The Lazarus Hotel

by Jo Bannister

  Mrs Venables, who had hardly left Miriam’s side, returned to the sickroom. The others sat at the table. It was noticeable how everyone checked that everyone else was accounted for: anxious for one another’s safety or else concerned that no one had sneaked away to lay more traps. They sat at the table rather than on the couches so as to have something between themselves and people of whom they were no longer sure. They took their seats, spacing them out warily, and watched Tariq with expectant eyes.

  The big man didn’t know quite how he’d found himself chairman. He didn’t remember an election, wouldn’t have stood if there’d been one. But somewhere along the line he’d had that dubious piece of greatness thrust upon him and it was easier to fill the role than pass it on.

  He took a deep breath. ‘The situation is, we’re stuck here till Monday morning unless we can raise the alarm. Will’s got an idea about that but it means waiting for dark, Even then it’s not foolproof. We could be here another two days, which wouldn’t be a problem if one of us wasn’t trying to kill the rest.’

  There were outraged mutterings at that but he wouldn’t withdraw it. ‘I’m sorry, there’s no other way to read it. Everything we do now has to take account of that. Since we don’t know who’s responsible we can best protect ourselves by staying together. All the time.

  ‘Whoever it is doesn’t seem to be armed, thank God. So far the attacks have been opportunistic – there’s no reason to suppose he or she will suddenly produce a Kalashnikov.’ A couple of bleak chuckles rewarded his attempt at humour. ‘So if we stick together maybe we can prevent any more incidents.’

  ‘There’s one other thing we should do,’ said Will, ‘but nobody’s going to like it. We ought to check each other’s things. Probably there’s nothing to find, but we’d feel so silly if someone really did have a gun.’

  He’d misjudged them. The brief humiliation of turning out their bags was easily outweighed by the reassurance that everyone else had done the same. But the search revealed nothing.

  ‘Good, fine,’ said Tariq. ‘Er – anybody any idea what we do next?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I have.’ Sheelagh produced a pair of long-bladed kitchen scissors.

  It spoke volumes for their state of mind that half of them thought she was about to continue with the scissors a task she’d begun with the rolling-pin and butter. Chairs scraped as a couple of them recoiled physically.

  At the shock on their faces Sheelagh gave a cackle of derisive laughter. ‘Don’t panic, I’m not planning to cut throats, only a sheet.’ She spread it on the table, cut out a pair of enormous letters H. ‘Will gave me the idea with his SOS. Only this way we don’t have to wait for dark. We hang one in the window in here and one in the window of the sickroom which faces the other way. It might not be seen but you never know. There are other high buildings, and helicopters. If anyone spots it they’ll know what it means.’

  But as morning turned to afternoon and wore on towards evening it became clear that the giant Hs which so dominated the rooms where they were hung were invisible in the real world where ordinary people were doing ordinary things and anyone facing unexpected danger had only to shout loud enough for a man in a pointed hat to come along and help. Up here they were in mortal peril and a day after being cut off they still hadn’t found a way of telling anyone.

  ‘We might as well be on a spaceship,’ Richard said, gazing out across the city in wonder and despair. ‘Even then we’d have a radio – we could tell someone.‘

  ‘The Starship Lazarus,’ mulled Larry. ‘It has a ring to it.’

  They chuckled darkly, deriving some crumbs of ease from a companionship neither would have chosen. Then reality supervened. Richard thought. It could be him – I could be standing here joking with a man who tried to kill me, who’ll try again.

  Or was it not Richard but Will who was the target? Or not Larry but one of the others who was the attacker? His head rang with the permutations. Whoever it was, he was shut in here with someone with murder in their heart. Even fifteen months ago, before half an hour in an icy river introduced him to the concept of mortal fear, he’d have worried about that.

  Long legs crossed in an attitude of professional calm betrayed by the tapping of one foot on the floor, Tessa had a cup of tea on the table beside her and her bag under her chair. She never ventured far from it now, nor did she have to explain why. It contained sharp things and poisonous things, and the fact that they were designed to save lives would not stop someone bent on mayhem from turning them to other ends. She said to Tariq, ‘When do we try out Will’s idea?’

