fresh air, heading for freedom across the open fields; but reality kept intruding. If he made it to the outside he’d emerge from the pipe like the creature from the black lagoon and there’d be no water or clean clothes available. He had a sudden thought. There must be some kind of clothing kept in the building for research workers. If he could find a change of clothing and some plastic to wrap it up in…
He found what he was looking for in a linen cupboard in the hallway leading to the staff locker room. He helped himself to a surgical tunic and trousers and added a towel to his bundle. A further search uncovered a roll of plastic bin sacks. He tore one off and put the clothes and towel inside, making the package as flat as possible. He tucked it inside his shirt against his chest and smoothed it as best he could.
He was getting stronger by the minute as the effects of the drug in his bloodstream wore off, but the thought of the slurry pipe still filled him with dread. If he failed to raise the drain covers from below, the ultimate in claustrophobic nightmares would become his, followed quickly by his death.
Dunbar removed the inside grille with slow deliberation and eased himself feet first into the pipe. It was only fear of the consequences of being recaptured that drove him on. The pigs round about grunted their approval. The horizontal section of the pipe was easy; then came the turn into the vertical drop. Dunbar could feel the blood pounding inside his head as he resolved not to stop and think. He closed his eyes and held his breath as he wriggled slowly backwards until gravity took over; his rate of slide accelerated and he fell straight down into the slurry, landing with a jolt that travelled up his spine and rattled his teeth. He was now standing in the slurry pit. Next he had to wriggle down and out of the mouth of the pipe and raise the drain covers, and then he would be free.
He couldn’t hold his breath any longer. He raised his face as far as possible from the slurry and took in a breath of air from above. He gagged and knew that he couldn’t do that again. He writhed and wriggled down into the pit and immersed himself in its contents before sla
mming his back and shoulders up against the drain covers. They didn’t budge. Nightmare thoughts of their being padlocked filled his head as he strained up at them again. This time they gave with a loud sucking sound. Recent rain had sealed the edges with mud and water, creating a vacuum seal. He took in a huge breath of night air and tried to clear the filth from his face and eyes. The sky was black as pitch and it was raining.
Fighting the urge to retch, he replaced the drain covers… and remembered the electric fence. The realization made him sink to his knees and brought him close to tears. There was no question of trying to go over it or dig a way under it and he certainly didn’t have anything to cut and bridge it with on this occasion. He’d have to leave by the front entrance.
He wriggled up to the corner of the building on his belly and decided on his route. It wasn’t going to be as difficult as he’d first imagined. The gate-house was designed mainly to monitor people coming in rather than leaving. If he could cross the twenty metres of open ground between the main building and the gate-house without being seen, he could get round the back and into the neighbouring field at the corner where the electric fence ended. He got up on to his haunches and prepared for the short sprint. He was still a little unsteady so he took his time in composing himself. A stumble could be fatal.
The men inside the gate-house seemed to be moving around a good deal. Dunbar waited until none of them was near the window facing the main building, then sprinted across the tarmac and into the welcoming shadows. He paused, motionless, for a few moments before continuing round the blind side of the gate-house and squeezing through into the neighbouring field where the electric fence ended.
Dunbar started out on his journey towards the abandoned rail station where his hopes were pinned on the Land-Rover still being parked. The night was so dark that he kept stumbling and losing his footing as he made his way diagonally across the first field to follow the line of the road. The icy rain was doing something to clear the mess from his head and face but he desperately wanted to find water flowing in one of the many ditches he had to cross. It wasn’t until he was on the far side of the second field that he found a small stream running down the side of a pine wood. The water was freezing cold, but sluicing himself down with it was preferable to carrying on in his current condition.
It seemed as if every muscle in his body went into shivering spasm as he stripped off his contaminated clothing and knelt down in the water to clean himself. When he’d finished, he scrambled out on to the bank in ungainly fashion and brushed off excess water with the palms of his hands as best he could before extracting the towel from the binsack and rubbing himself down vigorously to maintain circulation. He put on the surgical tunic and trousers, cursing the fact that it was difficult because he wasn’t properly dry and his movements were jerky because he was shivering. He emptied the pockets of his old clothes and then stuffed them as a rolled-up bundle under a stone below the bank. He started running as fast as he dared in an effort to work up some warmth. He was still shivering all over when he finally reached the car park and saw that Jimmy’s Land-Rover was still there.
The engine rattled into life. Dunbar willed it to heat up quickly so that he might have the warmth of the heater to fight against threatening hypothermia. He crunched the vehicle into gear because the shivering of his leg made holding down the clutch pedal difficult. He bumped a little too fast over the broken surface, bouncing himself off the seat as the vehicle lurched out on to the road. He had to get to a phone box.
Although he was trying to travel as fast as he could he had the feeling of being trapped in a slow-motion world. Every gear change seemed to take for ever as the revs fell, the gears crunched and the build-up suggested he was towing a juggernaut. He resorted to staying in low gear and screaming the engine as he fought his way along the twisting country road back to town.
