Pendulum

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Pendulum Page 6

by Adam Hamdy


  Another key. Another door. This one granted him access to the canteen. Row upon row of stools attached to Formica tables, like miniature warriors standing to attention. The large, empty room was far too mundane for anything more terrifying than an undercooked chicken. Wallace felt his fear ebb away. It was replaced by a mixture of relief and mild embarrassment. His spirits were lifted by the dawning realisation that his new-found, drug-fuelled paranoia had fired his imagination to the feverish pitch of a five-year-old child. There were no figures lurking in the shadows. No monsters in the darkness.

  With his thoughts turning firmly to the prospect of escape, Wallace picked his way through the canteen to the security door at the far end. He’d have to be careful as he moved into the administration block, where central security was located. He imagined a couple of security guards standing around while a technician worked to fix their camera system. Maybe they’d even revert to foot patrols. He hesitated at the door. He could still go back. He could return the keys and retreat to his cell. Nobody would ever know. As Wallace wavered, he realised that if he did go back, he’d be committing himself to Doctor Taylor. He’d be forced to accept that he had imagined his attempted murder and would undergo weeks, if not months, of treatment to earn his release. Wallace was suddenly gripped by resolve; he had been attacked, he was not insane and he would escape from this place and prove it. He found the correct key and opened the security door.

  The first difference was carpet underfoot. Even though it was thin, industrial pile, it acted as an acoustic dampener, making the administration block seem even quieter than the rest of the building. Wallace shut the door behind him and moved along the corridor, alert for any sign of activity. He passed the group therapy rooms and stepped through a dividing door into another section of the corridor, which was flanked by smaller therapy rooms and doctors’ offices. It was in one of these rooms that he had opened up to Doctor Taylor. Wallace moved on, until he came to another security door, this one flanked by a card reader. He swiped the key card and was startled by a harsh buzzing as the reader informed him the card was invalid. He looked around, convinced the noise would attract someone, but he was alone. He rubbed the card against his pyjama trousers and tried it again, offering a silent prayer of thanks as the light turned green, and the door buzzed open. He pulled it wide and stepped into another corridor lined with an equipment store, a linen room and, halfway down, a dispensary, which was marked with large menacing letters that warned there was no unauthorised access. Immediately beyond the dispensary the corridor branched to the right and Wallace saw a sign that filled him with hope. Beneath directions to the security room, the staff canteen and the lobby was a final plaque that read, ‘Exit’.

  He hugged the wall and then glanced around the corner to see that the corridor was deserted. At the end was a security door, and beyond it was a large open space and a desk marked, ‘Reception’. This was it; one more door and then only the main entrance stood between him and freedom.

  Wallace was about to move when he heard a noise behind him and turned to see a figure that chilled him to his core. Stepping out of the dispensary was the man who had tried to kill him.

  7

  Wallace tried to flee, but his legs weren’t quick enough. Before he could react, his assailant lunged for him and grappled him into a choke hold. Wallace tried to scream, but his throat was crushed into silence. The feeling was all too familiar and instantly filled him with panic. Please let this be a delusion.

  Wallace knew that it wasn’t. A black, armoured forearm throttled his windpipe, while a gloved, fiercely strong hand pulled at his hair and forced him back into the dispensary. Wallace kicked out, catching one of the shelves and sending medical supplies tumbling to the ground. As vials and bottles smashed, the spring-loaded door slammed shut. Steel bars cut the moonlight that shone through a high window. He tried to grasp at his assailant’s arm to relieve the pressure on his throat, but the man was clad in Kevlar that prevented his fingers gaining any purchase. Wallace kicked and thrashed wildly, turning all his strength to escape. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a pharmacist’s table, and there on the laminated top was a large syringe filled with a clear liquid. Wallace did not need to be told what was in it; an adjacent empty vial of morphine said it all. He was to have an overdose. He knew that he’d have one chance, one opportunity to save his life.

