Cath Staincliffe - Go Not Gently

The door swung shut.

‘Get up!’ He leant back, his large frame covering most of the door.

I uncurled, helped Agnes to her feet. Goulden stood, breathing noisily, his head tilted back, hands in his pockets, staring at us through half-closed eyes. We waited. The danger was palpable. Could he smell my fear? Had Tina Achebe waited, cornered like this, time suspended, her senses lucid and singing bright with premonition?

He pushed himself away from the door and moved towards us.

‘Wait,’ I began, ‘can’t we just…’ God knows what I was going to say, some platitude about talking about things reasonably, I suppose. He came right up close to me, put his hand behind my back. I caught a whiff of his lemony aftershave and the rank odour of sweat. He stepped away suddenly, some thing white in his hand, not the knife. As he moved I felt the burning sensation. Like a wasp sting. And with it a sense of outrage at being hurt, righteous indignation. Then I panicked. What had he injected me with? A sedative? Something worse? Must ask him. I tried to speak but my tongue was stuck, swelling. Would I die? What a crummy way to die. Tell me. Can’t move my lips. Head floating, falling, dissolving.

Cold air. The smell reminded me of school.

Agnes was cradling my head in her lap. That was nice. Her woollen coat was warm on the back of my head and a little itchy on my ear.

‘Sal?’ A whisper.

I moved to sit up. It was harder than I’d remembered. Everything shook. My muscles hurt, like the flu or the trembly exhaustion after giving birth. My trousers were damp. I must have wet myself.

‘Oh, Agnes.’

‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m not sure.’ I was hoarse. I finally got myself into a sitting position. My throat felt as though it had been sandpapered. My tongue was so dry, sore. And my head, there was a piercing pain in my temples.

‘Where are we?’ I looked around.

‘Malden’s,’ she replied, ‘in the warehouse. This is all paper goods.’ We were in a large, featureless room. No windows, one door. The walls were lined with shelving which held boxes of paper towels, toilet rolls and the like. Paper and card, the smell of the school store cupboard.

‘He drove us here from the hospital,’ she said. ‘No one stopped him?’

‘He put you on that trolley and made me walk next to you. He put on a bedside manner. If anyone had overheard him it would have sounded as if he was taking you to casualty and reassuring me about your condition. He wheeled you all the way to his car.’

‘The injection -what was it? How long have I been asleep?’

‘I don’t know. Some sort of sedative or anaesthetic. I’m afraid I’ve lost all sense of time. How do you feel?’

‘Terrible.’ I lifted my hand to my nose, touched it gingerly, the pain made my eyes water.

‘Do you think it’s broken?’

‘I don’t know. Oh, I hope not. I don’t want to look like a prize-fighter. I’m so thirsty. What about you?’

‘I ache a bit,’ she smiled.

‘Where is he? Is he out there?’

‘Yes,’ she kept her voice low, ‘at least I haven’t heard his car drive away. Earlier on I could hear him pacing up and down but it’s been quiet for a while.’

I listened. The silence was profound.

‘Did he say anything?’

‘No. I asked him, when we got here, what he was going to do with us.’ Her voice swerved. ‘He didn’t like me asking. He hurt me.’

‘Oh, Agnes,’ I scanned her face for bruises, ‘are you all right? What did he do?’

‘He slapped me, then he kicked me. I expect I’ve got some pretty colourful bruises but I’m still in one piece.’

‘He probably hasn’t got a clue what to do with us. He’s dug a hole for himself and now he’s stuck.’

‘If he was going to kill us,’ Agnes said, ‘he’d have done it by now, wouldn’t he?’

At that moment I had total recall of several murder cases where the victims had been held for some time before being killed.

‘Hostages,’ I said.

‘What?’

‘Hostages. If we can persuade him that we’re more use alive than dead, gives us a chance to build up some relationship with him. But we need to talk to him first.’ I made my way quietly over to the door. Peered through the keyhole. It was hard to focus, the pain in my head was pulsing. The space beyond was practically dark. I thought I could make out a figure huddled at the far side but I couldn’t be sure. I called his name, banged on the door.

‘Dr Goulden, we need to talk. We can work something out.’ I watched through the keyhole. The figure moved. ‘The longer this goes on the worse it will be. If you let us go, they’ll take that into account.’

‘No.’ He sounded as though he were in pain too.

‘If we can just talk about it…’ I carried on. ‘After all, it wasn’t just you, was it? Simcock played his part, and

Montgomery, they ought to take some responsibility too. It just got out of hand, didn’t it? The search for a cure?’

‘Shut up,’ he shouted. ‘There’s nothing to say. You can’t trick me. I’m not stupid.’ Suddenly his tone changed, the emotion replaced by a distant practicality. ‘It won’t hurt. I’m not a cruel man, I get no pleasure from violence. But I need to be careful.’ I could hear his footsteps coming closer. ‘They have such clever ways these days, don’t they, of catching people. But they don’t catch all of them. And without evidence, especially without a body, it would be very hard to prove anything.’

I preferred his anger to this quiet, logical reasoning.

‘They know you were at Agnes’,’ I bluffed. ‘I told my family when I was leaving that you were there. They’re bound to think of you. And what about Simcock? He knows you brought us to the hospital. If you harm us it will make things much worse.’

‘No!’ He thumped the door. ‘I know your game. But it’s too late. There’s not much time. There’s things I need. Yes.’

I heard him move away and shouted after him. ‘Dr Goulden, wait, please wait. Let’s just talk about it. Dr Goulden.’

I heard the rattling of a corrugated shutter and then more distantly the car engine.

‘Now what?’ asked Agnes.

I stared back at her, my heart full of dread.

‘Now we’ve got to get out of here.’

‘I’ll try brute force.’ I used the heel of my foot and bashed as near to the lock as I could. Nothing. It looks so easy on the telly but the door wouldn’t budge and every time I tried it the throbbing pain in my face made my eyes sting with tears. I lunged again and again, getting more and more desperate, my aim becoming wild with my increasing frustration. My nose started bleeding again. Great crimson splashes on the floor.

‘Sal,’ Agnes put a restraining hand on my arm, ‘it’s not working.’

But we’ll die, I thought. We can’t just wait here for him to come back and slaughter us. Oh God. Maddie and Tom. My stomach twisted with worry. Ray would be back by now. What if Vicky had forgotten to give him Agnes’ phone number? I thought of Tina Achebe, of the little terraced house with its dayglo scene-of-crime tape, of the headlines, photographs, quotes from the neighbours. Which photograph would they use for me?

‘It’s ridiculous,’ I railed. ‘We waltzed into the consultant’s office at a major hospital with no problems, but getting out of the paper store of a warehouse is like escaping from Alcatraz.’ I trembled, swayed against the wall. ‘At least I can wipe my nose.’ It was a pathetic attempt at humour. Agnes made a pathetic attempt to smile. I found a box of paper towels and pulled some out to staunch the blood.

‘Right.’ I tried to clear my throat, my voice was getting more and more hoarse. ‘We have to work something out for when he comes back.’ My heart dipped at the prospect. What chance did we have? A tired old woman and a weak and wobbly younger one. ‘He’s not going to talk and it’s unlikely we could both run away from him. We need to surprise him, stop him for long enough to get help. What have we got that could hurt him?’