Spectred Isle (Green Men #1)(63)

Breathe, he told himself, and then imagined Randolph saying it in that drily authoritative tone he used in the bedroom. Suppose you breathe. Really, dear chap, it’s what your lungs are for.

He tried that, against the constriction of his chest, and it helped a little. Not enough. Perhaps he ought to get up and shout, demand a lawyer? But the Shadow Ministry evidently had a limited regard for legal niceties, and he risked betraying himself and perhaps Randolph. He needed to get himself under control before he spoke to anyone.

He tested the bench then lay on it, trying to stretch his ribcage against the invisible fist crushing the breath out of it. Camlet Moat, he told himself. The sunlight in the trees, the cool water in his throat, sluicing through him, washing the panic away. He built up the picture until he could smell greenery and feel the slight give of mulch underfoot as he wandered through the trees, up to an oak so thickly wound with glossy ivy that he feared the tree might fall.

Bright eyes opened wide in the leaves, staring at him. Saul stumbled away with a yelp of shock and found himself on his back on the bench in the cell, disoriented and dizzy.

He felt sick, too. He sat up, which didn’t help, and had to lie down again, with his heart pounding and waves of nausea passing through him. Christ, this couldn’t just be fear-induced. Was he actually ill? He’d had plenty of gut-rot in gaol, thanks to the foul slop that had passed for rations, and he knew the feeling well. It seemed unjust that a superb and expensive restaurant in Piccadilly could have poisoned him.

He shut his eyes again, which made his brain lurch in his skull. This was unspeakable. He wanted to call for help now, felt a terror it would be ignored, and had a sudden vision of himself lying face down on the floor of the cell. He’d been feverish after the flogging, and the fearful misery of that memory crowded in.

He wasn’t in his bloody cell, and this wasn’t the bloody Army. He was in England, held by some Whitehall department albeit an unaccountable one, and he was not going to panic. He told himself that as the dizziness shuddered through him, again and again.

He might have slept, or at least dozed, because the next thing he knew was a rough hand on his shoulder. “Oi. Sit up. Up.”

Saul muttered protest. The electric light of the cell was bright against his closed eyelids and he didn’t want to move.

“Get him on his feet,” Mr. Delingpole’s cold voice said. Saul found himself jerked violently vertical, onto legs that wouldn’t hold him. He leaned forward and retched over the floor and over a set of shiny patent leather shoes topped by well-creased trousers.

“For God’s sake!” Mr. Delingpole yelped, leaping back. “What’s wrong with him?”

“He looks ill.”

“Give him some water. You, Lazenby! Oh, this is no use, he’s barely seeing me.”

“Should we get a doctor, sir?”

“Looks like a bad head,” Mr. Delingpole said. “He was carousing with Glyde half the night, I’m told. Let him sleep it off, we have more to worry about.”

“Sir, are you—”

“Check back in an hour.”

Saul folded back onto the bench, vaguely aware he should have demanded a doctor, a lawyer, Randolph. He couldn’t. He’d never felt so ill in his life. It felt like he had a lump of corruption in his stomach, something so old and foul it tasted of spiderwebs and grave rot. How could he have eaten anything so poisonous and not tasted it? He wanted help; he wanted Randolph; he wanted water. Most of all he wanted to vomit it all up, but the idea of standing was very nearly as bad as the idea of lying here letting the vileness churn inside him.

He slid off the bench in the end, and crawled to the lavatory where he threw up for what seemed like hours, until his stomach was cramping with pain, his throat burning. It didn’t give even a momentary relief. He stayed there, kneeling on the floor and gripping the bowl, till his spasming stomach calmed and he was sure he had nothing left to vomit, then he crawled back to haul himself onto the bench. He managed to drink a little water from the jug, washing away some of the taste, then curled up on his side, shuddering with cold. He jammed his icy hands under his armpits, which were unpleasantly sweaty, then into his jacket pockets, where his fingers met something. A leaf, he realised, the ivy leaf from the train. He crumpled it in his palm and shut his eyes, unable to do anything but wait for this to be over.

Eventually, he dreamed.





CHAPTER TWELVE


RANDOLPH STALKED UP WILLIAM IV Street to the Shadow Ministry building, where a doorman stood, looking sturdy and immovable.

“Help you, sir?” the man asked.

“Open the fucking door or I’ll put you through it.”

“Mr. Randolph Glyde would like to be admitted,” Sam translated from beside him. “There’s a good chap.”

“Uh—” The doorman looked from one to another of them.

“Randolph Glyde,” Sam repeated. “I’m quite sure you’re not paid enough for this.”

“I’ll go and, um...” The man opened the door, apparently intending to slip inside. Randolph, Sam, Barney, and Isaacs moved simultaneously, with at least one of them adding a kick to swing the door wide, ignoring the cry of protest.

It was past five in the evening, but the Ministry building still had plenty of pinstriped people sticking heads out of offices, and retreating as quickly. Randolph was darkly glad of that. Be afraid, he thought. You should be.