  He continued struggling, but his efforts lacked their previous intensity. He wanted his assailant to think that he was giving up. Deprived of oxygen, his limbs grew heavy and tired, his vision started to blur and he wondered how much was pretence and how much was real. Exhausted and asphyxiated, Wallace went limp. His assailant maintained pressure for a few moments longer to ensure unconsciousness, and then relaxed his grip to reach for the syringe. As his arm swung out, Wallace gulped a breath of air, leaned forward and for the second time in the space of a week used his head as an effective weapon. The back of his skull smashed into his attacker’s mask and Wallace felt the satisfying crunch of a damaging impact. He didn’t wait for a reaction. He pushed away from the masked figure, and lost a crop of hair to his assailant’s tenacious grip. As his attacker floundered, Wallace remembered his years of aikido and unleashed a simple side kick at the man’s midriff. It wasn’t enough to injure him through his body armour, but it was sufficient to knock him off balance and give Wallace a moment’s head start to reach the door. As he fled, Wallace pulled down the nearest shelf, bringing it crashing to the floor behind him. He didn’t waste time turning to see what had happened, but as he yanked the door open, he felt hard fingers score his spine. He ignored the painful contact and pressed on through the gap, into the corridor.

  Wallace banked right, and raised the keyring. He prayed for another card reader, but was disappointed to see a recessed keyhole. He could hear heavy footsteps behind him. Five keys to choose from. No time. Wallace slammed into the door and jammed the first key in. It would only go halfway, so he pulled it out and tried another. The footsteps were close. The second key wouldn’t fit, nor the third. Wallace had just pushed the fourth key in, when gloved hands pulled him away from the door, spinning him round and slamming him into the adjacent wall. His head whiplashed back, crashing against the plasterwork, and the world started swimming, as his masked assailant came into view. Wallace was disappointed to see that the face mask had only sustained a few superficial cracks as a result of his reverse head butt. Unarmed and exposed, Wallace didn’t have a chance against this guy. Then he saw hope: pressed to its hilt, the fourth key hung in the lock.

  He ducked a punch and charged his attacker, throwing all his weight into his shoulder. The pain the collision unleashed was agonising, but Wallace ignored his broken collarbone and pressed on until he felt the impact of body armour against the far wall. It wasn’t graceful, but it was effective and it gave him the split second he needed to make for the door. A hand grabbed his calf, but Wallace twisted and lashed out with his other foot. He connected with something and the pressure on his leg ceased. Wallace turned the key, pushed the door open and stepped through. He snapped the key in the lock and slammed the door on his attacker’s arm, pushing against it as his assailant fought to get through. Wallace scanned his surroundings for relief and found something that just might work, but he’d have to move quickly. He leaped away from the door and, in one fluid motion, grabbed a large red fire extinguisher. As the door opened and his assailant lunged for him, Wallace swung the heavy metal tube into the man’s face and sent him hurtling back the way he’d come. His attacker landed flat on his back. Wallace dropped the extinguisher and slammed the security door firmly shut.

  ‘Hey!’

  The shout came from above, and Wallace glanced up to see two security guards running along the mezzanine balcony, which led to a flight of stairs that landed near the main entrance. He set off at a sprint, hurtling through the lobby as fast as his bare feet would carry him. So much for shoes, clothes and a plan. He vaulted a leather sofa and skidded to a halt by the autom
atic doors, which didn’t seem to have a lock. He could hear the security guards closing and looked up to see them starting down the stairs. Both men loomed large as they produced retractable metal batons and flicked them to full extension. Wallace cast about desperately and saw a card reader on the other side of the doors, near the stairs.

