Cal opened the door for her and she went out without looking back. As soon as the door shut, I was on my knees heaving up what breakfast I’d had into the chamber pot.
It was funny, but this other part of me, this vile homunculus, went on watching and commenting, no matter how bad things got.
Morning sickness? it said now.
I rinsed my mouth out and sat on the bed again. Was there any chance she could be wrong?
No, said homunculus. No, she knows her stuff, even if she is seriously mad.
I began to cry, softly at first, then with more intensity into the familiar pillow. Homunculus watched. No one came in. I thought, I’m pregnant—pregnant—with a monster.
Could I kill myself?
No, you won’t do that.
No, I won’t, I agreed, although I was still crying. Not yet, anyway—Tom and Marcus could find me at any time.
I wouldn’t rely on that, if I were you. She’s confident of holding you for another nine months, she must have a reason for that.
I was still crying as this conversation with myself went on, my body jerking spasmodically. The blackbird was singing again. It sounded as though it were bursting with joy and its sheer freedom made me think about killing myself again.
No, don’t do that. You’d only regret it later.
Ha, ha.
Think about the blackbird.
I thought about the blackbird. Its notes were a sort of rich purple-yellow, almost painful, coming out of the wall beside me.
Why?
Still snivelling, I turned on my side and stared at the wall. I reached over and touched the wallpaper. It gave slightly under my fingers, there were a series of ridges, or slats underneath, rather like the grill in the bathroom.
I stared at the wall, at the pitched ceiling above, then back at the wall again. There’s a space behind it running all the way round the room. No, not all the way round, I thought, only on the three sides where the ceiling’s pitched.
I tapped the wall next to the grill—hollow—and worked it out. I’d thought it was an attic, but it was more likely to be a loft conversion. I remembered a friend who’d had one done, and the space behind the walls.
Grill? It was a door, so that the space could be used for storage or access.
The lock rattled and I twisted round. Dr Kent came in and I turned away, scared she would read my mind.
‘I’ll clear this up for you,’ she said, picking up the chamber pot. ‘Is there anything else you need?’
I shook my head slowly, not looking at her. She went out. I heard her clean the chamber pot in the bathroom. She brought it back in, replaced it and went out again.
Did she know about the grill? Had she papered it over herself?
I examined the wallpaper. No, there was no giveaway demarcation line.
All right, I thought, so there may be a way past the locked door, but what about this? I held my wrist up with Tom’s cuff and the plastic-covered wire.
What about the nail file? Steady, Jo.
My mind was on fire. The file might get through the plastic, but would it get through the wire inside?
It’s got a point, hasn’t it? For cleaning your nails. Push that under each strand and file ‘em through one at a time.
But would it, could it work?
Can’t hurt to try, can it?
When? Tonight?
It was so tempting. I just wanted to be gone. But it needed thinking out. Would the door into the space open? I had to have a good look at the one in the bathroom, perhaps I could do that this evening.
I took the nail file out of my dressing-gown pocket—it would be just my luck for Dr Kent to put her hand in now. It looked so puny…could it get through the wire?
I tried filing at the plastic coating. It was tough, but the file did make an impression. Maybe I should start at the radiator and where no one would notice. I could even start now—no, Dr Kent might come in at any time. I quickly hid the file under the music centre.
It was tempting, too, to pull the bed away from the wall and have a better look at the grill, but the same argument applied.
What kind of surface would there be in there? Rafters, probably. OK so long as I didn’t put any weight between them. I paced the distance I’d have to crawl—would there be any obstructions? Maybe not if one of the functions was access—but what about the corner? There was no way of knowing till I got there. I tried to imagine the bathroom beyond the wall. It was small, a couple of paces at most.
The door opened and Dr Kent came in with a tray. ‘Your lunch.’
‘I don’t want any.’ Still the fear that she would somehow read my mind.
‘I’ll leave it here anyway.’
After she’d gone. I tried moving the bed. It was heavy, but it did move. I didn’t have any lunch or any coffee.
‘No appetite, Miss Farewell?’ she said when she came for the tray.
‘No.’
‘And you haven’t touched your coffee.’
‘You know why.’
‘Mild sedation can only help you at the moment. Would you prefer tea?’
I pretended to consider this. ‘All right.’
She left me alone for most of the afternoon and I spent the time thinking, planning…
Would the bathroom grill open?
Check it tonight—ask her if you can have a bath to give you more time.
But won’t she wonder why I want a bath?
Tell her you’ve got vomit on yourself.
If I filed through the wire at the radiator end, I’d have to drag the rest of it round with me, but if I did it at the cuff end and couldn’t get through it in one night, she’d notice.
The afternoon dragged, but not as much as it might—my mind was too full. I worked my way through several symphonies while I planned. Mozart seemed to stimulate thought more than Beethoven.
What do I do if I make it? No, when I make it to the bathroom? Try and overpower them in their sleep?
Don’t be stupid!
Look for the phone?
No, just get out and look for a call-box, phone for help.
What if I was in another country?
The same—look for a call-box, phone for help.
*
Dinner—beef Stroganoff. I ate some of it to keep my strength up and poured some of the tea on to the carpet behind the bed.
