"Water ... please."
It's a croak, hardly audible, but there is something familiar about it...
I should go, now, before she sees me and raises the alarm. I haven't time for this.
But I can't stop myself, I have to know. I go closer to the bed.
I was right. It's Weeks. But how changed.
She is tossing about, muttering incoherently, as though in the grip of delirium. She's obviously not aware of me, but, nevertheless, when she turns her head my way, I start back, my hand at my throat. For her face is covered in blisters, weeping pus.
Smallpox.
She is clearly in the final stages of the disease and just for a second I can't help thinking, Serves her right.
But then her parched lips open and she croaks again. "Water..."
There is no water, and I'm sorry. This end is too horrible, even for my old enemy.
A noise in the distance pulls me back into the moment. What am I doing? I must hurry.
Out in the corridor once more I see light spilling from an open door farther along. I approach cautiously, then breath with relief, when I discover that the room is empty. It must be the dispensary—the young nurse's lantern is on the table, illuminating shelves of labelled jars and bottles, a cupboard of apothecary's equipment. And suddenly I have an idea. But I must be quick.
I scan the shelves. The jars are in alphabetical order, as they should be. I quickly find the one marked "sal nitri"—saltpetre. Just along, is a jar marked "sacch"—sugar, ready ground. My eye races round the items in the glass-fronted cupboard, and then with a great leap of excitement, I see what I'm looking for—an old-fashioned iron mortar, quite narrow and deep. Hurriedly I fill the mortar with saltpetre and sugar, stirring it together. The quantities might not be right—it might not work. But if it does, it will buy me some time. Now all I need are some matches.
I look on the shelves, pull out drawers, feeling more and more frantic. I'm making too much noise, this is taking too long. I look round one more time and then I see it—a box of lucifers, left on the table, next to the lantern.
Snatching them up, I seize my blanket and the mortar and hurry from the room. It would be too dangerous here—I don't want to cause a fire and injure anyone, if I can help it. I'm heading away from the vestibule when I hear the sound I've been dreading—a bell ringing, running feet. They're after me!
I set the mortar down on the stone floor of the passage. Ideally I need a fuse, but there's no time to make one. With trembling fingers, I thrust half a dozen lucifers head down into the powder and light the ends. The sticks catch fire with a satisfying flare and within seconds, the passageway fills with thick black smoke.
I run on, into the back part of the building, where the gas lamps are turned down, trying door handles without any hope. And then one yields and I almost fall into the dark space that opens up in front of me. In a breath, I'm inside the room and have the door shut.
My heart's racing. I look about me wildly. In the dim light from the window I see a lavatory, a sink and then my eye comes back to the window.
It isn't barred.
It's some distance off the ground—a fixed sheet of glass with a narrow casement above. But can I get through it? I climb on to the lavatory seat, clutching my blanket. I lay it on the window ledge and by hauling myself up with the help of the pipe running from the cistern, I manage to get one knee on the ledge and then the other.
My perch is so narrow I'm afraid I'll topple backwards into the room. I reach up, seize the window catch and release it. With a push the window opens and night air cools my face. Still hanging on to the pipes, I get one foot on the ledge and haul myself upright. Reaching down, wobbling precariously, I untangle the blanket from around my feet, throw it through the window and try to follow.
My head fits through easily, but my shoulders wedge themselves in the gap. Tears of frustration spring into my eyes.
Clenching my teeth, I twist my body. With a desperate corkscrew movement that wrenches my back, I get first one shoulder and then the other through. For a moment I hang there, half in and half out of the window, the transom bar cutting into my waist. I can see the ground about six feet below me. Then I push off with my feet and tumble out.
Pain sears through my right shoulder, my teeth jar together and for a moment I lie winded, shocked by the impact. But fear galvanises me. I could be discovered at any moment. I feel about for the blanket.