A Catalogue of Catastrophe, page 41
part #13 of Chronicles of St. Mary's Series
And then, suddenly, without warning, it was all happening. And worse, it was happening to me.
The door opened and in ran Nurse Fortunata. She was holding a pair of electric clippers. And a razor.
I sat up. ‘What the hell?’
‘Don’t argue. Don’t talk. Hyssop says there’s a bloke called Gaunt on his way. Looking for you. We need to get you out of here. If anyone asks, you’re being transferred to a civilian hospital. Into the bathroom.’
‘There’s no point me hiding in there.’
‘I’m not hiding you. I’m disguising you.’
‘How?’
She held up the clippers. ‘You have very distinctive hair.’
‘No,’ I said. Dear God, would the assaults on my hair never cease?
‘Yes. Kneel over the bath if you want to live.’
You don’t argue with nurses. I knelt over the bath. She didn’t hang around. The clippers whirred. I might have whimpered. And then she got busy with the razor. The last sad remains of my hair fell into the bath. She turned on the taps and the last sad remains of my hair swirled down the plughole.
I and my new shiny head were whirled back into bed. ‘Quick.’
She fixed one of those surgical cap things on my head and before I knew what was happening, she’d slapped a wound dressing over the half of my face not already swollen and bruised, plonked a flexi-glove over my left hand and arm and stepped back to admire the results of her hard work.
‘I’ve done a good job there,’ she said. ‘You genuinely do look as if you’re not going to last until tomorrow. What’s your name?’
‘What?’
‘Think of a name. Quick.’
‘Nicola Hay,’ I said, still bemused.
‘You’re an assistant librarian. You work for Dr Dowson. You were in a minor car crash and are suffering a head trauma.’
‘OK,’ I said, settling back on the pillows. ‘Where and when did this happen?’
‘You don’t know. You can’t remember anything. You’re not sure who you are. You don’t know what’s going on.’
‘Oh, yeah. I can do that.’
‘You’ve been doing it for years,’ she said nastily and turned to go.
I tried to stay calm. Martin Gaunt was on his way. It occurred to me suddenly that if I didn’t survive this, I had important knowledge to pass on.
I caught her wrist and whispered, ‘Dr Bairstow is still alive.’
She stared at me, her mouth an ‘O’ of surprise. I nodded. ‘Gaunt had him at the Red House. Markham and I got him out. Tell Gallacio – he can pass it on to Peterson.’
She stared at me for a moment, nodded, and then whirled herself out the door.
I lay back and practised. Nicola Hay. Library. Car crash. Can’t remember anything. Who are you? Who am I? What’s for lunch?
And then I waited.
Not for as long as I’d hoped. I heard voices. Some sort of argument. And then the door opened a few inches and Dr Stone said, ‘I warn you; the trauma is severe. You’ll probably get no sense out of her. She might even be asleep.’
Well, I can take a hint. I straightened my cap and closed my eyes. Because I was asleep.
I heard them come in, Dr Stone talking in a hushed whisper. Gaunt didn’t even bother to lower his voice. If I’d had any hair left then it would have crept back inside my head at the sound of him. Martin Gaunt was one of the few people of whom I was afraid. Even Clive Ronan hadn’t bothered me as much as Gaunt did.
His voice brought back unpleasant memories. I certainly didn’t have to open my eyes to remember how he looked. Very tall. Very thin. A shiny pink head. In fact, all of his skin was pink and shiny. His underhung jaw made him look like a well-scrubbed shark. He wore small, round glasses which reflected the light and rendered his eyes unreadable. I’ve never seen anyone look so completely what they were: a control freak. A compulsive, merciless, inhuman control freak.
Worst of all – an inhuman control freak who had lost an important prisoner and would be eager to make good that mistake. And extract a fitting revenge as well. I peered through my eyelashes. Two anonymous uniformed minions trailed in his wake.
Fortunata had drawn the curtains so the room was semi-dark. The surgical cap mostly covered my bald head and the enormous wound dressing covered the undamaged half of my face. He’d never recognise me.
Wrong. In three long strides, Gaunt was across the ward. He ripped off the wound dressing. Half my face came away with it.
