Pestilence (17 page)

The feverish activity inside Saracen’s head remained locked there for all communication to his limbs had been severed save for the small degree of movement afforded to his lower jaw. He felt Wylie grip his ankles and pull him across the smooth floor to the door, pausing to turn out the lights before dragging him out into the corridor. Saracen’s head lolled helplessly to the side so that his face received an agonising friction burn that he could do nothing about.

As they reached the back door Wylie stopped pulling and bent down to search through Saracen’s pockets for his car keys. He found them and then cursed as he noticed the red weal that had sprung up on Saracen’s face. He gripped his cheeks harshly and tuned his head to examine it further. “Careless,” he muttered, “Must be more careful.”

Saracen felt a blast of cold air when Wylie opened the back door and left him for a moment while he went to open up the car. Somewhere above him the rain hammered against the skylight and the echo in his head made it sound like a roll of drums. Wylie returned and pulled him, first up into a sitting position and then to a position where he could get his shoulder under his armpit and half walk, half drag him out to the car.

Saracen felt himself being pushed into the back of his own car before Wylie left him again to return to the lab for a few moments. He came back and Saracen was aware of him manoeuvring something into the car. An object passed in front of Saracen’s face as he lay there completely paralysed. It was the end of a long piece of plastic tubing.

As the car drove off through the rain Saracen was still working desperately at trying to move his muscles. The fact that he was now having less difficulty breathing encouraged him in the thought that the effects of the drug might be lessening. It was important to keep trying, he reasoned. The faster his metabolism worked the quicker the stuff would be cleared from his system.

They had been travelling for about fifteen minutes when Saracen heard the car slow. His initial hope that they might only be slowing for traffic lights or some road signal faded when he felt the wheels bump off the road and they began to travel along some rough track. The car came to a halt and there was silence for a few moments before Saracen heard Wylie get out and felt the plastic tubing being dragged from the back. He was still totally paralysed except for the jaw movement and maybe the slightest hint of power returning to his neck but it was academic; there was nothing he could do to help himself. He had to lie there in silence, listening to the contracting sounds made by the engine as it cooled and aware of a slight rocking movement as Wylie forced the tubing over the exhaust pipe.

The rear door opened and Saracen was manhandled out into the cold, wet night. He harboured a hope that his one hundred and eighty pound weight might give Wylie some trouble and create more delay, for time is what he needed most, but Wylie manipulated him expertly through the front door and into the driver’s seat.

“There we are,” said Wylie, speaking for the first time since they had left the Pathology Unit and sounding pleased with himself. He arranged Saracen’s arms across the steering wheel and gently allowed Saracen’s head to come down and rest on his right cheek. When Wylie was satisfied that the pose seemed natural he made a few final adjustments to the plastic tube that he had fed into the car through a quarter-light and came round to open the passenger door. He reached across Saracen to turn the key. “Good bye Dr Saracen,” he whispered, “and good riddance.” The engine sprang into life and settled down to a steady idle.

The passenger door slammed shut and Saracen, from his fixed position, could see Wylie, through the glass, take a flask from his pocket and put it to his mouth. He took a long swig and then walked off into the night.

Saracen screwed his eyes shut in despair for his limbs were still useless and unconsciousness and death could only be minutes away. The horn! If only he could manoeuvre his jaw over the horn ring perhaps he could draw attention to his plight. The idea was still born as Saracen faced the fact that he would be long dead before anyone was drawn to investigate. But if he could stall the engine that would be a different matter! If somehow he could get the car into gear so that it would move forward and hit something making the engine stop. But how? There was only one way. He had to make himself fall on to the gear stick. Desperately he worked his lower jaw against the cross member of the steering wheel, levering his head against his useless left arm.

As the seconds passed Saracen was tortured by the thought that what he was attempting had been doomed to failure from the start. The likelihood of him getting the car successfully into gear by falling on the stick was remote. The reality was that he was going to die but he had to keep trying. He succeeded in forcing his left arm off the steering wheel where it fell and dangled uselessly only inches from the stick then he levered his chin down over the wheel rim and felt a momentary elation as he realised that he was about to fall.

The fall stopped abruptly and agonisingly as his head pitched forward and hit the fascia. Ironically it left him staring down at the gear shift that he had failed to make contact with. Despair briefly threatened to overwhelm him before he became aware of a new sensation. His head was becoming fuzzy as if all pain and worry were beginning to dissipate. There was a suggestion of warmth, even comfort on the horizon…

Saracen recognised the symptoms of carbon monoxide poisoning and panicked. The fear of death flowed through his neck muscles and allowed him to turn his head slightly against the fascia in an attempt to break the deadlock but suddenly he stopped struggling as he realised that the knob directly below his mouth was the choke control.

The choke! The bloody choke’ Why hadn’t he thought about it before? If he could pull the choke out on a warm engine he would stand a good chance of flooding the carburettor and stalling the motor!

Saracen dropped his lower jaw and worked his mouth round the knob until he had it firmly between his teeth. Then, gripping it tightly, he used it to lever his head away from the fascia. He was on the verge of unconsciousness when he succeeded and fell down into the foot well of the car. Still not sure how far he had managed to pull the choke out he lay blindly into the darkness that surrounded him. He felt consciousness slip away and was only vaguely aware that the engine had started to splutter.

Saracen woke up in agony. His calf muscles had gone into cramp and he did not yet have enough muscular control to be able to flex them. Worse still, his arms were useless and he could not push himself up from the foot well where he lay with grit grinding into his grazed cheek and the smell of rubber rapidly inducing nausea. But he was alive; he was going to survive; the car itself was beautifully silent.

