Captives

by Shaun Hutson

  The Renault hurtled off down the road, leaving the woman to crawl over to her injured companion.

  Scott could see her in his rear-view mirror, sobbing helplessly as she sought to revive the man who, for all Scott knew, could have been dead. Come to think of it, the speed the car had been travelling when it hit him probably would have killed him. Scott took one more look in the rear-view mirror but the former occupants of the car were nowhere to be seen.

  He put his foot down.

  He knew he had to get out of this prison uniform and into some normal clothes. The journey back to London was going to be difficult enough without advertising where he'd just come from.

  Back to London.

  He gripped the wheel tightly.

  Back to London.

  He guessed it would take him about five or six hours. He should be there before morning.

  Back to Plummer.

  His head was throbbing mightily now, but there was a fearful determination etched on his face.

  Back to Carol.

  He glanced at his own reflection in the rear-view mirror and saw the bandages that covered the top of his head and most of his forehead. He slowed, stopped and tore most of them off leaving just the one that covered the wound of his operation.

  The dashboard clock said 2.06 A.M.

  The pain seemed to be getting worse.

  Scott gripped the wheel more tightly. He must get out of these overalls.

  But before that, there was something else he must do.

  NINETY-THREE

  There were two Scania trucks parked in the car park of the petrol station. Apart from the two juggernauts, Scott could see no other vehicles.

  He drove past them once, trying to see into the cabins, but there was no sign of their drivers. He winced as the pain struck him again, even more forcefully, like a physical blow. The Renault went out of control momentarily but he brought it into line and drove on, slowing down as he reached the covered area that formed a canopy leading up to the door of the service station entrance.

  There was one figure in a red overall inside the building. A man in his early twenties. Scott could see that he was reading a newspaper.

  Scott parked the Renault around the corner and sat behind the wheel for a moment, waiting for the pain inside his head to diminish.

  It didn't.

  On shaking legs he forced himself out of the car, ensuring that the knife was hidden as he approached the double doors that led into the service area. Like many along motorways it sold not just books, papers and magazines but also food, drink and even clothing. Scott could see several pairs of jeans hanging up inside, as well as some shirts.

  He approached the double doors and pulled at one.

  They were locked.

  The young man in the red overalls looked up and ran appraising eyes over Scott.

  'Use the night window,' he called, indicating the small hatch where he sat.

  Cursing under his breath, Scott ambled along to the window, reaching behind him once to touch the hilt of the carving knife.

  The young man was looking intently at him, or, more to the point, at his clothes. The grey, blood-flecked, reeking prison overalls made Scott ridiculously conspicuous. He may as well have worn a day-glo sign on his chest proclaiming 'Escaped Convict'.

  'What do you want?' the young man asked, his eyes constantly drawn to Scott's overalls.

  'I need to use your toilet,' he said.

  'We lock it at night. I'll have to give you the key,' the young man told him.

  Scott nodded, watching as he retrieved a bunch of keys from the counter.

  'I need some things too,' Scott said. 'I want to come inside.'

  'Sorry, but it's company policy. This place has been robbed too often in the past year or so. You tell me what you want and I'll get it for you.'

  Scott gritted his teeth, both in pain and also frustration. Even if he could get the jeans, the shirt and the pain-killers he wanted, how the hell was he going to pay for them?

  'The keys for the toilet,' said the young man, extending his hand, the keys lying on his palm.

  Scott stepped back slightly, forcing the young man to extend his hand through the narrow gap at the bottom of the cash window.

  'Take them,' said the attendant warily.

  Scott looked deeply into his eyes, those bloodshot orbs blazing with intent.

  He moved so quickly the youth had no chance to pull away.

  Scott grabbed his arm just above the wrist, simultaneously yanking the youth forward, slamming his face into the glass with such force that it dazed him. Then, with his free hand, he pulled the knife from his belt and brought it down with terrifying force onto the young man's outstretched wrist.

  The blow severed the hand with one cut.

