CHAPTER ONE - MONDAY 20th DECEMBER

6:00 a.m.

Within the darkened room a bedside radio suddenly burst into life. Immediately loud disco music reverberated about the angled walls and ceilings of the small garret apartment. The digital display indicated in bright red letters that it was six o'clock in the morning. Malcolm Smith, in semi-shock at being disturbed so abruptly from what was such a deep sleep, struggled to open his eyes. Slowly the haze cleared and he raised up his head from the pillow to look about the dimly lit room. For a moment he was uncertain where he was, then things began to fall into place. The reason everything appeared so strange was because this was not his normal bedroom. Instead he was in a room way up in the eaves of the building where he worked. Wearily the acne-faced teenager stretched out a hand from under the sheets and groped about the surface of the bedside cabinet for the alarm. His slender fingers located the 'OFF' button, gave it a light push, and the noise stopped. As silence fell he immediately sat upright in bed as he recalled the reason why he had set the alarm so early. His boss, Mr. Hamish McTavish was leaving for Australia that very morning and he had promised to give the Scotsman a helping hand with his luggage.
Malcolm Smith sat up, yawned deeply, stretched out his arms, then switched on the bedside lamp. Next to the light lay a drawing pad and a few pencils. On the top sheet of the pad was sketched the face of an elderly bearded gentleman. The lanky teenager had been working on the drawing the night before and only put the pad down when he felt too tired to carry on. He looked to what he had done. His initial reactions were favourable and one of approval if not total satisfaction. The pencil sketch was a good likeness of his boss, but there was still a little more work to be done before the drawing came up to the high standard of workmanship he knew himself capable of achieving.
Wearily he rose from the bed and trundled across the room to the window. Here he parted the curtains just enough to place his head between the drapes and peered out into the morning air. It looked like bleak mid-winter out there. A change to the weather had set in overnight, brought about by an icy-cold wind blasting down from the north. He gazed to his left then to his right. As predicted by the forecasters there had been a deep frost during the night, and the lawns, the joyrides, and the vast empty car parks that constituted the great sprawling complex spread out before him, were white all over. This was the wonder world of 'LAPWAM', the initials standing for 'Littlesea Amusement Park, Waxworks and Museum'. He turned to look at the clock. The time was now two minutes past six in the morning and it was still pitch black outside. But this came as no surprise to the youth, for it was the week running up to Christmas; Monday December 20th to be precise; and tomorrow would be the shortest day of the year.
His gaze returned to the window and the views outside. Away in the distance, beyond the grounds and the perimeter fencing he could see the road along the sea front. The occasionally street lamp was lit, others were extinguished. There appeared no set pattern to what should be on and what should be off. A huge Christmas tree, donated annually by the Town Council, radiated a pyramid of pretty colours near the centre of the promenade, and a much smaller one in a window of a flat above a shop was also visible. To his right the bay rounded to Castle Point where the ruins of Littlesea Castle stood. In the darkness he could make out nothing more than a few faint flickering lights. These were emanating from the windows of one or two of the many old cottages that stood dotted about the castle on the rocky outcrop at the far end of the bay. His eyes turned to the left and away from the bay. They came to rest on the far side of the high cast-iron railings that surrounded the complex. Here he focused upon a row of shops that were always so busy in the Summer, but now in the off-season, were either closed down or, just ticking over and totally reliant on the local trade to see them through the lean Winter months.
Lights were already lit in one shop. This would be the small paper shop, open for its early morning customers on their way to work. Malcolm Smith moved his eyes along the row to a shop just two doors away. It was still in darkness, but he knew that very soon lights would appear. For this was the local café which, seven days a week, always opened up at seven o'clock on the dot. And it was here, in Alf's Café, that his boss, Mr. McTavish had arranged to meet his lift to the Airport.
Mr. McTavish's room was next to Malcolm's and he could hear the Scotsman rummaging about. No doubt packing his last remaining items and checking that he had everything he needed for his long journey. The tall thin teenager, more wiry than muscular, and with a spiky growth of unkempt brown hair, envied his boss. For Mr. McTavish was off to visit his elder brother in Sydney and would be away for almost eleven weeks. Malcolm had never been abroad, but that did not bother him, there was a plus side to everything, it meant that he would be left completely alone and in total charge of the entire Amusement Park for the next eleven weeks. However this was no big deal, and he would be the first to admit that it did not amount to anything very much, since the entire complex, including the Local History Museum and Waxworks were all totally shut down for the Winter. His two main tasks, if they added up to anything at all, were to act as temporary caretaker to the site, and to renovate a few of the waxworks' displays. But seeing that the majority of the dummies had all been shipped away to London for refurbishing, and the new season's displays almost complete, then basically, all that was required of him was to keep the oil-fired central heating boilers ticking over, do a spot of maintenance on some existing equipment, and assemble one or two new exhibits for the forthcoming Summer Season.
