‘Shut up, you fool, you stupid fool.’
‘They know! Don’t you?’ Goulden jabbed his huge finger at me. ‘They bloody know. Tell him.’
Oh God. Did I? Yes? No? What would be the safest reply?
‘Lily wasn’t senile.’ Agnes spoke slowly, I could just hear her. ‘You made her act as if she was, with those pills, then you were able to take her to Kingsfield.’
‘Weren’t they Lily’s scans then?’ I sounded blurred, like talking after having work at the dentist. Only I hadn’t had an anaesthetic before Goulden bashed me. ‘He said there were plaques.’
‘Yes, there were,’ Goulden insisted, ‘eventually. But we did it you see, we cultivated the actual, physical changes, the lesions,’ he was jubilant now, ‘plaques in the hippocampus and in the cortex, clear signs of deterioration.’
‘For God’s sake!’ Simcock tried to silence him but Goulden carried on regardless.
‘She was clear as a bell when she moved into Homelea, had her scanned as part of the medical. We induced the disease and for the first time we got over the problem of rejection. A real breakthrough.’ He was triumphant.
‘Lily didn’t fall,’ I said. ‘She never had any haemorrhage. That was just to cover up what you were really doing, so you could operate.’
‘He did a fantastic job,’ said Goulden. ‘He’s one of the best, you know.’
‘You’re out of your mind!’ Simcock exclaimed. He knelt to pick up the phone from where it had fallen. ‘I’m ringing security.’
Goulden flew at him. The two men grappled together. It was probably a second or two before it dawned on me that this was the diversion we needed. I rose with effort, feeling giddy.
‘Agnes.’
We ran.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The main corridor was still deserted. We turned left. I saw the fountain mosaic, reassured we were going the right way. There was no one about. Then I heard someone running. Goulden!
Nowhere to hide out here. There was a door to the left. I opened it. A small passageway: two doors along the right-hand wall, a trolley along the left. Nothing else. A dead end. I tried the first door. Locked. The second. Locked. There was an old Tamla song, bright and brassy, something about running and hiding, dancing in lines, with our handbags laid out in front of us. I could feel the pulsing beat as it started…I heard him getting closer. My heart was thumping. I pulled the trolley towards us, created enough space for us at the far end.
‘Get down here, Agnes.’
She moved past me and into the gap. Carefully she edged down into a kneeling position. Hurry up, hurry up. I crouched beside her. The fire door swung open.
I held my breath. Heard his. Panting. How much did the trolley hide? Was he listening? I counted. One, two, like hide and seek but don’t giggle, three, no game this, please, help me, please, four, with a cut there is always that delay, the gap between the knife cutting the flesh and the brain realising, sending the messages, admitting the pain, spittle on his lips…
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.’