I asked if I could have a bath and she graciously assented. Once inside, I noisily brushed my teeth, then, with a glance at the bathroom door, I knelt in front of the grill.
It was designed to open, I could see the hinges and a filled-in hole where the knob had been, and it had been filled-in some time before, so maybe Dr Kent was unaware of it. Air blew softly in my face. Should I try to open it now? I looked nervously round at the bathroom door again—probably better if I had the bath first.
I bathed quickly, dried myself and pulled nightie and dressing gown on, then knelt in front of the grill again and felt for the best hold. Gave a tug—nothing.
I turned on the tap for covering noise and tried again, harder. Still nothing. I turned the tap off and carefully examined the crack round the edge. A wooden wedge had been driven in to hold it, but a push from inside would probably free it, wouldn’t it?
I needed more noise, so I leant over and operated the loo flush, then gripped the grill and heaved.
It flew open and I fell backwards, hitting the floor with my elbows. I pushed it shut with my foot…just in time. The bathroom door opened and Dr Kent came in.
‘Are you all right, Miss Farewell?’
What about the wedge?
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘I slipped.’ I turned over, felt it under my knee, quickly palmed it and pushed myself up. ‘I got up from the loo and felt dizzy.’ I slid it into my dressing-gown pocket.
‘Let me help you.’ She put a hand under my arm. ‘Had you just got out of the bath?’
‘—yes, before I used the loo.’
‘That explains it, then. Do you sti
ll feel dizzy?’
‘A little…if I could just lie on my bed.’
‘Of course.’ She put a hand under my shoulder. ‘Are you hurt?’
‘I’ll probably have some bruises, otherwise I’m OK.’
She helped me out past the silent Cal and back to my room. As soon as I’d taken off the dressing gown and she’d replaced the cuff, she said, ‘I’d better check you over.’
‘Really, there’s no need.’
‘I insist.’
I submitted while she eased my nightdress up. She ran her fingers skilfully over my elbows, shoulders and down my back. Her touch made me feel physically sick. I thought, I can’t bear this, I’m going tonight.
‘Everything’s fine,’ she said. She poured a mug of water while I pulled my nightdress back down, then held out both the mug and her other hand. ‘Take these. I want you to get a good night’s sleep.’ In her palm lay two sleeping tablets.
The irony, homunculus observed drily, is that she’s doing it as a precaution against you topping yourself not because she suspects anything.
I took them from her and placed them on the cabinet. ‘I’ll take them in a minute.’
‘No, take them now.’
‘I wanted to read for a bit.’
‘Plenty of time for that tomorrow.’
She means it. If you refuse, she’ll get Cal and inject you with something.
‘All right.’ Trying to keep the bitterness from my face, I sat on the bed, put a tablet in my mouth, raised the mug and swallowed. Repeated it with the second.
‘Open your mouth,’ she said. She peered inside. ‘Lift up your tongue…good. Now into bed with you and get a good night’s sleep.’
She turned down the light and locked the door behind her.
In my time as a nurse, I’ve seen every device there is used by patients who don’t want to take tablets. The most effective is to tuck them behind your upper lip above your teeth and that was the method I’d used. I spat them into my hand, then eased out of bed to rinse my mouth into the chamber pot.
How long would they have taken to work? Half an hour? Better give it an hour.
I turned up the light, found Tess and took it back to bed with me, stared blankly at a page and thought, what shall I do first, the wire or the grill?
The wire—that way, if you can’t get through it tonight, she won’t realise.
God! The thought of another day here. I must get through it tonight.
Judging time was even more difficult than usual, but when I thought half an hour had gone, I let the book fall and lay my head on the pillow as though I’d fallen asleep reading it.
Would my slippers hold out? They were sheepskin, so they ought to. Should I look for something downstairs to wear on my feet? More clothes, even?
Time dragged, or did it? My face itched, I scratched it cautiously. Then my back itched as well…I tried to resist, but it got so bad I had to. Do we scratch in our sleep? I wondered. I was wasting time, she wasn’t coming—why not get on with—
There was the slightest creak outside, then the lock clicked and the door opened. I tried to regulate my breathing. My heart was going so hard I thought she’d see the pulse in my neck. She approached and stood silently over me. I had to move, do something…I stirred, allowed the tiniest groan to escape my lips.
I felt her hands remove the book, pull up the duvet and tuck it gently round my shoulders.
Tom would have been proud of me.
26
The plastic coating was even tougher than I’d thought and before long my fingers ached so much I had to stop. My plan was to cut it all the way round in two places, then remove a cylinder of plastic to expose the wire. I started again, worked steadily and, after another rest, was rewarded by the scrape of file against metal. My fingers felt as though they were about to drop off and all I had left to do was to cut the plastic all the way round, repeat, remove the cylinder, file through the wires and find my way out.
Go on with you, jeered homunculus.
I kept working. Changed position to ease the cramp in my legs, resulting in the most excruciating pins and needles I’d ever had.
At last, one circle was complete. I started the next, about half an inch from the first.
My fingers seemed to have got stronger. I kept going and lost all sense of time. My mind began to wander and I found myself thinking about Tom, wondering whether he was looking for—
The point of the file dug painfully into the skin beside my nail.
