Bloodstains

by Andrew Puckett

  As I leapt across the office, there was a crash as he tried to break it down.

  Once into the silent corridor, I sprinted for the stairwell, fumbling in my pocket for the key. Skidded to a halt beside it, reached deep into the linings. It wasn’t there.

  It was still in the Plasma Lab where I had left it after prising the lid off the box.

  A shaft of light as the Fractionation door flung open and Steve burst into the corridor. I turned like a rabbit, through the fire door to my left, ran, no use going for the lobby, locked, swerved left again into the wash-up area.

  A moment’s silence and filtered moonlight on glass bottles. Steve’s footsteps, and a hiss of steam as I dived between the twin black shapes of the sterilizers.

  The door creaked, and I shrank further into the shadows, my hand contacted metal, hot metal and I jerked away. No noise.

  ‘Tom?’ His voice was gentle, as though he was waking someone from sleep.

  A glint caught my eye, a bottle on the floor, a weapon. I leaned sideways and picked it up as a switch clicked and one side of the room was lit.

  ‘Tom, I know you’re in here. It’s not what it seems, I only want to talk to you.’

  Footsteps.

  ‘Come on out, Tom, let’s talk it over like friends.’ His voice was so persuasive that I felt hypnotized, like a rabbit cornered by a stoat. His shadow almost touched my feet.

  ‘All right then, have it your own way!’ he snarled suddenly. His footfall receded, and the light clicked off — the door creaked shut.

  I slowly released my breath, then checked it. Was it a trick, was he still there?

  I waited for a minute. Steam hissed again, it was breathlessly hot. Sweat started pricking and I felt faint.

  Silence. Why hadn’t he searched for me? But he didn’t know how weak I was, perhaps to him I was a cornered rat. Yes — there had been fear behind that snarl.

  I edged forward. Nothing, just the moon and the bottles. He’d gone, but where? Back to the Fractionation Lab to hide the evidence? I didn’t know, only knew that I had to retrieve the key.

  I closed my eyes for a moment, thinking, trying to remember Trefor’s guided tour. There was a door from the far side of Wash-up to the Plasma Lab.

  Out into the moonlight, clutching my bottle, trying to watch every angle.

  Nothing. I edged crabwise across the room, into the shadows again, found the door handle.

  Would he be waiting on the other side? No. I opened it slowly.

  More filtered moonlight, no movement. The Angle-poise lamp, still wrapped in tissues, like some strange moonflower. And the glint of the key beneath it.

  I edged round, grasped and pocketed it.

  What now?

  Back the same way, he’d seen me pass the stairwell, it wouldn’t occur to him that I’d go back that way.

  Back. Back through the door into the silent glass-lit room. Bound the edge.

  More steam. I jumped and swallowed.

  Which door? The same one. Would he be waiting? No point in being coy.

  Bottle in hand, teeth clenched, I yanked it open and jumped out.

  Nothing.

  Walked back up the corridor, glancing nervously around before reaching for the door. It was stuck.

  Pulled harder. It was locked.

  Trapped!

  But was I?

  There was the lobby, locked on Falkenham’s orders, but surely there would be some way of unlocking it from inside, given time.

  There was the other stairwell, perhaps my key would fit…

  But that was where Steve would be waiting.

  Yes, he would have locked this door from the other side, passed up the corridor to the other fire door, locked that, and now be waiting where I had to go, by Trefor’s office. There, he could cover both corridors, the stairwell and the lobby. There was no other way out.

  Fire escapes? Two were now locked off, and the third would be covered.

  The Bleed Ward and stores? Locked, I knew, although I would try them in a moment, just in case…

  Was it possible to get through a wash-up window into the courtyard? Yes, but what was the point?

  Telephones! The Plasma Lab had a phone — but they all went through the Centre’s own switchboard. I could still phone internally, the Lab orderly, tell him to get the police -

  Then I realized that he was in it too…

  Was he? I just couldn’t take the risk.