There was a woman dialling in the first phone box he came to. Dunbar screeched the Land-Rover to a halt beside her and got out. The mere sight of him, staggering from exhaustion, hair soaking wet and wearing medical attendant’s clothing, made the woman change her mind about the urgency of her call. She stumbled out of the box and took to her heels, looking anxiously behind her at what she obviously saw as an escapee from a lunatic asylum.
There was an awful moment when Dunbar couldn’t remember the number of the Sick Children’s Hospital but it came back to him. He then failed to dial it properly because the trembling in his hand made him hit two buttons together no fewer than three times. He took a deep breath, calmed himself and succeeded at the fourth attempt. He asked for Clive Turner, praying that he’d be there. He had no idea of time or date for that matter.
‘Dr Turner.’
‘Thank Christ,’ stammered Dunbar.
‘Who is this?’ asked Turner.
‘Clive, it’s Steven Dunbar. Has Amanda Chapman had her operation yet?’
‘Steven? Where the hell are you? What’s happened? You sound strange.’
‘Just tell me. Has Amanda had her operation yet?’
‘It was scheduled for eight this evening. Her father phoned me this morning. What’s happening? Where are you?’
Dunbar’s heart sank. ‘What time is it now?’ he asked.
‘Ten past nine. What is it? Where are you? What’s wrong?’
‘Listen! They’re deliberately giving Amanda the wrong kidney. They want her to die so they can steal her heart and give it to another patient.’
‘You can’t be serious,’ exclaimed Turner.
‘Believe me, it’s true. We’ve got to do something to save Amanda if there’s still time.’
‘What can we do? If you say they’re giving her the wrong kidney…’
‘They’ve had the matched kidney sent from Geneva. It must have arrived by now if they’re doing the operation, but they only plan to give it to Amanda after she’s dead. If we can get there in time we can see that she gets it instead of the bloody animal organ they’re giving her!’
‘I just can’t believe this is happening,’ stammered Turner.
‘Clive, just trust me. It’s true. Can you get a surgical team together and meet me in the car park at Medic Ecosse as soon as you can? I’m going to call in the cavalry.’
‘There’s only a surgical houseman and one theatre technician on duty at the moment.’
‘Do what you can. I think I can get you a theatre nurse.’
Dunbar called Lisa next.
‘Where have you been? I’ve been worried sick about you!’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s been two days!’
‘I’m sorry. There’s no time for explanations,’ said Dunbar. He gave her the briefest of summaries of what was happening and said, ‘They may need all the help they can get tonight. You’re an experienced theatre nurse. Will you help?’
‘Of course. What do you want me to do?’
‘Get over there as quick as you can. Meet us in the car park.’
Next Dunbar called Sci-Med in London. He had to reverse the charges. His money had run out. Luckily his call was accepted automatically.
‘This is Steven Dunbar in Glasgow. I need help urgently. Everything will have to be done from your end. Understood?’
‘Understood,’ said the duty officer. ‘But I may have to call for authorization.’
‘Do what I ask first!’ insisted Dunbar. ‘Then call anyone you like. I’ll take full responsibility. I need police back-up at the Medic Ecosse Hospital as fast as you can get them there, and some of them should be armed. They’ve not to do anything until I get there but I won’t be long. Tell them to wait outside the car park and out of sight. Okay?’
‘You’re sure about the arms?’
‘I suspect at least two of the opposition are carrying.’ Dunbar was thinking of the Arab guards on the Omega Wing. Hopefully they wouldn’t be involved but it was better to be safe than sorry.
‘Anything else?’
‘I need a couple of WPCs in the squad.’ Again, he was thinking of the Omega wing.
‘Anything else?’
‘I need a forensic pathologist to examine a kidney biopsy.’
‘We’ll ask the police. Is that it?’
‘Those are the priorities but the police might like to take a trip out to a place called Vane Farm; it’s north of Glasgow on Lomond Road. I’ve been held there for the last two days by some Arab gentlemen, one of whom might have been admitted to hospital by now with severe hand and arm injuries.’
‘I’ll pass that on. Sounds like you’re having a busy time.’
‘Just get on to it right away.’
‘Will do.’
Dunbar got back in the Land-Rover and headed for Medic Ecosse as fast as he could. He couldn’t help but imagine Amanda lying on the operating table, being ever so precisely and carefully murdered.
As he got to within a mile of the hospital he was passed by a speeding police car on a long downhill section of the road. He snatched the opportunity and put his foot to the floor to take advantage of the swathe it was cutting through traffic. This was fine going downhill and even on the following straight section once his speed had built up, but the Land-Rover wasn’t built for cornering like the police car. Every sharp turn was a white-knuckle ride on two wheels before clattering back down on to four again.
As the two vehicles screeched to a halt in the street outside the hospital car park, Dunbar allowed himself to slump forward momentarily on to the steering wheel in deference to mental exhaustion. He needed a moment to calm himself and regain composure. Both policemen from the car in front were at his doors before he knew it.
‘What the hell d’you think you were doing back there?’ demanded one. ‘Bloody idiot! Get out the vehicle.’
