I woke with a jolt, knowing I’d heard a sound which had no business to be there.
A pen-sized flashlight was flickering round the inside of one of the top drawers of the dressing-chest. A dark shape blocked off half of its beam as an arm went into the drawer to feel around. Cautious. Very quiet, now.
I lay watching through slit-shut eyes, wondering how close I was this time to the pearly gates. Inconveniently my pulse started bashing against my eardrums as fear stirred up the adrenals, and inside the plaster all the hairs on my leg fought to stand on end.
Trying to keep my breathing even and make no rustle with the sheets I very cautiously slid one arm over the side of the bed and reached down to the floor for a crutch. Any weapon handy was better than none.
No crutches.
I felt around, knowing exactly where I’d laid them beside me, feeling nothing but carpet under my fingers.
The flashlight moved out of the drawer and swung in a small arc while the second top drawer was opened, making the same tiny crack as it loosened which had woken me with the other. The scrap of light shone fractionally on my two crutches propped up against the wall by the door.
I drew the arm very slowly back into bed and lay still. If he’d meant just to kill me, he would have done it by now: and whatever he intended I had little chance of avoiding. The plaster felt like a ton, chaining me immobile.
A clammy crawling feeling all over my skin. Jaw tight clenched with tension. Dryness in the mouth. Head feeling as if it were swelling. I lay and tried to beat the physical sensations, tried to will them away.
No noticeable success.
He finished with the drawers. The flashlight swung over the khaki chair and steadied on the polished oak chest behind it, against the wall. He moved over there soundlessly and lifted the lid. I almost cried out to him not to, it would wake me. The lid always creaked loudly. I really didn’t want him to wake me, it was much too dangerous.
The lid creaked sharply. He stopped dead with it six inches up. Lowered it back into place. It creaked even louder.
He stood there, considering. Then there were quick soft steps on the carpet, a hand fastening in my hair and yanking my head back, and the flashlight beam full in my eyes.
‘Right, mate. You’re awake. So you’ll answer some questions.’
I knew the voice. I shut my eyes against the light and spoke in as bored a drawl as I could manage.
‘Mr Oakley, I presume?’
‘Clever Mr Hughes.’
He let go of my hair and stripped the bedclothes off with one flick. The flashlight swung away and fell on top of them. I felt his grip on my neck and the front of my shirt as he wrenched me off the bed and on to the floor. I fell with a crash.
‘That’s for starters,’ he said.
Chapter Thirteen
He was fast, to give him his due. Also strong and ruthless and used to this sort of thing.
‘Where is it?’ he said.
‘What?’
‘A chunk of metal with a hole in it.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
He swung his arm and hit me with something hard and knobbly. When it followed through to the tiny light I could see what it was. One of my own crutches. Delightful.
I tried to disentangle my legs and roll over and stand up. He shone the light on me to watch. When I was half up he knocked me down again.
‘Where is it?’
‘I told you...’
‘We both know, chum, that you have this chunk of metal. I want it. I have a customer for it. And you’re going to hand it over like a good little warned off crook.’
‘Go scratch yourself.’
I rolled fast and almost missed the next swipe. It landed on the plaster. Some flakes came off. Less work for Tuesday.
‘You haven’t a hope,’ he said. ‘Face facts.’
The facts were that if I yelled for help only the horses would hear.
Pity.
I considered giving him the chunk of metal with the hole in it. Correction, half a hole. He didn’t know it was only half a hole. I wondered whether I should tell him. Perhaps he’d be only half as savage.
‘Who wants it?’ I said.
‘Be your age.’ He swung the crutch.
Contact.
I cursed.
‘Save yourself, chum. Don’t be stupid.’
‘What is this chunk of metal?’
‘Just hand it over.’
‘I don’t know what you’re looking for?’
‘Chunk of metal with a hole in it.’
‘What chunk of metal?’
‘Look, chum, what does it matter what chunk of metal? The one you’ve got.’
‘I haven’t.’
‘Stop playing games.’ He swung the crutch. I grunted. ‘Hand it over.’
‘I haven’t... got... any chunk of metal.’
‘Look chum, my instructions are as clear as glass. You’ve got some lump of metal and I’ve come to fetch it. Understand? Simple. So save yourself, you stupid crumb.’
‘What is he paying for it?’
‘You still offering more?’
‘Worth a try.’
‘So you said before. But nothing doing.’
‘Pity.’
‘Where’s the chunk...?’
I didn’t answer, heard the crutch coming, rolled at the right instant, and heard it thud on the carpet, roughly where my nose had been.
The little flashlight sought me out. He didn’t miss the second time, but it was only my arm, not my face.
‘Didn’t you ask what it was?’ I said.
‘None of your bloody business. You just tell me...’ bash...‘where’... bash...‘it is.’
I’d had about enough. Too much, in fact. And I’d found out all I was likely to, except how far he was prepared to go, which was information I could do without.
I’d been trying to roll towards the door. Finally made it near enough. Stretched backwards over my head and felt my fingers curl round the bottom of the other crutch still propped against the wall.
The rubber knob came into my hand, and with one scything movement I swept the business end round viciously at knee level.
It caught him square and unexpected on the back of the legs just as he himself was in mid swing, and he overbalanced and crashed down half on top of me. I reached out and caught something, part of his coat, and gripped and pulled, and tried to swing my plaster leg over his body to hold him down.
He wasn’t having any. We scrambled around on the floor, him trying to get up and me trying to stop him, both of us scratching and punching and gouging in a thoroughly unsportsmanlike manner. The flashlight had fallen away across the far side of the room and shone only on the wall. Not enough light to be much good. Too much for total evasion of his efficient fists.
The bedside table fell over with a crash and the lamp smashed. Oakley somehow reached into the ruins and picked up a piece of glass, and I just saw the light shimmer on it as he slashed it towards my eyes. I dodged it by a millimetre in the last half second.
‘You bugger,’ I said bitterly.
We were both gasping for breath. I loosed the grip I had on his coat in order to have both hands free to deal with the glass, and as soon as he felt me leave go he was heaving himself back on to his feet.
‘Now,’ he said, panting heavily, ‘Where bloody is it?’
I didn’t answer. He’d got hold of a crutch again. Back to square one. On the thigh, that time,
I was lying on the other crutch. The elbow supports were digging into my back. I twisted my arm underneath me and pulled out the crutch, hand swung it at him just as he was having a second go. The crutches met and crashed together in the air. I held on to mine for dear life and rolled towards the bed.