Garden Rubbish Part 2

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Garden Rubbish Part 2

Post by Graham on Tue May 08, 2018 5:42 pm

This is a second draft mainly because I'd written it in the past tense and had decided at the end of the part 1 to change to the present for the chase. I'm still not happy with it but time passeth and a challenge is a challenge.


National Health Service staffing levels he thinks, bugger. He shouts for the armed officers on the other side of the door. They can do a little work for a change instead of reading the paper and drinking tea. His voice echoes in the bare walls but no one answers. I’ll just have to manage myself he thinks.

Let’s see, the wires on his chest, just sticky tape. They can come off. The drip on his arm. He leans over and sees the bottle is hanging from a stand on wheels. OK this will work. He’s been given a light sedative they said, just to make him relax. He could just lie there and pee and he isn’t too fussed, but he imagines the discomfort with no idea when the nurses will be back. OK, legs over the side, no problem. Then tip upright. Jesus, he is dizzy and his vision is not all it should be, haloes and motes dance gaily in front of him. Standing is another effort but he can use the drip stand to support himself and trundle forward. The loo is in the corner near the door and as he drags himself past it he looks out. That’s funny, no police, slack bastards. They have left their newspapers and empty drink cartons, probably off for a refill. Hum ho.

In he goes and joyously empties his bladder. As the last drops splash he thinks he hears a door swing and on his way back pushes the door to the corridor open, nothing. Wait, is the door at the far end still moving? He is about to call out when a sixth sense says no. Instead he laboriously trails his way to the nurses’ station. There is no one at the desk. What the fuck, he doesn’t like this. Has there been an emergency, a bomb scare, a fire alarm and he’s been forgotten? He picks the phone off the desk, no dial tone. Day of the Triffids comes to mind. Yes, alien invasion and he is the sole survivor. Ha, yes, very likely. Through the window to the office he sees another phone with a light flashing and pushes his way through the door. His head is thrumming now and he sits down heavily.

As he regains his breath he hears footsteps in the corridor and looking up sees DC McKay go past with another figure. Panic freezes in his throat. It is his would be executioner. Fucking McKay, he thinks, he’s in with them. He rips the drip out of his wrist and pads out into the corridor. He can hear their voices and the banging of the bathroom door. He goes into the next room along, closing the door while pulling on it to minimise noise. It is a store room, buckets and brooms along one side, filing cabinets on the other, light spilling in from the quarter window. There is just room for him on the other side of a cabinet, hidden from the door. As a last thought he pulls a large floor polisher in front of him. He can hear their voices and doors being flung open. Light suddenly floods the room. He does’t breathe, doesn’t even move his eyes. They are fixed on the floor, a bright spot of blood grinning back at him. The door stays open for an agony of time and then bangs shut.

‘Nope,’ he hears McKay’s voice.

Graham
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