  ‘Once it’s dark. It won’t be seen before then and I don’t want to risk fusing the lights for nothing.’

  The sparkle was gone from Tessa’s hazel eyes, making room for a deep unease. ‘The last thing we want is to be left in the dark. Are you sure it’s worth the risk?’

  Tariq shrugged. ‘The lights didn’t stop someone beating Miriam’s skull in or greasing the lift. Our best chance is getting the hell out of here as soon as we can.’

  ‘What about the boy?’

  ‘Midge? I don’t know where he went. Up into the roof-space, I guess.’

  ‘I meant, why are you so sure it isn’t him? Many mentally handicapped people have no impulse to violence but those who have can be triggered by very little. God knows how long he’s been living like this – he may have had minimal contact with other people for years, be so emotionally isolated that he panics if he’s approached. When Larry cornered him he bit him. Why are you so sure Miriam didn’t startle him into attacking her?’

  ‘I can’t be sure he didn’t hit Miriam. But someone else greased the lift, and it seems more likely there’d be one homicidal maniac in the building than two.’

  ‘At least we can imagine how the boy might feel moved to violence. I can’t think why any of us should.’

  ‘Me neither,’ Tariq said apologetically, ‘but that doesn’t mean there isn’t a reason. Until last night we didn’t know we had anything in common. Maybe there’s still something we don’t know.’

  ‘Or maybe it’s something we do know,’ murmured Tessa, glancing significantly across the room.

  ‘Joe? It’s hard to forget he brought us here, isn’t it? We only have his word that he meant no harm. If Miriam found out different and threatened to tell us he’d have had to shut her up. Then he could start on the rest of us.’

  She was watching him closely. ‘Is that what you believe?’

  ‘Tessa, I don’t know what to believe. But if it happened that way, at least we’d know why.’

  She made a determined effort to rise above it. ‘Well, the sun’s down now. Let’s hope there are people in this city with nothing better to do of a Saturday night than watch the lights come on. If any of them can also read Morse code we’ll be out of here in an hour.’

  ‘If the electrics hold,’ said Tariq, crossing every finger he owned.

  When the last oyster gleam had faded from the sky, leaving a dark screen on which the city projected the glow of its activities, they turned off every light and power point in the penthouse and – excepting Mrs Venables – gathered in the conference room. Since it had been Will’s idea, Tariq asked him to do the honours and Will made a little curtsey like a lady mayoress turning on the Christmas illuminations. It was a mistake, as his ribs quickly reminded him. Still half-bent, he groped for the switch in the dark. ‘Three short, three long, three short?’

  He could have keyed it faster, deliberately went slow enough for the flashes to separate into distinct pulses. He didn’t want to transmit the notion that someone had left a light flickering in the half-finished building. So he keyed the letters slowly and rhythmically, and the twin chandeliers each mounting a cluster of six bulbs blasted solid chunks of light out into the darkness:… – – – .… . . – – – .… . . – – –

  ‘Dot dot dot,’ Richard supplied helpfully.

  Will’s voice was flat with disappointment. ‘It’s dead. Fused, I suppose. Go
d damn!’

  ‘Don’t panic,’ said Tariq. ‘There’ll be a fuse-box somewhere. If there’s any wire I can fix it.’

  He’d armed himself with the torch against this eventuality. It produced a pathetic worm of light compared with the great slashes that had belted from the chandeliers, but it was enough for him to find the fuse-box tucked away in the pantry and he opened the front. ‘What the hell—?’

  Richard was looking over his shoulder. ‘That’s pretty dramatic as blown fuses go.’

  The inside of the box was running with a whitish fluid that dripped from fuse to fuse and finally to the floor where it formed a greasy, pungent pool.

  ‘It’s bleach,’ said Sheelagh in wonder, sniffing it. Her tone altered. ‘Kitchen bleach. Mrs Venables?’

  ‘She’s with Miriam. Has been since teatime.’

  ‘Do we actually know that?’

  Tariq squinted at her. ‘No-o. But there are no padlocks on the kitchen cupboards. Anyone could have taken the stuff.’

  ‘Same with the rolling-pin,’ murmured Will. ‘And the butter.’