‘Arrest this woman.’
Dr Stone wasn’t going down without a fight. ‘What? Why? As soon as she’s stabilised, we intend to transfer her to a civilian hospital with specialist facilities.’
I tried not to sigh. Where’s an ash-blonde nurse with wrinkled tights when you need one?
Gaunt wasn’t having any of it. ‘I’d say you have been the victim of a hoax, doctor, but I have no doubt you know this woman as well as I. This is Dr Maxwell, wanted by the authorities for . . .’ He stopped and then continued, ‘Wanted by the authorities.’
There didn’t seem to be much point in keeping my eyes closed any longer. I grinned up at him. ‘Gaunt, you old goat. How are you? Still shedding prisoners like a moulting muskrat? We really made you look stupid that day, didn’t we?’
I think I had some idea of enraging him to such an extent that he did something stupid that I could exploit. Or he could shoot me where I lay, of course. Possibly my scheme would have benefitted from just a little more thought.
Sadly, he had himself well in hand. This was a great day for him. The chance to settle an old score. One that must have rankled. Martin Gaunt didn’t do failure. Not until Markham and I danced across his path, anyway. I’d escaped him at the last moment. And now, here I was at last. Helpless and in his power.
He didn’t bother acknowledging my presence. His dehumanisation process had begun. I tried not to remember how Dr Bairstow had looked the day Markham and I got him out of Gaunt’s clutches. Gaunt turned to Dr Stone. ‘Get her up. An ambulance is on its way.’
He turned on his heel and strode away. Such was his arrogance he didn’t even wait to see his instructions carried out. He walked off knowing that if people valued their jobs – or even their liberty – they’d do exactly as he said.
Shit.
I looked at Dr Stone who looked at me. ‘Nurse, find us a wheelchair, would you, please.’
‘She can walk,’ said Gaunt, turning in the doorway.
Dr Stone was brilliant. ‘No, she can’t. One of two things will happen if you try to force her. Either she will fall – and the subsequent confusion will offer her the opportunity to escape you yet again – or she will injure herself to such an extent that any statement she might make will be inadmissible. This is Maxwell of St Mary’s and you know she will seize any opportunity to twist a situation to her advantage.’
Maxwell of St Mary’s. Got to say I rather liked the sound of that. Better still, I’d got in before Markham decided Markham of St Mary’s sounded even better. Best of all, Peterson didn’t stand a chance. Although he could be Peterson of St Pomposa’s if he wanted.
Dr Stone got his way and I got the wheelchair – although my right wrist was handcuffed to the wretched thing. Gaunt really wasn’t taking any chances this time.
And one of his minions gagged me.
It could have been worse, I suppose. They could have drugged me. I almost wished they had. I don’t know what sort of gag they used but it was metal and tasted foul and I couldn’t close my mouth, couldn’t waggle my jaw, couldn’t swallow. It was horrible. A modern scold’s bridle. I could feel saliva pooling at the back of my throat, forcing me to breathe slowly and calmly to avoid choking.
It was almost a procession. Dr Stone led the way, followed by me – not that I had a lot of choice – in my minion-propelled wheelchair, followed by the second minion, followed by Nurse Fortunata.
I’d been hoping they’d whizz me out through Hawking, which would offer Leon the opportunity to do something creative in the wife-rescuing area, but – possibly because Gaunt wasn’t taking any chances this time – we turned left out of the lift. He’d obviously left instructions to take me down the Long Corridor and through the Great Hall. Where everyone could watch my Wheel of Shame.
His first mistake.
The windows in the Long Corridor let in sunlight, which throws lovely patches of light and shade on the floor. From warm to cool. From light to dark. Through one of the windows, I caught a glimpse of an ambulance turning in through the gates. And not a public ambulance – a private one. Unmarked. I felt my stomach shift. These were my last moments of freedom. I was on my way back to the Red House.
We emerged into a silent Great Hall. Everyone was there. The place was packed. I was surprised Gaunt had allowed it but I suppose this was part of his revenge – my humiliation was to be witnessed by as many people as possible.
