It was Ian’s bad luck that it was he who moved first and went to open it.
Malcolm’s friends attacked with their usual brutal speed, bursting in through the opening door like bulls and hitting out at whatever stood in their way. The sheer animal fury swept into the room like an emotional volcano, and the half concealing balaclavas only seemed to intensify the horrendous impact.
The swinging riot stick wielded by the one in front crunched solidly into Ian’s head. He fell without a sound and lay un-moving by the bathroom door.
The one behind kicked shut the door to the corridor and strode forward purposefully, holding a small screw-topped glass jar. On his hands, he wore rubber gloves. In the little jar, a pale golden liquid, like champagne.
Everything happened exceedingly fast.
Malcolm came to life with wide-staring eyes and shouted, ‘Alyosha.’ Then he said, ‘No, no.’ Then, as he saw the riot stick swinging at Stephen he said, ‘No, no, that one,’ and pointed at me.
I leapt on to the bed and picked up the tape recorder, and threw it at the man who was attacking Stephen. It hit him in the face and hurt him, and he turned my way even more murderously than before.
The man with the little jar unscrewed its cap.
‘That one,’ Malcolm screamed, pointing at me. ‘That one.’
The man with the jar stared with appalling ferocity at Malcolm, and drew back his arm.
Malcolm screamed.
Screamed.
‘No. No. No.’
I picked up the chair and lashed out at the man with the jar, but the one with the riot stick stood in the way.
The man with the jar threw the contents into Malcolm’s face. Malcolm gave a high wailing cry like a seagull.
I crashed the chair down again and hit the wrist of the jar-carrier with a blow like chopping wood. He dropped the jar and jerked with agony. I jumped off the sofa and laid into both of them with the chair with a fury fed by theirs, and Stephen picked up one of the vodka bottles and slammed it at one of the eye-slits of the balaclavas.
I had never in my life felt such a rage. I hated those men. Shook with hate. I swung the chair not to preserve my life, but to smash theirs. Sheer primitive blood-lusting vengeful hatred, not only for what they were doing in this city and this room, but for all their counterparts round the world. For all the helpless hostages, for all the ransom victims, I was bashing back.
It may have been reprehensible and uncivilised, but it was certainly effective. Stephen smashed his bottle against the wall and crowded into them with the broken ends thrusting forward sharply, and I simply belted them with chair and feet and fury, and we beat them back into the narrow passage by the bathroom, where Ian still lay unmoving.
With what looked like a joint and instantaneous decision they suddenly turned their backs on us, dragged open the door to the corridor, and fled.
I turned back into the room, panting.
‘After them,’ Stephen said, gasping.
‘No... come back...’ I heaved for breath. ‘Shut the door... Got to see to Malcolm.’
‘Malcolm?...’
‘Dying,’ I said. ‘Ninety seconds... Jesus Christ.’
Malcolm had collapsed, half on the floor, half on the bed, and was whimpering.
‘Open the matroshka,’ I said urgently. ‘Misha’s matroshka. Quick. Quick... Get that tin with the naloxone.’
I yanked open the drawer which contained my breathing things and snatched out the plastic box. My fingers wouldn’t work properly. Serve him bloody right, I thought violently, if I couldn’t save his life because they’d smashed my hand when he tried to have me killed.
Couldn’t tear the strong plastic cover off the hypodermic syringe. Hurry. For God’s sake hurry... Did it with my teeth.
‘This?’ Stephen said, holding out the cough lozenge tin. I opened it and put it on the dressing shelf.
‘Yes... Get his trousers down.’
Ninety seconds. Jesus Christ.
My hands were trembling.
Malcolm was gasping audibly for air.
‘He’s turning blue,’ Stephen said with horror.
The needle was packed inside the syringe. I got it out and fitted it in place.
‘He’s hardly breathing,’ Stephen said. ‘And he’s unconscious.’
I snapped the neck of one of the ampoules of naloxone. Stood it with shaking hands upright on the shelf. Mustn’t... mustn’t knock it over. Needed two good hands, two hands working properly and not shaking.
I picked up the syringe in my right hand and the ampoule in my left. I was right-handed... I couldn’t do it at all the other way round, though I would have done, if I could. Lowered the needle into the precious teaspoonful of liquid. Hauled up the plunger of the syringe, sucking it in. My fingers hurt. So what, so what. Ninety seconds... all but gone.
I turned to Malcolm. Stephen had pulled the trousers down to expose a bit of rump. I shoved the needle into the muscle, and pressed the plunger: and God, I thought, could do the rest.
We lifted him on to the bed, which was no mean task, taking off his jacket and tie and ripping open the front of his shirt. His colour and breathing were still dreadful, but no worse. He was conscious again, and terrified, and he said, ‘Bastards,’ between his teeth.
Along by the bathroom Ian began groaning. Stephen went over to him, and found him rapidly regaining consciousness and trying to rise to his feet. He helped him up and supported him, and got him as far as the sofa.
The little glass jar lay near the sofa on the carpet, and Stephen almost automatically bent down to pick it up.
‘Don’t touch it,’ I said, my voice going high with alarm. ‘Don’t touch it, Stephen. It’ll kill you.’
‘But it’s empty.’
‘I doubt it,’ I said. ‘And I think a few drops would be enough.’ I picked up the fallen chair and planted it over the jar. ‘That’ll have to do for now... Don’t let Ian touch it.’
I turned back to Malcolm. His breathing seemed to be slightly stronger, but not by much.
‘How do we get a doctor?’ I said.
Stephen gave me a despairing look which I interpreted as dismay at getting ourselves enmeshed in any form of Soviet officialdom, but he picked up the telephone and dialled through to the reception desk.
‘Tell them the doctor should bring naloxone.’
He repeated the request twice and spelled it out once, but looked troubled as he replaced the receiver. ‘She said she would call a doctor, but about the naloxone... she said the doctor would know what to bring. Unhelpful. Obstructive. The more you insist, the more they just stick their toes in.’
‘Randall...’
Malcolm’s lusty voice came out as a weak croak.
‘Yes?’ I bent over him, to hear better.
‘Get... the... bastards.’
I took a deep breath. ‘Why did they throw the stuff at you, and not at me?’
He seemed to hear and understand, but he didn’t answer. Sweat stood out suddenly in great beads all over his face, and he began gasping again for air.
I filled the syringe from the second ampoule of naloxone, and pushed the needle into his haunch. The reaction came again, sluggish but definite, taking the laboured edge off the breathing but leaving him in a dangerous state of exhaustion.
‘The bastards... said... I... robbed them.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I sold them... the stuff. They said... it wasn’t worth... the money.’
‘How much did they pay you?’ I said.
‘Fifty... thousand...’
‘Pounds?’
‘Christ... sport... of course. They said... this afternoon... I’d robbed... them. I told them... to come here... finish you... too clever... by half. Didn’t know Ian... would... be here.’