  ‘I know it sounds a bit suggestive,’ admitted Tariq, ‘but that’s because kitchens are full of lethal implements. What did you bring here – paper, pens, a calculator, same as me? You can’t have a reign of terror with those. But the kitchen’s stocked with knives and forks, and yes, a rolling-pin, butter and bleach. Sure Mrs Venables could have done this. But so could any of the rest of us.’

  ‘Apart from Mrs V and Miriam, we were all in the conference room when we turned the lights out.’ It wasn’t a guess: Sheelagh had counted. ‘But after that anyone could have left. Except Will, who was on the switch. And I heard both Richard and Tariq within seconds of the fuse going.’

  ‘You think that’s an alibi for all four of you?’ Larry said tightly. ‘Well, we know Richard and Will are in the clear – they were down the lift shaft during one of these incidents. But you weren’t. It wouldn’t be too difficult to throw bleach in the fuse-box and hurry back in time to hear us wondering what the hell happened.’

  ‘Hear us?’ she echoed spikily. ‘Larry, I didn’t hear a word out of you until right now. Where were you when the lights went out?’

  ‘OK, OK,’ interrupted Tariq wearily, ‘don’t let’s bicker. Is everyone here now?’ He raised the torch and looked round the kitchen, identifying the faces it picked up. ‘Where’s Joe?’

  They filed back to the conference room. Tariq shone the torch in all the corners but he wasn’t there. ‘Stay put, everyone. I won’t be long.’ When he’d gone, taking the torch, they were left in darkness.

  He checked Miriam’s room: Mrs Venables, sitting by the bed, looked up at the intrusion. ‘When can we have the lights on again?’

  ‘Lord knows,’ he grunted despairingly. ‘How’s she doing?’

  The injured woman was still unconscious but there was a little more animation in her face and the rhythm of her breathing suggested Tessa was right and she’d wake before long. ‘No worse,’ said Mrs Venables.

  ‘Somebody sabotaged the fuse-box. Did you hear anything?’

  She shook her head, failing to dislodge the cement curls. ‘I had the door shut. Anyway, you were all closer to the kitchen than me.’

  Tariq nodded. ‘Just a thought. Have you seen Joe?’

  She stared. ‘Is he missing?’

  The big man shrugged. ‘Maybe the excitement got to him and he’s just gone to the loo.’ He bit his lip. ‘Er – wouldn’t you be better off with the others in the conference room? I don’t like leaving you here on your own.’

  ‘And I’m not leaving Dr Graves on her own,’ said the housekeeper stoutly. ‘Not with weird stuff happening again.’

  He took her point. ‘When I’ve found Joe I’ll come and keep you company. Till then, yell if you need me.’

  Her torchlit smile was both coy and tough. ‘Aye, Mr Straker, and you do the same.’

  He searched the newly vacated bedrooms, started on the empty ones. At first he called Joe’s name as he went, swinging the beam ahead of him like a blind man’s cane, poking it in all the corners. But the further from the conference room he moved the less he liked advertising himself quite so plainly, the desire to find Joe tempered by a reluctance to let Joe find him. His footsteps grew softer, his caution more pronounced; he moved through the dark rooms not so much like a forest animal, which at least knows if it is hunter or hunted, as like a soldier in enemy territory who may find himself playing either part at a moment’s notice. He dropped into an unconscious crouch and the hairs along his arms and at the nape of his neck stood up.

  At the last room before the dead end Tariq hesitated a moment, drew a breath to steady his nerve, then punched the door open and followed the torch inside in one swift movement that he’d learned from watching cop shows on TV.

  Inside he found what he was seeking. Joe was sitting on the floor under the window, his head sunk on his arms. Releasing his breath in a sigh, Tariq said weakly, ‘What are you doing here?’

  Joe didn’t look up. After a moment, frowning, Tariq crossed the room and shone the torch in his face. ‘Joe?’ It was half a minute before he realized the older man wasn’t going to answer.

  Richard heard running feet in the corridor and his heart lurched. He kept his shoulder against the door until he was sure that the voice, though breathless, was indeed Tariq’s. ‘For Christ’s sake let me in!’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Tessa couldn’t add much to Tariq’s first impression: that Joe was far from well, hovering on the brink of consciousness. He seemed vaguely aware of her ministrations, pawed weakly at her hands as if a mosquito were disturbing his sleep. His own hands were clammy and twitched loosely; sweat dewed the creases of his face.