  A sick shudder ran through me, triggering the sweat glands of fear, I was really trapped, I could only wait for them here at the end of my burrow.

  So why didn’t they come?

  Action. I peeled myself away from the wall, might as well check the Bleed Ward and stores doors.

  Action. The voice of my instructor again. ‘Action may not get you anywhere, but it does keep the enemy guessing!’

  And again: ‘Do what the enemy wants you to do, approach the trap. Because you know that it’s a trap!’

  Find out where he is.

  I walked silently down the corridor, eyes fast on the end. Tried the doors, locked. Approached the corner.

  What if he’s waiting just round the other side?

  No, he’s there, in the centre of his trap. I got down on all fours and peeped slowly round the edge at floor level, where I was covered by deep shadow.

  He was there, just where I’d thought he’d be, leaning almost nonchalantly in Trefor’s doorway.

  Silence. No, the growl of television from Blood Issue.

  He looked up, I remained dead still, and he didn’t see me… He pushed himself upright and walked slowly towards me. Still I was sure he hadn’t seen me. Dead still.

  Then at the lobby, he paused, looked out for a moment, then turned and walked back. I quickly withdrew my head.

  Somehow, I had to distract him, so that I could get to the Stairwell or in the lobby. But how?

  The telephone in Blood Issue? But even if I asked to speak to him, he’d guess before I had time to get out.

  An idea germinated, blossomed.

  It wouldn’t work. It was all I had.

  I padded back to the wash-up area. Pushed open the door and lifted the bottle in my hand to hurl it down the corridor.

  No, one bottle might not bring him, it would need several to bring him here, while I dashed through Plasma to the stairwell.

  Even then, he might turn back and catch, me. Somehow, he had to be enticed after me.

  Prop the door open, that would bring him through. I went in and searched until I found the door wedge. Held the door open just enough for me to squeeze through and pressed the wedge in at the end so that he wouldn’t see it.

  It still wasn’t enough. If he came through fast, he would still catch me.

  I looked at the door and it came to me — a booby-trap!

  But was Steve enough of a booby?

  I slipped in, found a wooden chair and set it by the door.

  Climbed up, yes, a crate could be propped between the door and the upper skirting-board!

  Stepped down, walked quickly to the stacks of crates full of bottles, grasped one, took it gingerly back, stood on the chair. Yes, it balanced. I fetched two more and placed them on top of the first.

  Almost ready.

  I stopped. Why not wait behind the door, attack him as he came through?

  No, I was no match for Steve even if he’d been hit on the head by a crate.

  I took three more bottles and squeezed back through the narrow opening. Looked up.

  Too obvious, he’d look up as well and see them, how could I keep his eyes on the floor?

  Tried to force my brain to think as time fled by — no good, have to chance it.

  Then I knew what I had to do and trembled. Couldn’t do it. Had to, because it would work…

  I put the bottle down and slid back into the room. Found it by the washing-machines — a piece of broken glass.

  Back to the corridor, to the end. Hands and knees. He was still there. Backed off and stood up.<
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  Holding my breath, clenching my teeth, I pulled the glass across the ball of my thumb. Blood welled and dripped.

  Blood.

  I walked slowly back. The red drops splashed starkly on to the light cream floor. At the door, I squeezed my hand, to force more out on to the paintwork, made a pool on the ground.

  I was ready. If that didn’t keep his eyes to the ground, nothing would.

  Deep breath.

  I picked up a bottle and smashed it on the floor. He must have heard. Another, half way down the corridor, another, lobbed further. And the last I threw with all my might.

  Through the gap and sprinted.

  Would it work? Had to — hurry!

  The Plasma door. Couldn’t hear him yet. Reached the far end. Stopped.

  Where was he? I could hear the murmur of the TV through the door.

  Had to risk it… then there was a crash somewhere behind me, a cry of surprise and pain.

  No time to gloat — I was through — dashed to the stairwell, fumbled for the key, thrust it in.

  Wouldn’t turn, different lock.

  Try the fire escape — locked, locked! Precious seconds wasted.

