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I can barely get the words out, it hurts so much. “Sp-spilled tea on my—”
“Let me see.” She cradles my injured hand, palm down, in her hands. “Looks sore. Let’s get it under the tap.”
I gape at her, blankly, not taking her words in.
Apparently, she’s accustomed to dealing with incoherent patients. She tugs me by the elbow, across the room and into the bathroom. There, she turns on the cold tap and shoves my hand under it. “Keep it there,” she instructs me. “I’ll go and get my bag.”
I’ve no intention of disobeying her. She knows what she’s talking about, and my scalded hand is throbbing mercilessly. I’m not sure the icy-cold water is helping. Well, not yet, but I don’t have a better idea.
And then, suddenly, I do.
I didn’t register it at first. That sound. Or, rather, the lack of that sound. I pause, turn down the tap, listen.
Did I hear the bolt sliding home? Was the sound drowned by the cascading water, or did I truly not hear it at all?
I lean back to peer out of the bathroom. My bedroom is empty. I turn the tap off and step away until I can see the door to the hallway.
My heart leaps. It’s not locked. It isn’t even closed!
The doctor rushed off, and I’m sure she shut it behind her. Yes, she did. I definitely heard the slam but not the bolt. It must have bounced open again, and there it still is, swinging back and forth.
For several seconds I can only stare, take in the incredible scene. Then something clicks in my head, and I spring into action.
This is my chance. Probably myonlychance. I can escape.
The surge of adrenaline quells my throbbing hand. I’m focused only on that door and what lies beyond. I’ve no time to be injured. I need to run. Now.
I dash to the door, put my hand on it to stop it swinging closed again, then peep out into the hallway. I check to the left, then the right, expecting to see guards charging towards me or the doctor returning.
The corridor is empty.
Stepping out, I can’t believe my luck. Is it really going to be so easy?
Surely not. And what will he do to me when he catches me?
If.Ifhe catches me. I can’t pass up a chance like this. I won’t.
My brain kicks in. I need to think, to work something out.
My room is two storeys up, and there’s no way of climbing down the outside of the house, at least not on this side. But we only came up one flight of stairs that first day. I’m sure of that, I was taking notice. So the house must be just one storey high on the other side. The land must fall away to the rear. And, I saw balconies when they marched me across the lawn at the front. I can’t scale the wall at the back, but there’s a chance at the front…
I check left and right again, then run across the hallway and start trying doors on the other side.
The first is a storeroom, the second a bathroom. I try the window, but it’s locked.
I run back out and into the next door. This time I hit on a bedroom, and better still, a bedroom with a French window leading to a balcony. I don’t hesitate.
The window is locked, but the key is on the inside. I let myself out onto the balcony and lean over the balustrade.
I was right. The ground is one floor down. There’s nothing to get hold of to climb down, but maybe I could dangle from the balcony and drop to the gravelled path below. I eye the unforgiving surface. It’s possible I might make it, but equally likely I’d break a leg or twist an ankle. That would put a stop to my gallop before I’ve even started.
I need a rope.
But failing that, a decent cliche will do. I drag the duvet off the bed, wrestle the quilt out to be left with just the cover, then I bundle both out onto the balcony. I chuck the quilt over the rail. It flutters to the ground to land in a heap below the window. It’s not much, but it will cushion the fall a little.
I tie the corner of the quilt cover to one of the balcony rails, give it an experimental tug, then without further ado, I straddle the rail. It’s a bit of a perilous manoeuvre, but I’m desperate and I’ve long since thrown caution to the winds. I manage to crouch on the edge, on the wrong side of the balustrade. I grasp my makeshift rope and hurl myself off.
Somehow, I succeed in lowering myself several feet down the fabric before my grip starts to slip. My flailing feet are probably a meter from the gravel when the knot gives out and I freefall the rest of the way to land on the bundled heap of duvet. It doesn’t, in the end, do much to break my fall, but it does protect me from being scraped to ribbons, so I suppose that’s a bonus.
