Brian Freemantle - The Blind Run

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.

Sampson was ready before he was, whispering ‘come on! come on!’ from the doorway. He unlocked it a second time as Charlie approached, easing it back from the frame and staring out. He nodded, indicating that it was clear, leading out into the corridor with Charlie directly behind. There were no cells on this landing, which formed the beginning of the administration section. It was illuminated by the dull green night-lights. The two men still moved cautiously, hesitating every few steps for any noise of approaching officers. The longest pause was at the steps leading to the lower landing, where the empty library room was: the cells began at the far end and if a prisoner were standing against the bars of his cell there was a possibility of their being seen. Sampson mimed a treading motion with his hands, warning Charlie to walk softly, then slowly began his descent. When they reached the bottom of the stairway they stopped again, pulled into the concealing cover of the well. From the far end came the murmur of conversation from the cells. From where they were, it was impossible for Charlie to see if anyone were against the cell door: it was a very common place for prisoners to stand, particularly if they were attempting some sort of contact with a neighbouring cell.

Sampson led again, keeping to the left of the corridor, to bring himself to the library door. Charlie crept behind him, nerves tight for some shout of discovery. What happened if they got caught now?, wondered Charlie. If everything was cocked up before it even had a chance to start and Wilson lost his chance would the man come forward and admit to a deal, with a prison officer suffering Christ knows what injuries? And another man as well? Government departments didn’t do that, when things went wrong. They put up the barricades and denied everything. Jesus! thought Charlie.

But they reached the door unchallenged. Sampson held the connecting chain in his left hand, to prevent it vibrating and sounding against the door and tried to locate the correct key with his right. What if the officer didn’t have the library key on his chain? The fresh fear surged through Charlie. Taylor was attached to the section, so he supposed there should have been a key but the room was disused now and in any case there might be the system of limiting keys, to apply only to the necessary duty. Charlie strained forward, feeling the sweat run in irritating, itching paths down his back.

Sampson opened the door on his fifth attempt, with only two more keys to try. Charlie was aware of Sampson’s shoulders sagging, a moment of abrupt relief, and realised the other man had had the same fear as himself. The click, as the lock moved, seemed to reverberate along the corridor and they both stared in the direction of the occupied cells, for any sign that it had been heard. There was nothing. Still Sampson was carefully easing the door open to guard against any squeaking sound and only creating the minimum gap for them to slip through. Sampson went first, then Charlie. Sampson was as careful closing it as he had been opening. The lock clicked shut with another loud-sounding noise and again, momentarily, they tensed. Again, nothing.

The corridor lights and that which came in through the window were sufficient for them to move across the room, which was cleared anyway of everything except the skeletal shelves to be restocked when the outside extension work was completed. Charlie set out immediately for the window, aware as he got closer that the bars had been removed, but his attention was more fully upon Sampson. The man wasn’t going to the windows, as he should have done, but standing instead against the shelving by a far wall, legs apart and gazing up, as if trying to orientate himself. As the impression came to Charlie he realised that was exactly what Sampson was doing. The man paced off two divided sections in the shelving and reached up and even from where he stood Charlie detected the grunt of satisfaction.

‘What is it?’ whispered Charlie, when Sampson came to the window.

The other man held out his hand, palm uppermost. Charlie felt the sensation of sickness, like he’d known earlier in the day after ingesting the drug. Cupped easily in Sampson’s hand was a short-barrelled gun. In the poor light Charlie couldn’t positively identify it but it looked like a. 38, maybe a Smith and Wesson.