  The lobby — I ran.

  Light through the heavy glass from the road lamp beyond.

  Where was the catch? Fumbled for it — stiff — gripped with both hands — it clicked back. Door still wouldn’t open — bolts.

  Reached, pulled them back and out into the blessed free air.

  ‘Hell, Tom.’ A tired voice that I knew so well. He stepped from the shadows. ‘I think we’d better go back inside, don’t you?’

  The light glinted from a small automatic in his hand.

  Even then I thought of rushing him, risking it, but as I tensed for the spring, the door burst open behind me.

  ‘You little bastard!’ Tousled fair hair and white wolfish teeth.

  ‘No, Steve!’ Chalgrove’s warning rang out, but too late.

  I saw his hand chop from sideways, a bright flash as I collapsed on to the tarmac.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  I was aware of being carried back along the corridors, of grunts and muttered curses, but it was all irrelevance. I was somewhere else, somewhere much better and had no intention of leaving.

  But inexorably, I was dragged back to the Planet Earth and the present, the square shapes of a room twisted into focus, and then the faces of Chalgrove and Steve.

  ‘Sorry to be so melodramatic,’ the latter’s voice loomed, ‘but I do feel more relaxed with you tied up.’

  We were in the office of the Fractionation Suite and I was tied to an old wooden chair, the same one that I had used to prop the door open, I think.

  ‘The question is,’ continued Chalgrove, ‘what are we going to do with you?’

  ‘I’ve already told you, there’s only one thing we can do.’ Steve’s hard eyes met mine without a trace of embarrassment or pity.

  ‘I’m sure you realize what Steve means,’ Chalgrove said to me, ‘and I must say he has a point. However—’ the word hung in the air for a moment — ‘I’m rather reluctant to kill you, if it can be avoided.’

  I tried to speak but only a wheeze came out. Cleared my throat and started again.

  ‘I don’t see how you can avoid it, not if you want to keep going as you are. But you’ll be caught sooner or later, you must know that.’

  He nodded slowly as Steve said, ‘Don’t you believe it, mate.’

  Chalgrove said, ‘You’re right, of course. Except for the fact that I have no intention of going on in the way I am now.’

  ‘You’re going to make a run for it? They’ll catch you.’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking of that either. You see, I’d have stopped before now if I didn’t have a contract to fulfil with some… er… gentlemen in America. These gentlemen belong to an organization that takes a dim view of uncompleted contracts.’

  ‘I see. More fool you for getting mixed up with them.’

  ‘Do you see? I doubt it. The point is that the contract is very nearly complete, so I can and will stop. The interesting piece of paper we found in your pocket—’ it rustled as he held it up — ‘leads me to believe you know what we’ve been doing.’

  I cleared my throat again. ‘You’ve been stealing fresh plasma and making Factor VIII from it.’

  ‘Very good. When did you work that out?’

  ‘Tonight.’

  ‘Bad luck. Your bad luck. If you could only have curbed your thirst for knowledge just a little longer, we would have finished and could have all lived happily ever after. As it is…’

  ‘We’re wasting time,’ said Steve impatiently. ‘Let’s get it over with.’

  ‘Another body?’ I said to him. ‘Really? The staff’ll be tripping over them soon.’

  He grinned at me. ‘No body. It won’t be too difficult to feed you into the bag mincer and flush you away.’

  He meant it. I realized that he was one of those rare things, a genuine psychopath, and began to understand what had happened to David.

  ‘It may not be necessary,’ said Chalgrove.

  Steve snorted. ‘Come off it, Don—’

  ‘Just be quiet and listen.’ The quiet voice was shot with iron, and I perceived that their relationship was more strained than was apparent on the surface.

  ‘I don’t want to kill you,’ he said to me, ‘there’s been enough killing. Besides, I think you might be more use to us alive. Basically, I’m offering you your life in return for your silence.’

  ‘You’re mad,’ I said. ‘What possible guarantee could I give? You know I’ll stop you the first opportunity I get.’