Just a tip, folks – and Clive Ronan himself would back me up on this – revenge is for amateurs. Anything personal is a waste of time. Just go for the kill – quick and clean – and walk away. I had an idea Ronan wouldn’t rate Gaunt very highly.
He was waiting for me. Gaunt, I mean. Deliberately or otherwise, he stood on the half-landing. Where Dr Bairstow always stood. I was wheeled to the foot of the stairs. So I could look up at him, I suppose, as he looked down at me. His two minions stood either side of me. Well, that wasn’t ominous at all, was it?
Peterson appeared. ‘What’s happening here? This is a member of my unit. Take that thing off at once. Dr Stone . . .’ He gestured at me.
Gaunt looked down at me and made his second mistake. He should have had me out of the door while he could. See my earlier comments about revenge.
Drawing himself up, he prepared to enjoy his moment. ‘Dr Maxwell is no longer a member of this unit. Nor has she been for some time. She is under arrest for assisting in an illegal act pertaining to the unlawful escape of a prisoner from a government establishment. As such, she is in my custody.’
Peterson turned to him in simulated astonishment. ‘But how could that be? The prisoner to whom you refer is dead. How could he have been held at your establishment? Is it possible, perhaps, that the prisoner of whom you speak was being held illegally and is not actually dead after all?’
Dr Stone was behind me. ‘Gently, Max. I’ll have you out in a moment.’
He unfastened and carefully removed the gag. It was only when it came out that I realised how much my jaw hurt, and I’d only been wearing it a few minutes. Great trails of saliva dangled everywhere. Fortunata wiped my mouth and offered me a sip of water, for which I was grateful.
Peterson hadn’t finished.
Addressing the Hall, he raised his voice. ‘May I have your attention, please. For anyone not already aware, Dr Bairstow is alive and well.’ He turned to Gaunt. ‘Since Commander Treadwell is incapacitated, as Deputy Director, I am acting Director of this unit. You have overstepped the bounds of your authority here, Gaunt. Take your people and go.’
Gaunt wasn’t going quietly. In fact, he wasn’t going at all. Peterson was bluffing and he knew it.
‘This prisoner is mine. I have a legally obtained warrant. It is you who has no authority in this matter. Acting Director.’
He held up a document. I had absolutely no doubt it was a perfectly genuine, perfectly legal warrant for my arrest. Peterson could protest all he wanted – and he was – but nothing could save me from Martin Gaunt.
Casting Peterson a triumphant glance, Gaunt gestured to his minions, who immediately began to wheel me towards the front doors. I was still handcuffed to the chair and I didn’t give much for my chances of a smooth and unexciting ride back to the Red House. I had only seconds left. Once I left St Mary’s, I’d be lost.
It was at this exciting moment that someone politely plied the knocker. Mr Strong opened the front doors to admit a couple of green-clad paramedics – one man and one woman. Each carried a large equipment bag over their shoulder. They stopped short at the scene in front of them, located their target – me, obviously in dire need of medical attention – and approached.
Gaunt was in full flow. Striding down the stairs, he moved into maximum authoritarian mode.
‘This woman is under arrest. She is a dangerous criminal and should be treated accordingly. You will not speak to her. You will not, under any circumstances, release her from her cuffs. The journey back to the Red House is short. There will be no time for the medical relapse she will undoubtedly try to convince you she is experiencing. If she demands a comfort break, let her soil herself. If, for any reason, she does not arrive at the Red House, then I guarantee not only will you never work again but neither will your families, your friends or anyone you have ever met. Have I made myself clear?’
By now he’d crossed the Hall and was standing in their faces. Wordlessly, they nodded.
‘These two men will accompany you inside the ambulance and a security team will follow on in another vehicle. Radio contact is to be maintained at all times.’ He gestured at Hyssop who was, apparently, supposed to supply this security team. ‘Get on with it.’
There was a pause.
And then a longer one.
And then a bit more.
All eyes were on Hyssop. Who held her nerve.
Turning her back on him and raising her voice, she addressed me, but her words were for Gaunt.
‘Dr Lucy Maxwell, I arrest you for the murder of Commander John Treadwell. You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’
Oh my God – Treadwell was dead? I didn’t believe it. That didn’t seem like something he would do.