  The appendage fell to the ground, blood spurting from the torn arteries, jetting onto the forecourt as Scott held his victim up against the glass, gripping on above the stump of the wrist that was spewing crimson violently into the air. He jerked the boy forward again and again, each time slamming his head against the thick glass, until he also opened up a hairline cut along his scalp. The glass was smeared with crimson.

  Scott continued to hang on to the handless arm, tugging with such force that it seemed he must rip the youth's arm from its socket. He allowed him to lean back a few inches then pulled savagely on the arm forcing the young man's head against the glass with sickening and powerful force.

  A crack appeared in the glass.

  Then another.

  The fingers of the severed hand at Scott's feet were jerking as if in time to the impacts of the boy's head against the glass, which had now spider-webbed. Crimson poured down the attendant's face; Scott fancied he could see bone gleaming whitely through the pulped and torn flesh on his face and forehead. He finally let go of his victim's arm, allowing the body to sag to the floor. Then he gripped the hilt of the knife in his fist and drove it hard against the splintered glass.

  It broke immediately, pieces of glass flying inwards, showering the prone body of the attendant.

  Scott looked around, then pulled himself up into the frame of the small window. It was a tight squeeze. He groaned as he tried to pull himself through, yelping in pain as he cut his calf on a chunk of broken glass. Blood began to soak through the overalls as he fell into the motorway shop, sprawling onto the unconscious attendant.

  Scott struggled to his feet and hurried over to the rack of jeans and shirts. He pulled half a dozen pairs off the hangers, grabbed an armful of shirts. Then he hurried back behind the counter, picking up a large bottle of lemonade, his eyes scanning the shelves for pain-killers. He stuffed packets of aspirin, paracetamol and any other pill he could find into his pocket. He grabbed two tins of Elastoplast. Then, carrying his haul, he clambered back over the unconscious attendant and out of the broken window, dropping two pairs of the jeans in the process. One pair fell across the pulped face of the attendant, hiding his terrible injuries. Blood began to soak through the denim.

  Scott fell onto the concrete of the forecourt and sprinted for the Renault, cursing as he looked down to see blood from his torn calf seeping through the material of his overalls. He tossed the jeans and shirts into the back of the car, slid behind the wheel and drove off, struggling one-handed to free some paracetamol from their container. He shook two out and pushed them into his mouth, chewing them dry, almost gagging at the bitter taste. Then he swallowed another two, washing them down with a swig from the lemonade bottle.

  In a short while he would pull in somewhere and change into a pair of the jeans and a shirt. It would give him a little more camouflage for his journey.

  He gripped the wheel tightly, closing his eyes momentarily against the pain.

  On the opposite carriageway a police car hurtled past him, lights flashing.

  Scott drove on, past a sign which proclaimed: LONDON 143 MILES.

  He looked at his watch, wincing once again at the unbearable pain inside his head. He swallowed two more ta
blets, wondering how long they would take to work. If indeed they did.

  He drove on.

  NINETY-FOUR

  The cell door crashed open, slamming back against the wall, the impact reverberating found the small room.

  Mike Robinson blinked hard, shocked from sleep by the sound and, now, by rough hands on him, pulling him from the top bunk.

  Beneath him, Rod Porter was also being pulled from the warmth of his bunk, hurled across the room by the first of the warders who had barged into the cell.

  'What the fuck is this?' snarled Porter but, as he turned, he was struck hard across the face with a baton. The hardwood split his cheek and he fell to the ground, blood pouring from the gash.

  Robinson was thrown against the wall, a fist driven into his stomach, knocking the wind from him. Through pain-misted eyes he saw his locker torn open and its contents scattered, saw the bunks being overturned, saw the small cupboard that had housed James Scott's belongings ripped open. The photograph of the blonde woman Scott had spoken of (Robinson couldn't remember her name) fluttered to the floor where it was trodden on in the melee.

  Then another blow to the stomach sent him crashing to the ground, where he was allowed to lie for only brief seconds before being dragged to his feet behind Porter. Both men were dragged on to the landing.

