Read Online Snatched by Dreda Say Mitchell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Dreda Say Mitchell
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the drink with a finger.
Then he lay back down and waited the brief period before two nurses and the anxious cop burst back into the room. Mac lay steady while his pulse and heartbeat were checked. His brow was mopped and a conversation took place between the nurses. When one leaned over the bed and asked him how he was doing, Mac confessed he’d woken to find someone in the room with him and he suspected the man was going to kill him.
The officer leaned over the bed. ‘That was me mate . . .’
One of the nurses smiled at his attempt to be of assistance and pointed him to his seat. The atmosphere was calmer now and there was another whispered conversation between the nurses, a squeeze of the arm for Mac and assurance that he was OK. The nurses left, one indicating with a finger to her lips that the guard should be silent.
When they were gone the guard locked the door and sat down again, studying his disturbed charge closely. He in turn was being watched with half an eye. Mac could hear his own internal and silent voice.
Don’t watch me. I’m fine. Drink your tea, you idiot.
Mac couldn’t be sure what cocktail of drugs he’d actually laced the mug with. But he was confident that if he wasn’t going to die from it, neither was the other guy. But would the pills be enough to render the man in the chair incapable of stopping him escaping?
‘I’m alright,’ Mac said weakly. ‘Do me a favour. Tuck into your sandwich. Drink your tea.’
His guard started nibbling on his sandwich and drinking his tea. There was a look of slight disgust on the man’s face as he slurped away but it was difficult to tell whether it had become cold or there was a chemical tang left by the cocktail of drugs. The cop raised his mug to prove that he’d drunk its contents almost as if he was Mac’s accomplice. It had been a lot pills and it had to have some effect. Didn’t it?
For fifteen minutes though, it didn’t. Instead it seemed to make the officer more animated rather than less. The cop looked over to see if Mac was awake. When he saw that he was, he asked, ‘Do you mind if I open the window? It’s a bit stuffy in here isn’t it?’
It was working.
Mac shivered. ‘I’m freezing mate. It will be a real shit if I ended up with pneumonia.’
There was a sigh, which was followed at regular intervals by other sighs and draws of breath. Inwardly, Mac was begging him – Fall off your chair you bastard. I’ve gotta get out of here.
But the officer remained rooted straight in the chair. Mac squeezed his eyes tight and wished he hadn’t. More disturbing images came – less defined than the ones he had suffered the night before when he’d fixed himself in a stress position. Children’s laughter. Gunfire. More laughter, followed by the eerie disembodied voice of Tom Bracken asking what kind of outfit Phil Delaney was running over there. And, all the time, the black shadowed bitch with the hair fluttered above his head. Followed by John Mac with an adult American accent asking him, What kind of an outfit are you running Daddy? And the constant flutter of the black figure above his head. He couldn’t see her face. But he knew who she was.
Mac snapped his eyes open with a start and looked over at his guard. The man looked pale, his body unnaturally strained straight. A sheen of sweat glistened against his forehead and nose.
‘Are you alright?’
The cop didn’t even look at Mac as he answered, ‘Yeah. I—’
His head flopped forward and it started swaying gently. Mac climbed out of bed before falling backwards as every muscle in his limbs and back begged for relief. Gasping, he used his hands to massage his arms and legs. Like an old man, he made another effort, struggling over to where his victim was motionless in his chair, coaxing in a hypnotic tone, ‘You need to get into bed.’
‘What?’ came the mumbled reply, but the guard didn’t lift his head.
Mac draped the half-conscious man’s arms over his
Then he lay back down and waited the brief period before two nurses and the anxious cop burst back into the room. Mac lay steady while his pulse and heartbeat were checked. His brow was mopped and a conversation took place between the nurses. When one leaned over the bed and asked him how he was doing, Mac confessed he’d woken to find someone in the room with him and he suspected the man was going to kill him.
The officer leaned over the bed. ‘That was me mate . . .’
One of the nurses smiled at his attempt to be of assistance and pointed him to his seat. The atmosphere was calmer now and there was another whispered conversation between the nurses, a squeeze of the arm for Mac and assurance that he was OK. The nurses left, one indicating with a finger to her lips that the guard should be silent.
When they were gone the guard locked the door and sat down again, studying his disturbed charge closely. He in turn was being watched with half an eye. Mac could hear his own internal and silent voice.
Don’t watch me. I’m fine. Drink your tea, you idiot.
Mac couldn’t be sure what cocktail of drugs he’d actually laced the mug with. But he was confident that if he wasn’t going to die from it, neither was the other guy. But would the pills be enough to render the man in the chair incapable of stopping him escaping?
‘I’m alright,’ Mac said weakly. ‘Do me a favour. Tuck into your sandwich. Drink your tea.’
His guard started nibbling on his sandwich and drinking his tea. There was a look of slight disgust on the man’s face as he slurped away but it was difficult to tell whether it had become cold or there was a chemical tang left by the cocktail of drugs. The cop raised his mug to prove that he’d drunk its contents almost as if he was Mac’s accomplice. It had been a lot pills and it had to have some effect. Didn’t it?
For fifteen minutes though, it didn’t. Instead it seemed to make the officer more animated rather than less. The cop looked over to see if Mac was awake. When he saw that he was, he asked, ‘Do you mind if I open the window? It’s a bit stuffy in here isn’t it?’
It was working.
Mac shivered. ‘I’m freezing mate. It will be a real shit if I ended up with pneumonia.’
There was a sigh, which was followed at regular intervals by other sighs and draws of breath. Inwardly, Mac was begging him – Fall off your chair you bastard. I’ve gotta get out of here.
But the officer remained rooted straight in the chair. Mac squeezed his eyes tight and wished he hadn’t. More disturbing images came – less defined than the ones he had suffered the night before when he’d fixed himself in a stress position. Children’s laughter. Gunfire. More laughter, followed by the eerie disembodied voice of Tom Bracken asking what kind of outfit Phil Delaney was running over there. And, all the time, the black shadowed bitch with the hair fluttered above his head. Followed by John Mac with an adult American accent asking him, What kind of an outfit are you running Daddy? And the constant flutter of the black figure above his head. He couldn’t see her face. But he knew who she was.
Mac snapped his eyes open with a start and looked over at his guard. The man looked pale, his body unnaturally strained straight. A sheen of sweat glistened against his forehead and nose.
‘Are you alright?’
The cop didn’t even look at Mac as he answered, ‘Yeah. I—’
His head flopped forward and it started swaying gently. Mac climbed out of bed before falling backwards as every muscle in his limbs and back begged for relief. Gasping, he used his hands to massage his arms and legs. Like an old man, he made another effort, struggling over to where his victim was motionless in his chair, coaxing in a hypnotic tone, ‘You need to get into bed.’
‘What?’ came the mumbled reply, but the guard didn’t lift his head.
Mac draped the half-conscious man’s arms over his
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