‘Both?’ asked Charlie.
Sampson shook his head. ‘Just one. And now, before lock up. I want us to be ill in the sluices, where everyone can see. Where it’ll be obvious we’re the latest victims.’
The effect of the expectorant was far quicker than Charlie imagined it would be. The sweep of nausea engulfed him within minutes of his swallowing the drug and although he ran, which was officially against the regulations, he still failed to reach the sinks in time, vomiting at first over the floor and then heaving his body racked by retching, over the huge receptacle. Beyond the sound of his own discomfort, he heard Sampson being violently ill in an adjoining basin.
There had been shouts at their running, demands to stop which they ignored and the arrival of prison officers, backed by others who feared some sort of trouble, was immediate.
‘Christ,’ said a voice from behind Charlie. ‘When the hell is this going to stop? Fucking doctors!’
The assembled warders dispersed, sure from the condition of the two men that no danger existed, but Butterworth remained at the entrance, disdainfully watching while Charlie and Sampson hawked and groaned. It took a long time before the convulsions were over and Butterworth waited even longer, unwilling to risk the walk to the hospital with men who might suddenly become ill again and foul a landing. Charlie clung to the rim of the sink, uncaring of its usual purpose and his closeness to it, feeling awful. His whole body was slimed with perspiration but it was icy cold, making him shiver. His head ached and he felt physically hollowed, which he was. The worst ache, of course, was his ribs and stomach, stressed and strained by the retching.
‘Jesus!’ he groaned. ‘Oh Jesus.’
‘Ready to go?’ asked Butterworth, cautiously.
Charlie nodded, even that movement difficult.
‘I need a doctor,’ said Sampson, from beside him, playing the part, which wasn’t difficult for the man to do.
‘Out,’ said Butterworth. The prison officer stood back, as if he feared contamination, as Charlie and Sampson walked unsteadily from the sluice room. The officer gestured them immediately along the corridor towards the hospital where the doctor who had set Charlie’s arm did not bother to attempt any sort of proper examination, satisfied from their condition that they were suffering the same mysterious food poisoning as the earlier victims.
‘Just when I thought the damned thing was disappearing,’ said the doctor.
Charlie didn’t understand the remark until he undressed and got into bed and then realised that he and Sampson were the only two people in the infirmary. Sampson was organising everything superbly well, Charlie conceded.
The doctor gave them both medication and put a pail beside their beds and told them to be bloody careful if they were ill again not to mess the floor or the bed. Sampson was sick but not much. Charlie lay gratefully in the bed, feeling the ache gradually diminish. By early evening he felt quite well again. There was more medication before the doctor went off duty for the night. He took their pulse and temperature as well and as he left said, ‘You’ll be all right by tomorrow. Be out of here, with luck.’
‘That would be good,’ said Sampson, heavily.
Charlie recognised Miller as the night-duty orderly. The duty prison officer was one of the good blokes, a fat, easily pleased screw called Taylor. He had two kids of whom he was very proud and sometimes showed their pictures. Directly above the small office in which they sat was a wall-mounted clock and Sampson and Charlie lay watching the slow progress of the hands.
‘When?’ demanded Charlie, voice hardly more than a hiss.
Sampson eased himself slightly from the pillow, to ensure that Miller and the officer were beyond hearing and whispered back. ‘Ten thirty. They’ll be waiting for us outside at midnight but I don’t know how long it’ll take for us to get over the scaffolding. If we’re not out by twelve thirty it’ll be off.’
The first uncertainty, thought Charlie. There were going to be a hell of a lot more. Charlie felt the tension build up, a physical impression like the earlier aching had been, as the leisurely clock approached ten. On the hour, Sampson began to groan and move in his bed, attracting Miller’s attention. The orderly began moving, to come from the office, but Sampson moved first, getting with apparent awkwardness from the bed and setting out towards the lavatories, bent as if pulled over by stomach cramps. As he passed Charlie’s bed the man whispered, ‘Move as soon as I get the screw.’
Taylor was at the door of the office as Sampson approached, shaking his head sympathetically. ‘Poor bugger,’ he said, as Sampson reached him.
Sampson turned as if to enter the lavatory, hand outstretched against the door-jam for support. Taylor was actually going towards him, offering support, when Sampson attacked. He drove his knee up viciously into the groin of the completely unsuspecting officer, driving the breath from him in a contorted squeak of agony. Charlie started to move, as Sampson had told him, and as he ran forward saw Sampson bending over the man, kneeing and punching at him. By the time Charlie got to the office door Taylor was completely unconscious, blood pouring from his nose and mouth. Sampson was still kicking at the man’s body and Charlie said ‘OK, for Christ’s sake. That’s enough. He’s out.’
‘And got to stay that way,’ gasped Sampson.
Charlie got the impression the man liked inflicting pain.
Miller was pressed back against the wall of the office, eyes pebbled in surprised fear. ‘What’s happening?’ he said, in a little-boy voice. ‘Dear God, what’s happening?’
Instead of replying, Sampson entered the room and with the same viciousness as before kicked bare-footed at the orderly, in the groin again, bringing the man down with another muted scream of bewilderment and pain. As Miller fell Sampson clubbed the man on the back of the head and then kneed him, just as he had kneed the prison officer, as the man lay on the ground. ‘Stop it!’ shouted Charlie again. ‘You’ll kill him.’
Sampson looked up from the prostrate figure and Charlie saw the man was smiling. ‘If he’s dead, he can’t do anything to stop us, can he?’
‘There’s nothing he can do now,’ said Charlie. ‘Fucking psychopath.’
‘Tie his hands and legs and gag him,’ ordered Sampson, gesturing to the unconscious officer.
Charlie bent, easing the man’s belt from his trousers and looping it around Taylor’s wrists. The man’s breath was snorting from him, an indication Charlie remembered from training as one of deep unconsciousness. He thought there was a danger of the man choking, from the inhalation of his own blood and used the act of securing his hands to turn him on his side, to prevent it happening. Charlie wondered how much damage he was doing if Taylor’s skull were fractured.
‘Hurry!’ urged Sampson, from behind.
Charlie used surgical bandage to secure the warder’s legs and hesitated at gagging the man, aware again of the breathing difficulty. If he didn’t do it then Sampson would, he realised. And less carefully. Charlie wrapped the bandage as gently as possible around the warder’s mouth, trying to arrange it so Sampson would think it sufficiently tight but in reality leaving it quite loose, to enable the man as much air as possible.
‘Get the keys,’ said Sampson.
They were at Taylor’s waist, locked into the securing chain. Charlie unfastened the whole affair from the prison officer’s waist and gave them to the impatient Sampson, who was standing by the door making irritated, beckoning gestures with his outstretched hand. Sampson studied the bunch briefly and failed to pick the correct key in his first attempt to unlock the hospital door. He succeeded on the second attempt. He re-locked it, leaving the key and the chain hanging, glanced briefly up at the clock, which still only showed ten twenty-five and said ‘OK. Let’s get dressed.’
At the door of the office Charlie paused, looking down regretfully at the two unconscious men, then hurried after Sampson. The man was a bastard, thought Charlie. A psychopath, like he’d said.