Brian Freemantle - The Blind Run

Charlie had been conscious at breakfast that two prisoners from his landing were missing but had not thought overly about it because there could have been many reasons for it, so it was not until he got into administration, where one of them worked, and saw he was absent from there as well that he asked around and heard of the sickness outbreak on his landing. It had started, according to the gossip, on the second day he was in solitary, sudden attacks of convulsive vomiting that the doctor had diagnosed as food poisoning. Almost a dozen men, five from Charlie’s landing alone, had gone down with it. There had been a cleanliness check in the kitchens and before he’d been released from solitary special disinfecting of the slop-out rooms. He mentioned it to Sampson, because in the cut off society of prison anything, no matter how inconsequential, is a talking point and this was hardly inconsequential anyway, aware as he did so of the man’s smile and not understanding the assurance that they wouldn’t go down with the complaint. It was not until the end of the week when they spoke about it again and this time it was Sampson who raised it, smiling as he had on the first occasion.

‘Doctor can’t seem to get to the bottom of this food poisoning,’ he said.

‘We’ve been lucky,’ said Charlie.

‘No, we haven’t,’ said Sampson.

What was the self-satisfied bugger talking about now? wondered Charlie. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

‘Know what an emetic is, Charlie?’

‘Of course I do,’ said Charlie.

‘Apomorphine is an emetic,’ said Sampson.

Charlie was fully attentive now, knowing this wasn’t a meaningless conversation. ‘Where did you get it?’ he said.

Sampson sniggered. ‘From the very hospital where the poor victims are being treated! Isn’t that classic?’

‘How?’

‘Miller, the pederast who took the booze to you, when your arm was being treated. Supplied him, too, of course. Until he became dependent and I was able to make the demands.’

‘How did you introduce it into the food?’

‘Easiest thing in the world, in those canteen lines,’ said Sampson.

‘What’s the purpose?’

‘It’s already been achieved,’ said Sampson. ‘Officially there’s a salmonella outbreak they can’t control. They’re used to it and our going down with it will be just another indication of how ineffective they are being, in finding the cause.’

The corridor leading to the now abandoned library linked with the hospital, just one landing higher, realised Charlie. And wasn’t separated by the heavy dividing steel doors that partitioned off the individual landings in the main section. ‘When?’ he said.

‘Tonight,’ announced Sampson, enjoying the role as master of ceremonies.

‘Sick tonight or out tonight?’ persisted Charlie.

Sampson hesitated. ‘Both,’ he said.

Charlie felt a tingle, of expectation and excitement. Apprehension, too. What if he wasn’t as good, as he’d once been? It had, after all, been a long time. Four years, nearer five.

‘Frightened?’ demanded Sampson.

‘Yes,’ admitted Charlie, because there wasn’t any danger in the confession.

‘Everything is going to be OK,’ assured Sampson.

‘I’d still like to know more,’ said Charlie.

Instead of replying, Sampson extended his hand. In the palm lay two small, white pills, unmarked.

‘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.’