I don’t mind saying – my newly released jaw was on the floor. Hyssop was the one person in the world who knew I couldn’t have done it. She’d only been about three feet away from me when the shot was fired. Was this her revenge? To see me charged with a crime I hadn’t committed, to compensate for the crime I had?
No – that wasn’t right. She could have arrested me for my actions at the Red House at any time and she hadn’t. What was she playing at?
And then the penny dropped. By arresting me for murder – a much more serious charge than Gaunt’s – Hyssop was actually protecting me, and Martin Gaunt was just so much piss and vinegar.
She turned back to Gaunt. ‘I regret to inform you, Mr Gaunt, that Dr Maxwell is now in my custody. As such, she will be returned to Sick Bay until she is in a fit condition – a legally fit condition – to make a statement. After which, at my discretion, you will be allowed one interview with her. In the presence of a neutral third party.’
I thought Gaunt was going to burst. From his point of view, defeat had been snatched from the jaws of victory. I was certain I could see a little vein throbbing in his temple. His normally pink complexion was bordering on purple. I waited hopefully for him to experience some sort of major neural or cardiac event.
And what about Hyssop? She was familiar with Gaunt and his methods. And she’d saved me. Legally! I was now in her custody. True, I was hers to do with as she pleased but more importantly, I was no longer Gaunt’s to do with as he pleased. And she was a captain in the king’s army. I had no idea whether, in matters of security, she outranked Gaunt or not, but she was on her home ground which must count for something. Bloody brilliant.
Just to put the boot in, Peterson stepped forwards. ‘Thank you, Captain. Carry on, if you please.’
If Peterson had put the boot in, Hyssop rubbed Gaunt’s nose in it. ‘Thank you, Director.’ She gestured to Lucca and Harper standing nearby. ‘Return the patient to Sick Bay.’ She looked at the ambulance crew. ‘I’m sorry for your wasted time. Your services will not be required.’
I was still searching for Leon, who was nowhere to be seen among the sea of St Mary’s faces. Everyone else was here. The kitchen staff were clustered just outside the dining room. For some reason, every single one of them had a tea towel draped over their hands.
Mrs Enderby and her team were lined up outside Wardrobe. She was holding the biggest pair of pinking shears I’d ever seen in my life. As were others in her team, except for young Glenda, who was clutching a length of material and wearing a determined expression. Was she going to hem Gaunt to death?
Dr Dowson and Professor Rapson were both waiting quietly by the Library door which, trust me, was far more alarming than anything else I’d seen so far. Was it only coincidence that every internal doorway was blocked? And that a member of the Security Section was standing casually by every exit? Not doing anything in particular. Just standing around.
But still no sign of Leon. Not that I seemed to need him at the moment. I could go back to Sick Bay and start growing my hair again.
I had relaxed too soon. Cox and Gallacio, both standing near the vestibule, stiffened. They didn’t have time to do much more. The vestibule doors burst open. Not a figure of speech – they really did burst open. And not gently. I winced. The one on the right bounced off the wall, sending a great chunk of plaster flying through the air. The whole building shuddered with the impact because they were hefty doors. And very old. They’d been doing their job for a long time. When doors like that burst open, they don’t muck about.
My heart sank. Oh shit – just when you think things really can’t get any worse – they do. Only one organisation makes that sort of entrance.
The sodding Time Police were here.
Well – wasn’t this interesting? Yet another body of people who would cheerfully see me dead at their feet. Was it possible they’d come to arrest me too? In which case this had to be some sort of record.
They were dressed for action. Armed and armoured. Helmeted as well. And bristling with weapons. Perfectly in step, the Time Police marched through the Hall. St Mary’s fell back before them and – I’m sorry, I have to ask: does anyone else hear ‘The Imperial March’ in their heads every time the buggers do this? It can’t be just me, surely.
Anyway, back to our improbable drama. Their visors were down so they were obviously expecting full-on carnage but at least they weren’t spraying the Hall with gunfire. Not at this exact moment, anyway, although that could all change in a heartbeat.