  I had realized that he was telling the truth; he really didn’t want to kill me. But my only chance was to play hard to get; he had some arrangement in mind, I was sure, but it would have to come from him.

  He nodded slowly. ‘You’d like to stop me, wouldn’t you, hand me over to justice? At this moment, you hate me, you blame me for your brother, don’t you?’

  ‘Dead right,’ I croaked.

  ‘Mmm. Well, remember that. Now, I’m going to tell you a story, the story of how we three came to be here.’ He smiled faintly. ‘And I’m not worried about boring you, since in you, I have a truly captive audience.’ He grinned at his own joke.

  ‘Don,’ Steve’s pained voice cut in, ‘what’s the point of all this?’

  Chalgrove ignored him, kept his eyes on me. ‘I should have been Director of this Centre. I was to have been. The last Director retired not long after we moved into this building some three years ago, and I was — er — tipped the wink. And I had plans, progressive plans for the whole Centre, and for anyone with initiative—’ he stopped himself and swallowed before continuing.

  ‘Well, it wasn’t to be. Dr Falkenham, who had recently retired from his directorship elsewhere, suddenly decided he wanted to serve five more years. It’s a lovely word, isn’t it — serve? Nearly always a misnomer, and this time was no exception. The truth is, he couldn’t bear the idea of relinquishing power.’

  ‘The administrators at the Regional Health Authority were very apologetic and assured me that my name would be among those considered next time round — well, thanks very much. I was on the point of walking out in high dudgeon when I realized that there was nowhere else available with a unit quite like this. I designed it, you see. Also, I’d been working on the novel idea of using infra-red heat to melt Fresh Frozen Plasma prior to extraction of Factor VIII — it’s the melting that causes so much loss of the factor. I didn’t want to give this work up, so I stayed.’

  ‘However, if I thought for a moment that I was to be left alone in my deputy-ship, Falkenham soon showed me that I had another thing coming. He was always sceptical about my infra-red idea, the first thing he said to me on Day One was that the equipment I’d brought in was a waste of money — talk about the pot calling the kettle black!’

  ‘Well, when my first series of experiments went wrong, his gloating was positively obscene. He ord
ered me to drop that line of research and concentrate on looking for improvements to his own methods, which had been out of date for years. That’s when I first started staying in the evenings and nights, it was the only time I could work in peace.’

  ‘The problem was, how to distribute the heat generated by the rays evenly throughout the plasma — ah, I see I’m beginning to bore you, but bear with me a little longer. I

  tried putting a turntable inside the oven, then a revolving drum, then I tried turning the drum through three axes — no good.’

  ‘It was Steve who found the answer, a simple sphere with completely random movement. We set up some experiments, and on our first run more than doubled the yield of Factor VIII from a given volume of plasma. At this point, I realized I had to tell Falkenham what we were doing. I knew he wouldn’t like it, but to tell you the truth, I was rather looking forward to rubbing his nose in it.’

  ‘Well, it was he who did the rubbing, and my nose that was rubbed. He simply refused to believe me and forbade me to do any more work on it. When I told him that I was going to publish what I had found so far, he reminded me that he was on the Editorial Board of virtually all the respected journals.’

  ‘I probably could have published eventually, maybe even won Falkenham round, if I’d given him some of the credit—’

  ‘It would have been published under Falkenham’s name,’ cut in Steve.

  Chalgrove shrugged. ‘Perhaps. Anyway, it was Steve once again who came up with this idea. Just a joke at first, wasn’t it, Steve?’

  I’ll bet, I thought.

  ‘We’d stayed behind one night and made a batch, to prove it could be done. It was easy. I showed Falkenham, but he simply wouldn’t listen, and threatened disciplinary action if I disobeyed him again.’

  ‘Shortly after this, I went to the States to give some lectures. To cut a long story short, I was actually approached one evening by one of the “gentlemen”. I said no at first.’

  ‘What was wrong with their own Factor VIII?’ I asked, intrigued despite myself.