  Other prisoners, woken by the noise, were shouting and banging against their doors, not knowing what the early morning disturbance was. As warders passed by cell doors they smashed their batons against them by way of warning, but this only served to inflame the inhabitants further. The cacophony of noise rose to deafening proportions as Robinson and Porter were dragged along the landing towards the stairs, almost hurled down them by their captors.

  'What the fuck is going on?' shouted Robinson at one of the men pulling him.

  'Shut it,' the warder hissed, driving a punch into his kidneys, almost throwing him down the metal steps behind Porter.

  The noise from the other cells filled the prison.

  'How could he have got away?'

  Governor Peter Nicholson glared at Dexter, his eyes unblinking.

  'I wish I knew,' Dexter said. 'He would have been weak from the operation. In pain. I can't understand how he managed it.'

  'Well, he won't get far,' Nicholson said, an air of conviction in his voice.

  'I can't see how he'll survive so soon after the operation,' Dexter added.

  'I don't care if they bring him back dead but I want him back here.'

  'You never did care, did you? It never bothered you whether the men who were operated on lived or died.'

  'That isn't what's at stake here, Dexter,' Nicholson hissed. 'No one has ever escaped from a prison where I've been Governor and I don't intend to let Scott be the first.'

  'Your pride doesn't matter any more, Nicholson. The man is already out. He got away, that's the point. He did escape.'

  'We'll find him. He'll be brought back. I want to know how he did it.'

  There was a knock on the office door and Nicholson called for the visitor to enter.

  The door opened and Warder Paul Swain entered, supporting Porter. The other two men in the room saw the blood pouring down the convict's face.

  Nicholson nodded and Swain threw the man down.

  Robinson followed, landing heavily on his arm.

  'Get up,' snapped Swain, kicking Robinson hard at the base of the spine.

  The office door slammed shut behind them.

  'Don't tell me I won't get away with this,' Nicholson said, a slight smile on his lips, his gaze flicking back and forth from one inmate to the other. 'You can report this to the prison authorities if you like, but you'll never prove it happened. No matter what we do to you.'

  'What do you want from us?' Robinson said.

  'You were cell-mates with Scott; I want to know how he got out. I want to know if he talked about escaping. I want to know if you helped him.'

  Porter eyed the Governor coldly, a slight smile on his face.

  Nicholson saw it, took a step forward and struck Porter hard across the face, splitting his bottom lip. He fell backwards into the arms of Swain, who drove a fist into his kidneys then let him drop to the ground.

  'For God's sake, stop it,' Dexter said.

  'You keep out of this,' Nicholson roared. 'This is my prison and this is my affair.'

  'You've lost him, Nicholson,' Porter said, sucking in a painful breath. 'He's long gone by now and you won't find him.'

  'Did you help him escape?' the Governor rasped.

  Porter spat blood, then clambered to his feet.

  'Yeah, I gave him a leg up over the fucking wall,' he said.

  Swain hit him hard across the small of the back with his baton.

  Porter doubled up, falling to the floor once more.

  'This will put another five years on your sentences,' Nicholson snarled. 'Both of you.'

  'We don't know where he's gone,' Robinson protested angrily.

  'Five years,' Nicholson spat. 'And I'll make it five years of hell.'

  'Fuck you,' rasped Robinson and hawked loudly, propelling a gob of mucus into the Governor's face.

  It hung there like a tear, trickling slowly down his cheek until Nicholson wiped it away.

  Swain struck Robinson across the shoulder with his baton, then the shoulder blades, both blows almost cracking bone. Then the warder turned and opened the office door. Two of his colleagues, jackets already removed and sleeves rolled up, walked in.

  'Take these men to solitary,' Nicholson said. 'See if they feel more like talking there.' He nodded, watching as the two men were dragged away.

  'You can't do this,' Dexter protested as the office door slammed shut behind them.

  'I've told you before,' Nicholson snarled. 'This is my prison and I can do what I like. Now, if you're not a solution to this problem then you're a part of it, so get out of here.'

