Eeny Meeny

97

‘We’ve got to keep strong, Mark. If we keep strong, if we keep united, she won’t win.’

Mark nodded.

‘She’s not going to beat us. I won’t let her,’ Charlie continued.

Mark clambered to his feet, aided by Charlie, and together they explored their surroundings. If they were at the hospital, there was no way anyone would hear them. The council had been trying to flog the building to developers for years with zero success. It stood alone in a run-down, forgotten part of town.

They were surrounded by concrete walls. There were no windows and the door had been recently and extensively strengthened – renovation that sat at odds with the otherwise dilapidated room. They tried to get at the hinges, but without a tool of some kind it was hard to gain any purchase. Still it was something to work at. If they could somehow loosen the hinges, then…

Mark ignored his pounding head and rising temperature to work away at the hinges, whilst Charlie battered at the door with her fists. She punched it again and again. Harder and harder, screaming all the time at the top of her lungs, begging for help. She was making enough noise to wake the dead – but was anybody listening?

Already great swirls of dust were kicking up, enveloping them both, creeping into their ears, their eyes, their throats. Charlie’s voice was cracking but she didn’t give up. On and on they went, challenging each other not to give up, but after over an hour of fruitless exertion, they collapsed to the floor, exhausted.

Charlie refused to cry. They were stuck in the middle of the worst nightmare they could possibly imagine but they had to keep their spirits up. That was crucial if they were to have any chance of surviving.

‘Do you remember Andy Founding?’ Charlie said as brightly as she could, her cracked voice belying her jaunty tone.

‘Sure,’ Mark replied, confused.

‘Apparently he’s suing Hampshire police. Claiming he’s been the victim of sexual harassment by female officers.’

Mark snorted a brief laugh in response. Andy Fondling, as he was affectionately known, was a desk sergeant in Portsmouth whose wandering hands were legendary, especially where junior female officers were concerned. Charlie continued her anecdote and though Mark craved sleep, craved some peace, he responded to Charlie’s offering, knowing too that they must fend off despair.

As they swapped stories, neither of them mentioned the gun that lay on the floor between them.