Doctor Who_ History 101 - Mags L. Halliday [92]
‘Hey, I can walk you know! It’s my hand that was hurt, not my legs.’
The guard ignored him, just kept them hurrying along. Down a wide, echoing stairwell now. Sounds reverberated, distant conversations, laughter, the clatter of heels. Four soldiers rushed up the stairs, brushing past Fitz without a glance.
‘I don’t need an escort. Just show me the way out,’ Fitz suggested. He didn’t like this at all. The medical rooms weren’t part of a hospital, as he’d assumed, they were part of something military. At the bottom of the stairs, his guard – and Fitz realised with a sinking sensation that that was literally what he was – talked hurriedly to two more. Doors were unlocked.
Fitz reacted the instant he felt the guard’s grip loosen slightly. He ducked, tried to shove backwards out of their reach. Kicking and yelling and elbowing. All three grabbed him. His yelling turned to a scream as one took hold of his bad hand and squeezed it. His knees crumpled under him as the pain shot up his arm.
They were laughing now, holding his arms wide, leaving his torso open for the kick or punch. Then the one behind him shoved him in the back and he fell forward, his face hitting the concrete floor, his hands too slow to cushion him. Then he was being picked up and dragged down another grey corridor. He saw the black iron grill of a cell door. Ah, cells. He was hauntingly familiar with cells. He put up his arms to break his fall as they shoved him in, then yelled as the gashes in his hand reopened under their bandages. The door slammed behind him, the tumblers rattled over.
Fitz sighed into the floor. Great. Absolutely bloody great. Well done, Fitz. You managed a whole fortnight before you were beaten up and banged up this time. He wondered if that was his personal best.
Hands were taking hold of him again, lifting him up, but gently this time. He groaned and shook his head, looked about. The cell was maybe twenty foot by twenty foot. It had far too many men in it, for its size. He could smell the bucket in the corner already, the sour stench making his nose wrinkle. There were no beds, only wooden benches along the walls. Some men were stretched out on these, others were sitting on the floor. Several were, like him, showing signs of injuries.
He let one of the other prisoners lead him to the bench where, after some angry gestures, a space was made. He leaned back, letting his head drop back until he felt the coarse wall on his skull. Every bit of him ached. He actually felt too tired to sleep, even if he’d been able to forget about the swift bursts of harsh throbbing in his hand every time it moved. Someone nudged him and he slowly reopened his eyes, lowered his gaze to theirs. The bare minimum of movement. The man next to him silently offered a tin cup, maybe a quarter full of water. Fitz smiled his thanks and took a couple of sips.
‘Careful. We don’t know when they will be round again,’ the man remarked. Fitz lowered the cup, glancing about to take in more details of the room. There was no tap in the cell. They must come round and dole out water, he supposed. He handed the almost empty cup back, wiping his good hand across his lips. He studied the man next to him. Middle-aged, middle weight. Nothing special. The sort of guy who would be passed in the street without a second glance.
‘Where are we?’ Fitz asked, quietly.
‘You don’t know?’
‘I was, well, a bit worse for wear when they brought me in,’ Fitz saw the man frown and tried to clarify. ‘I had been drinking. Is this the drunk tank?’
‘Drunk tank?’
‘Yeah, where they lock you up till you sober up?’ Fitz wasn’t very hopeful. Drunk tanks didn’t tend to have military guards or a lack of basic facilities. Especially the latter. But it was worth hoping. The older man shook his head.
‘This is a waiting room.’
‘Huh?’
The man gestured