Captives

NINETY-SIX

He'd slept in the back of the car on a side-road, the merciful oblivion he sought interrupted so often by the pain in his head. Finally, after two disturbed hours, Scott had decided to drive on. He'd discarded his prison overalls in favour of one of the shirts and a pair of the jeans but he still wore his prison boots. He'd washed his face and hands in the rain and he'd fixed a small bandage over the surgical dressing with Elastoplast. The wound in his calf had stopped bleeding, but it hurt; every time he pushed his foot down on the clutch, fresh blood seeped out.

The pain inside his head was less insistent. That was the handfuls of pain-killers he'd taken, he told himself. But it was still there, ever-present as he drove, glancing around him, wincing in the early morning sunlight that streamed through the windscreen.

He was well inside the outskirts of London now, heading for his own flat in Brent. If only he could reach it, the flat would provide a haven at least for a couple of precious hours. Providing the police hadn't already covered it, waiting for him to go there. No, surely they wouldn't expect him to head back to London so soon. Would they? He was convinced his escape must have been discovered by now, but he'd seen precious little in the way of police pursuit. Not as yet, anyway.

He decided to return to his flat; he would take the chance. Besides, there were things there he needed. A change of clothes, for one. And after that?

He gripped the wheel tightly, wincing at the pain that filled his head.

Plummer.

Scott ran one index finger tentatively over his forehead.

Carol.

She wouldn't be expecting him back, either.

The bitch.

How surprised they would be to see him.

Scott almost smiled. He glanced down at the passenger seat, at the pile of shirts and jeans there.

And the carving knife that lay hidden beneath.

This time he did smile.

As he glanced ahead once more he saw the police car.

It was travelling slowly up the other side of the road towards him; there was just one man in it.

Scott gripped the wheel, a reflex action brought about by a combination of pain and panic.

Should he pull in to the side of the road until the police car had gone?

It was getting closer. He knew he must make up his mind quickly.

He drove on, his eyes fixed firmly on the road as he by-passed the vehicle. Its driver offered him only a cursory glance. Scott watched the car in his rear-view mirror, saw it turn a corner and disappear from sight. He exhaled deeply, checking his mirror again to ensure that the police car hadn't turned to follow him. Satisfied that it hadn't he drove on, drawing nearer to his flat.

He saw no police cars parked outside; no officers waiting for him, at least none in uniform. They'd be plain clothes, he thought, angry with himself. The cars would be unmarked. There was an old Capri parked outside the block of flats where he lived, but it had no occupant. Scott looked around. A group of school-children were making their way noisily across the road in front of him, one of them slapping the bonnet of the Renault as he passed. Scott ignored the children, his eyes flicking back and forth as he drove past the block, satisfied that he was safe. He parked the car behind the Capri and climbed out, walking briskly across to the main doors, the knife tucked inside his jeans, covered by the folds of his shirt.

He would have to use the knife to get into his flat as he had no keys.

Wearily he began to climb the stairs. He felt the blade cold against his flesh.

The razor-sharp blade. He thought of Carol. The knife.

Plummer.

He continued to climb.