  Dexter turned to leave.

  'I'll find him, Dexter,' said the Governor. 'And if he's not dead when he's brought back, he will be by the time I've finished with him.'

  NINETY-FIVE

  'I don't like having to trust other people, Gregson.' Police Commissioner Lawrence Sullivan held the pieces of paper in his large hands, shuffling them like playing cards. 'I warned you before, you'd better be right, otherwise I'll have you back pounding a beat quicker than you can imagine.'

  DI Gregson looked on indifferently.

  'I told you, if I'm wrong, I'll resign,' he said flatly.

  Sullivan got to his feet, the three pieces of paper in his hand.

  'These,' he said, brandishing the papers before him, could be the key to what's been going on, or they could mean an end to your career and mine. I hope you realise what a bloody risk I'm taking. Not only do I dislike having to trust other people, I also hate gambles. And this, to me, is a gamble.'

  'There's too much evidence…'

  Sullivan cut him short. 'I know, you've told me that before. Well, after considering it all, I tend to agree with your theory that things at Whitely are, shall we say, a little irregular. But while there's the slightest element of doubt I don't like it. A conspiracy is one hell of an accusation, Gregson. Like I said, you'd better be right.' He sat down at his desk, the exhumation orders laid out in front of him.

  'Are you going to pass them, sir?' Gregson asked, looking at his superior.

  'They're already signed,' said Sullivan. He handed them to Gregson.

  'A helicopter will take you, Finn and two other men to Whitely. It'll pick you up in an hour. It shouldn't take more than about fifty minutes to get there.' He exhaled deeply. 'Gregson, I want a full report on what you do or don't find up there, do you understand? An investigation of this kind makes me accountable to the Government as well as to our own people and the prison authorities.'

  Gregson nodded.

  'Do you think I'm right, sir?' he finally asked, quietly.

  'Would it matter one way or the other?'

  'Not really. I'm just curi
ous as to what made you decide to get these.' He held up the exhumation orders.

  'You seemed to have a pretty strong case to support your argument and if there is some kind of conspiracy going on at Whitely, then it should be exposed. Or perhaps, for once in my life, I decided to gamble.' He looked at Gregson. 'But there's a lot on this bet. More than I think you either care or realise.' They exchanged glances once more then Gregson turned to leave.

  'A full report,' Sullivan reminded him as he left. The door closed and the Commissioner was left alone in his office. He sat back in his seat, hands clasped together beneath his chin, gazing out of his window at the overcast sky.

  'I got them,' Gregson said triumphantly, holding the exhumation orders in front of him.

  'Now what?' Finn asked him.

  Gregson explained about the helicopter, the impending journey to Whitely.

  'I doubt if they're going to be very helpful up there,' the DS observed.

  'I couldn't give a fuck,' rasped Gregson. 'They don't have to be helpful. The only thing that matters is, with these exhumation orders they can't stop us.'

  NINETY-SIX

  He'd slept in the back of the car on a side-road, the merciful oblivion he sought interrupted so often by the pain in his head. Finally, after two disturbed hours, Scott had decided to drive on. He'd discarded his prison overalls in favour of one of the shirts and a pair of the jeans but he still wore his prison boots. He'd washed his face and hands in the rain and he'd fixed a small bandage over the surgical dressing with Elastoplast. The wound in his calf had stopped bleeding, but it hurt; every time he pushed his foot down on the clutch, fresh blood seeped out.

  The pain inside his head was less insistent. That was the handfuls of pain-killers he'd taken, he told himself. But it was still there, ever-present as he drove, glancing around him, wincing in the early morning sunlight that streamed through the windscreen.

  He was well inside the outskirts of London now, heading for his own flat in Brent. If only he could reach it, the flat would provide a haven at least for a couple of precious hours. Providing the police hadn't already covered it, waiting for him to go there. No, surely they wouldn't expect him to head back to London so soon. Would they? He was convinced his escape must have been discovered by now, but he'd seen precious little in the way of police pursuit. Not as yet, anyway.