Sweat broke out on his face as one of his calf muscles again locked in spasm making him bite his lip in a vain attempt to divert attention from the pain in his leg. He felt a tingling sensation in his neck and shoulders telling him that his upper body was beginning to recover from the effects of the drug. It enabled him to move his body by pressing his forehead against the floor and twisting his shoulders. He could now see a red glow in the fascia above him where the ignition light was still on. Below it he could see the silhouette of the choke control; it was half out. Two centimetres that had saved his life.

Muscular control was now returning fast. Saracen found that he could move his left arm then shortly afterwards his right. He got back up into the seat and clumsily forced the door open to take great lungfuls of the cold night air, completely oblivious to the rain. He massaged his legs as well as he could with his weak hands and then got out of the car using the top edge of the door for support. He lay with his arms across the roof of the car thinking how wonderful the smell of grass was, how sweet the night air. He even looked up, hoping to see the stars but there was nothing but darkness under invisible rain clouds.

The car’s interior light was on because the door was open and in the dim light Saracen could see the plastic tubing trailing along the ground from the exhaust pipe to the window. The sight of it filled him with anger, so much so that, even in his unsteady state he took a kick at it, then another and another. He worked his way along it to the tail pipe where he supported himself on the boot lid while he kicked at the joint until the plastic fell free.

Saracen’s chest was hurting from the exertion. He got into the driving seat again and sat there with the door open until he had got his breath back. His thoughts turned to Wylie and the anger that rose inside him brought on a fit of coughing. Trying to curse at the same time did not help matters until, finally, he got out of the car again and walked around it for a few minutes until the coughing had stopped and he could think clearly.

How had Wylie got back to town, Saracen wondered. He must have walked, either that or taken the bus. No, he would not have done that. He would not have risked being seen anywhere near the area of the car. Come to that, where was the area of the car? Saracen had to admit that he had no idea where he was. All he knew was that they had driven for about fifteen minutes after leaving the Pathology Unit. But in which direction?

Saracen thought back to the moment when they had turned off the road to come along the track: it had been a left turn. If he were to drive back along the track and turn right then surely he would be heading in the right direction. He might even come across Wylie on the road. He looked at his watch. It told him that it was eleven fifteen but little else for he had no idea what time it was when they had arrived or for that matter how long he had been unconscious.

Saracen started the engine and, despite the fact that it was still raining heavily, he wound down the driver’s window. Fresh air had assumed a new importance in his life. He turned the car with some difficulty in the restricted space between the trees and eased his way back along the track, swearing as the nearside front wheel nose-dived into a pot hole whose depth had been disguised by the rain water in it. It was to happen once more before the car was back on smooth tarmac and gathering speed.

Within minutes Saracen had picked up a road sign and knew that he was seven miles South of Skelmore and heading towards it. Wylie had driven out on the old Atherton road, an ‘A’ class road but relatively quiet since the opening of the nearby motorway. The thought of catching up with Wylie was uppermost in Saracen’s mind and, for the moment, nothing else mattered. His eyes followed the sweep of the headlight beams with absolute dedication, searching the hedgerows and trees for any sign of a walking figure. But as he rounded a bend it was a police warning sign that the lights picked out. It was followed by two others. POLICE…SLOW…ACCIDENT.

Saracen had slowed to a crawl by the time he had come to the first sign of activity. A policeman in reflective clothing was waving him down with a long-handled torch.

“There’s been a bit of an accident sir,” said the officer, looking in through Saracen’s open window.

Saracen’s priorities changed. “I’m a doctor. Can I help?” he asked.

The policeman looked rather surprised for a moment and it made Saracen realise how dishevelled he must be. His hair was soaking wet, his face, he thought, must be filthy and he had congealed blood on his cheek from the graze.

“You’d have to be Jesus Christ to do something for the poor sod who got hit sir but perhaps you could take a look at the driver of the car. He’s elderly and a bit upset. You know how it is.”

Saracen got out, more than ever aware of the policeman’s appraising looks.

“Been in a bit of an accident ourselves have we sir?” the man asked.

Saracen was expecting the question. “Puncture,” he said, “Had to change a wheel in this damned rain then the wheel brace slipped and I hit my face on the side of the car.”

“Always the way sir, “laughed the policeman, “You never get punctures on sunny afternoons.”

Saracen saw the body lying by the side of the road; it was covered by a tarpaulin. Two policemen were standing beside it waiting for the ambulance to arrive. One was stamping his feet and swinging his arms across his body to keep warm. Saracen went across and was aware of the sound of the rain on their plastic jackets as he bent down to draw back the cover. It was Wylie! His eyes were open and lifeless.

“You old bastard,” said Saracen under his breath.

“Can I take it you know this man?” asked one of the policemen.

There was a long pause before Saracen said flatly, “I know him. This is Dr Cyril Wylie, consultant pathologist at the County Hospital.”

“I thought he looked vaguely familiar,” said one of the policemen to the other. “I’ve seen him in court.”

Saracen pulled back the tarpaulin a bit more and saw that Wylie’s chest had been completely crushed where the car had gone over him. He put back the cover and stood up.

“Was Dr Wylie a friend of yours sir?” asked the policeman who had flagged Saracen down. He was puzzled at Saracen’s behaviour.

“No,” replied Saracen, unable to take his eyes off the crumpled heap on the ground.

“You wouldn’t happen to know what Dr Wylie would be doing out here on foot on a night like this?”

“Perhaps his car broke down,” said Saracen.

“Had a puncture you mean sir?”

Saracen heard the inflection in the policeman’s voice and read scepticism about his own story into it. It put him on his guard. “Possibly,” he said.

“We’ve put out an alert for his car,” said one of the other policemen but Saracen’s man was reluctant to let the moment go. “The driver of the car that hit him says that Dr Wylie weaved out in front of him as if he were drunk…or had been in a fight or something?”