  ‘Someone did this to him?’ Tariq voiced the thought uppermost in everyone’s mind. If Joe had become a victim they needed another suspect.

  The doctor shook her head. ‘He’s ill.’

  ‘Heart attack?’

  ‘Maybe, but…’ Her forehead knit and she continued her examination. Joe muttered complainingly as she took his pulse – her eyebrows elevating momentarily – and shone the light in his eyes, but most of what he was saying was unclear and the rest made no sense. Tariq made out the word ‘needle’.

  Tessa looked up in sudden understanding. ‘When you searched his things, was there a hypodermic?’

  ‘Not that I found.’ Then Tariq’s smooth deep voice soared. ‘You think he’s a junkie?’

  ‘A diabetic. Sniff his breath – can you smell the sweetness?’

  But Tariq’s nose was less well trained than hers. ‘If we can’t find his insulin will he die?’

  ‘No,’ she said quickly. ‘I carry insulin. I can keep him ticking over till we can get him to a hospital.’

  Larry searched Joe’s bag again, still without success. Tessa turned out his pockets but didn’t find what she was looking for. ‘Maybe till now he was able to control it by diet. If he’s not insulin-dependent he wouldn’t have a syringe.’

  ‘Will you inject him?’ asked Tariq.

  ‘Yes. I’ll have to estimate the dose but I can refine it when I see how he responds. Don’t worry,’ she said, shining the torch into her bag and selecting what she needed, ‘he’ll be all right. Thank God you found him when you did.’

  Though barely conscious Joe seemed to recognize the syringe and tried to take it from her. ‘No, let me do it,’ she said; but he went on fumbling for it. ‘Tariq, would you hold him still?’ So he did.

  He was still holding him when the convulsion hit, the man going suddenly rigid in his grasp. Alarmed, Tariq looked for guidance, but before ‘Tessa could speak the rigidity turned to violent spasm, the sturdy body arching as if the spine would double back on itself. His arms and legs jerked so that Tariq fought to hold him, like holding a frantic animal. The muscles each side of the heavy jaw clenched, and strange sounds and saliva bubbled from the corners of his mouth.

  Tessa’s voice cut across the alarm in the
room. ‘Don’t be frightened. It’s a reaction to the insulin. I’ve probably overestimated the dose a little. He’ll soon stabilize. Are you all right, Tariq?’

  Tariq had been shocked to the core. He’d held on only because he couldn’t think what else to do. ‘Er – fine,’ he managed. Already Joe’s struggles were weakening; after a minute Tariq tried easing his grip. The older man lay against his chest as if exhausted. ‘Is he?’

  ‘He will be,’ Tessa assured him. ‘He’ll sleep now. We’ll put him in with Miriam. At least there was some heat on in there till the power went.’

  They’d overlooked that: that when the power fused they lost not only the lights but the heating and the cooker as well. In their favour they had bedding, extra clothes and outdoor wear suitable for a wet, blustery March. But it was going to be a long cold night.

  When Joe’s bed had been carried round to the sickroom Tariq brought a couple of chairs. ‘One for you so you can look after him, one for me so I can look after you.’

  Tessa smiled. ‘Who’s going to look after you?’

  Immediately they met Tariq had been aware of the powerful alloy of strength, intellect and understated sexuality that made up Tessa McNaught. He was used to professional women, women who wielded authority, women who made full use of their own magnetism; but there was something different at work here and he still hadn’t worked out quite what it was. The sway of self-possession, perhaps. That cool, calm exterior hid only a cool, calm interior on which the views of others hardly impinged. She’d mentioned a husband, which surprised Tariq a little until he remembered that he worked nights and she worked days.

  The same inborn autonomy also explained some less appealing traits: her habit of speaking her mind unfettered by discretion, of distancing herself from the group when it suited her. She gave scant consideration to her effect on other people, to an extent that was both a strength and a weakness. She was not reliant, nor did she invite reliance. It all made her easier to admire than to like; but Tariq was a man for whom admiring women was easy, and usually enough. He found her deeply impressive.