That’ll teach you to pay attention.
I rocked to and fro with my eyes shut, holding my finger, squeezing it, sucking the blood away.
Then I started again.
Time—how much did I have? I must have started before midnight, maybe even before ten. An hour had passed, maybe two. What about Dr Kent, would she look in during the night?
No. She thinks you took the tablets.
Second circle complete. I tried to force the point under the plastic to tear it, but only succeeded in stabbing myself again, this time in the palm. I had to cut it through longways. I changed position, bent the wire over my finger and started again.
I stopped to give my fingers a rest, drank some water, picked up the wire again and some time later had cut through enough to prise the cylinder away.
I closed my eyes and rested my hands in my lap a moment, then got up and used the chamber pot.
Just think, Jo, this could be the last time you have to do this. Yeah. Back to the wire—insert file point under a single strand, twist and saw.
The first few were quite easy, but then it got progressively more difficult. Whether the file had become blunted or the purchase not so good I didn’t know. The ends of severed wire kept stabbing the tips of my fingers until my hands were quite bloody. The last few wouldn’t go at all. In frustration, I tried bending them to and fro, but they wouldn’t break and I began snivelling.
Come on, Jo, what’s a little discomfort—
A little…!
—a little discomfort compared with Kent’s version of mummies and daddies?
Back to the wire. One by one the strands reluctantly parted, then the last two suddenly went together.
This is it, Jo.
I drank some more water and began pulling the bed out. The wheels squeaked alarmingly and I stopped. Bloody hell, was it going to do that every time? Pretty well, yes. I moved it inch by inch, listening intently between pulls, it depended really on whether either of them were directly below me. Nothing for it but to go on inching, stopping nervously between each one.
When the bed was far enough out, I got down and felt for the grill. The carpet was damp where I’d poured away the tea.
I pushed the point of the file through the wallpaper and pulled it downwards—it refused to cut, ripping noisily on either side of the file instead. Was it that noisy, or did all noise seem loud to me?
I tried laying the file against the paper and slitting through it. It seemed to work better, and as it fell away, air blew softly into my face from the grill. but would it open?
I gripped the slats and pulled. Not another wedge, please. No, with a slight crack, it swung open to reveal a space with rafters.
I stood up and looked round the room. There was nothing I needed. Drank more water. Used the pot again—so much for homunculus’ prediction. I wrapped the wire round my wrist, tying it crudely before pulling the dressing-gown sleeve over it.
This is it, Jo…
For some reason, I suddenly felt the strangest reluctance to leave the room, was it fear of the unknown?
Can’t be any worse than the known, can it?
I turned the light up as far as it would go then eased myself through the wall. I turned left, gave my eyes time to adjust, then began crawling along the rafters. They were about a foot apart and almost immediately, my dressing gown caught under my knees. I undid it, letting it hang on either side of me, but the same thing happened with my nightie.
That’s the advantage of pyj
amas.
Thanks. I backed through the wall and into the room again. I unwrapped the wire, passed it down through my sleeve and used it as a crude belt to hold nightie and dressing gown up. Then, through the wall again, a moment for eyes, and off.
The rafters dug into my bare knees and a splinter pushed its way into the ball of my thumb. I pulled it out with my teeth and went on crawling. Cool air from the eaves flowed over my skin—no wonder I’d been able to hear the blackbird. The light from my room got fainter as I approached the corner.
There was no obstruction, thank God, but the space after it was smaller, quite a bit smaller. I started to work my way round.
It was no longer possible to crawl, I had to worm and what little light there was faded altogether.
Potholing had never appealed to me much but this put me off forever. I had very little movement with each limb and the rafters soon dislodged my nightie and dressing gown from where I’d tied them, restricting me further, then my elbow slipped, knocking heavily against the plaster ceiling. I stopped and held my breath.
I suddenly realised that I couldn’t go back even if I wanted to. I lost control and drew in a breath to scream.
Stop it, Jo. Think. You’ve got plenty of time. Just move six inches at a go and rest. You’ve got what? Another ten feet? Kid’s stuff
Kid’s stuff. Splinters, abrasions on elbows and knees, filthy cobwebs and dust in my eyes, nose and throat. Total darkness. One of my slippers lived up to its name and slipped from my foot, but my toe was still touching it. I eased back an inch and wriggled my foot down into it.
Six inches at a time.
Six inches…
Time…
Then I perceived the tiniest glimmer ahead.
The bathroom door’s open and there’s a light on somewhere.
My first bit of luck.
I wriggled up to it. It was just as well I’d risked opening the grill earlier because I’d never have done it from where I was not without a making a lot of noise, anyway. As it was, it opened with barely a click and I curled my way into the bathroom where I just lay on the floor, letting every muscle go.
Come on, Jo, you haven’t got all day.
Night, actually. I pushed myself to my feet. I was dry, desperate for a drink, hut I didn’t dare. Thank God I’d had some water earlier. I edged to the open door and through it. Light filtered up from below, the stairs beckoned—what the hell was that noise?
Deliver Them From Evil Page 19