  This is going to be tight, he thought as he ran to the reader and swiped the card. A red light and ‘access denied’ flashed, as the first baton came swinging towards Wallace’s head. He caught sight of the bulbous metal tip reflected in the window ahead of him and ducked, with millimetres to spare. The baton went whizzing overhead, and Wallace, fuelled by adrenalin, resolved not to give his new attackers another chance. He barrelled backwards, hurling himself into the first security guard’s midriff. Before the shocked man could react, Wallace stood up violently and brought the top of his head into crashing contact with the guard’s chin. There was a hard crack and a yowl of pain. Wallace turned on the man and pressed the advantage by striking the security guard’s ears between his two hands in a double yokomen’uchi; a devastating punch. Dazed, the security guard went down. Wallace grabbed the baton and brought it up just in time to parry a blow from the second guard. Somewhere inside this building was a maniac determined to murder him and make it look like suicide, and nothing would prevent Wallace from escaping. He turned inside the second security guard’s reach and swept round, bringing his baton full circle in a devastating blow that shattered the guard’s cheek. The man went down instantly.

  Wallace looked at the two guards, and, while keeping a keen eye on the inner access points, stripped the nearest one of his shoes. A klaxon sounded. Through the large lobby windows, he could see lights coming on in other parts of the building. Someone had raised the alarm. Someone determined to stop him escaping.

  He tried the key card again, but it failed to work. Standing as far back as physically possible, he swung at the nearest window with the baton. The double glazing shattered but held firm. Wallace struck again and again. The first security guard stirred and Wallace redoubled his efforts, striking the window with such desperate force that the pane fell forward. He clambered through the jagged gap, stolen shoes in hand.

  Once outside, he glanced back and saw silhouetted figures running along corridors. Then he looked around and saw something else. The shape of a man. A shadow. It was skirting the building line, heading directly for him. Wallace knew who it was, and renewed fear spurred him to action. He ran through the garden, heading for the twelve-foot-high brick wall that surrounded the hospital. He sprinted for an old oak, a remnant of whatever property the new hospital had replaced. He didn’t even consciously scout for holds, but simply found himself bounding up the trunk and clambering along a thick branch that extended at an angle towards the wall. It was a perilous jump, but Wallace had no choice other than to attempt it. He took a step, and then leaped from the branch, aiming for the bevelled top of the wall. He landed off balance, teetering on the rear edge, but rather than allow himself to topple backwards, Wallace threw himself forward and plunged head first over the other side of the wall.

  Tears welled in his eyes as nerves cried out all over his body. He had instinctively used his arms to break his fall, but had crumpled on to his shoulder and flipped over on to his back. His collarbone screamed. His only consolation was that he’d landed on a grass verge rather than the concrete pavement a few inches away. Beyond the sidewalk was a main road. Pools of yellow phosphorescence illuminated a steady stream of fast-moving nocturnal traffic. Wallace fought through the agony. He wasn’t safe. He rolled on to his right side and pushed himself to his feet. His left arm hung limp and the pain of his left collarbone dragged his body over. He looked down at the shoes and the baton that had fallen nearby, and stooped to pick up the weapon, before scuttling into the road, hunched and shoeless, and throwing himself in front of a set of blinding headlights. He braced for impact, but instead heard the squeal of rubber as the car suddenly stopped. Caught in the lights, Wallace couldn’t see the driver – it could just as easily be a South London drug dealer as a late-night shift worker, so he couldn’t take any chances. He ran to the left and smashed the driver’s window.

  ‘Get out!’ he commanded, his voice distorted by searing pain.

  A terrified middle-aged woman covered in broken glass stared up at Wallace in shock. Her eyes were focused on the baton.

  ‘Move!’ Wallace yelled, and the woman sprang into action. A couple of cars had gathered behind, and vehicles on the other side of the road slowed to a crawl as they passed. But they didn’t stop, and nobody dragged him away from his hijack victim. Big cities bred witnesses, not heroes. Shaking, the woman exited the car, and Wallace pushed her out of the way before jumping in. The wind was knocked out of him as his shoulder hit the seat, but he ignored the pain and used his right hand to turn the ignition and start the stalled engine. He threw the gear stick forward and the car lurched ahead, roaring down the street in first gear. Reflected in the rear-view mirror, Wallace saw drivers finally emerge from their queued vehicles to commiserate with the hijack victim. They’d all be able to pretend they had been about to intervene, and she’d have an exciting story to tell everyone at work.

