She backed the chair up, pulling the door handle on doing so. Golf no longer interested her. The siege had ended and Vince may yet be triumphant. She toggled the stick of the wheelchair and the heel of Vince’s crutch came into view. The sight unsettled her. The foyer opened out. Vince had barely moved from the spot. Jitters plagued the muscles in his legs but his resolve would forbid him from falling.
Nancy didn’t meet his gaze as she cruised the wheelchair though the doorframe; she wouldn’t offer him his chair. She paused, turning in time to see him shuffle towards the surveillance room. She put the chair in drive and made a right turn past the Newell post. The entryway adjacent to the meeting room led into a gallery.
Sunlit casements on the right hurled cubist shapes upon the opposing wall. Doors and photos drifted past as the motor idled forwards. At the terminus, an Edwardian door made steady approach. Succulent plants on the other side promised an ideal retreat, a conservatory overlooking fields, perhaps.
Suddenly, the Edwardian door couldn’t arrive quickly enough. A door crashed. On her command, the wheelchair gained speed. Nancy kept her sights ahead but didn’t think the Edwardian door would provide the answer to her problem. Escape was not the objective, but to take her person from Vince’s sight. On impulse, she veered left, hitting the windowsill. Reverse. She backed into one of the doors behind her. Her stomach in her mouth, she depressed the handle and the door gave way. She disappeared from the gallery.
The door drifted closed and her wheelchair continued backing up. Too soon, an obstruction impeded her progress.
She twisted round; she glanced up. The reflections on his spectacles made his eyes impossible to read.