  Wallace caught sight of himself in the mirror. In addition to looking a physical mess, he appeared frantic, so he took a breath as he checked the road behind him. No sign of anyone following. He rested his left hand on the wheel and, in a clumsy but effective manoeuvre, shifted into second with his right. The roar of the engine subsided, and the little car – the logo on the steering wheel signalled it was some kind of Ford – picked up speed as it rolled through South London. As the adrenalin ebbed and the driving panic died away, Wallace was left to consider his next move.

  8

  Bailey stood in the hospital lobby trying to figure out exactly what had happened. He was in the unusual position of being a guest on the scene. Croydon were running the case, but Doctor Taylor had phoned him out of courtesy, and Bailey had been able to wangle his commanding officer’s permission to attend. Superintendent Cross usually let Bailey follow his hunches, and the humiliating experience of Wallace’s attack hadn’t done anything to change that. Local Croydon uniforms were combing the hospital and taking statements from the night staff, while employees arriving for their day shifts were being directed to an alternate entrance. The detective in charge was a woman called Scott, businesslike and brusque; she wouldn’t have been out of place on The Apprentice. But she had brought Bailey up to speed and offered him total access to whatever they found. Not having to worry about the practical issues involved in dealing with a crime scene, Bailey was free to think.

  The duty nurse had been found unconscious, passed out on the floor of her station. She’d been discovered after Wallace’s escape and failed to respond to attempts to wake her until paramedics arrived with smelling salts. Residual nausea and dizziness suggested she may have been drugged. She claimed to have only had one cup of coffee all night, and the dregs had been taken away for analysis. The hospital’s surveillance system had malfunctioned at precisely 02:43. Security had placed a call to the maintenance company and an engineer had been en route at the time of the escape. There was no video of Wallace until he reached the street, where a distant bus lane camera had captured low-resolution footage of the carjacking. The two security guards who had tried to prevent the escape were in hospital with their injuries. The pharmacy had been vandalised but it appeared that no drugs were missing.

  Scott’s working theory was that Wallace had somehow managed to dose the duty nurse’s coffee earlier in the evening. He’d figured out a way to prevent his cell door from locking and when he was sure the nurse was out cold, had left his cell and stolen her keys. On his way to the exit, he’d raided the pharmacy with the intent of stocking up on saleable narcotics, but, fearing capture, had smashed the place up instead, before fleeing into the night. What the working theory failed to take account of was the malfunctioning camera system. Scott put it down to coinci
dence, but Bailey didn’t believe Wallace was that lucky; someone had disabled the cameras. Someone who was either working with Wallace, or trying to get to him. As he stood thinking about the evidence, Bailey was troubled by the nagging hunch that Wallace might have been telling the truth all along.

  ‘So we’re moving everything to a cloud-based platform,’ Ron Bickmore announced proudly. It was the culmination of a forty-five-minute speech which had given Constance Jones plenty of time to daydream. Cloud-based computing. Wow. Mainframe systems repackaged as clouds connected to thin client machines by hyper-fast data links. In another ten years the fashion would be for super-powerful tablets that could store and share data individually. Connie had only been in the business for eight years, but she’d learned enough computing history to know that every few years IT directors were gripped by the latest fad that either centralised or decentralised data processing. None of it mattered; it was only done so they could shave five per-cent off their systems infrastructure costs, but most of that would be lost to the consultants implementing the change. The rest would be swallowed up by executive bonuses. It was change for the sake of change so that Bickmore could look like he was earning his vastly inflated salary. Connie looked round the conference room at the dozen people who would be tasked with leading the radical new program, which had been given the imaginative name ‘Project Cloud’. None of them looked as bored as she felt. Some of her colleagues seemed positively excited by the new strategy. The four external consultants smiled like lions herding lambs.

 

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