All told, Malcolm Smith had landed quite a cushy number, and it was something he was quite content to do on his own, although being a general dog's-body was not really what he wanted from life. His ambitions lay elsewhere. After school he had hoped to go on to Art College, but coming from a one parent family this had always been out of the question. So, at the end of the day, he was quite happy with life as he knew it. He had only left school that previous Summer, and having passed his driving test in the September, had managed to get a job as a van driver for the Amusement Park's parent Company, Madame Troudeau's  based  in London. So, when Mr. McTavish announced that he was off to see his brother in Australia, his Company advertised internally for a temporary caretaker at their Littlesea Branch for the duration of the Winter months.
Malcolm saw the position advertised on the works canteen notice board and applied on the spur of the moment. To his surprise he got the job. (The fact that he was the only one to apply possibly helping to swing things in his favour!) Within days he found himself transferred to Littlesea and left in the capable hands of Mr. McTavish. Soon he knew all there was to know, and he had to admit it was a cushy number. He had a live-in apartment and a kitchen fully stocked with food; so in theory he need not even leave the building except for a few minor items like fresh milk and bread. Furthermore his pay packet was going straight into the bank. So by the time Summer came round he would have saved enough money to buy himself a new car, move back to the big city and start to really enjoy himself.
So after a brief period of training the day had finally arrived when Mr. McTavish was due to depart. Malcolm had consented to help by carrying his suitcases down the road to where Jimmy Jones, a chauffeur and regular to Alf's Café, had agreed to meet up with them and take Mr. McTavish on to the airport.
The long tarmac drive from the Amusement Park's main building led straight to the main gates which stood at the junction of a side road and the promenade. There was a small roundabout there to direct the traffic into the main gates which lay at an angle to the corner and a fair way back from the road. Almost opposite the gates, in a side road facing the Amusement Park stood a row of small shops. Alf's Café was one of them, along with the paper shop and several others mainly geared up to satisfy the resort's Summer souvenir market.
They had a company van at their disposal, and Mr. McTavish also owned a car, the latest model in the top of the Jaguar range, and with all the heavy cases to manhandle they could quite easily have driven there in either one of them. But it was thought after great deliberation that it was far easier just to carry the cases across the road, especially with Malcolm being so eager to help. So, at about five minutes to seven, the pair set out for the café, carrying with them four large suitcases and one shoulder bag.
Malcolm and Mr. McTavish left the premises via a small service gate alongside the main gates. A notice board attached to the railings alongside showed a picture of a castle on a hill, and printed beneath in bold black letters were the words: 'Littlesea Castle Dungeon - Coming Soon'. Once the small gate had been pulled shut and securely locked behind them, the tall and stocky Scotsman, with neatly trimmed greying beard, handed Malcolm a large bunch of keys.
"Ther'ye arr laddie," he said in his broad highland accent, "noowa tek good care of everything whilst I'm awhah, and remember to do all the wee things I've written doon for ye to do."
"Yes Mr  McTavish," replied Malcolm, taking the keys from his hand.
"And start ma wee car every day. Noo doona forget noo will ye laddie?" added the Scotsman.
"No Mr. McTavish," promised Malcolm. Alf's Café was open when they got there, and Jimmy's Jaguar was parked outside. The car was virtually identical to the one owned by Mr. McTavish. It was the same dark colour and had almost the same number plate, with just two numbers transposed. And that basically was how the two men had become acquainted. They met firstly at the garage, then later in the café, and a lasting friendship had built up from there. So, when Mr. McTavish mentioned that he needed a way of getting to the airport early one morning, Jimmy did not hesitate to volunteer. Jimmy was the chauffeur for the biggest Company in the area, and there was a local saying that if Kryton Chemicals ever closed, then so would the rest of the town. And there was probably a lot of truth in this statement, for the vast factory employed about half the indigenous working population of the district.
Jimmy Jones appeared from out of the café as soon as they arrived. He was a tall, slim man, with dark hair, neatly trimmed beard, thick black rimmed spectacles, and dressed smartly in a navy-blue chauffeurs' uniform. He unlocked the large boot of the limousine and let it gently drift upwards under its own power. "Good morning gentlemen. Let's be having the luggage then," he said taking one of the larger items from Malcolm. The cavernous rear swallowed up all four cases plus the travel bag without any particular arranging problems and soon they were all inside the warm and cosy little café. They took their usual seats at a table next to the window and waited for their orders to arrive. Not much was said, Jimmy was happy to read the morning newspaper, Mr McTavish was pre-occupied with checking all his travel documents and time tables, and Malcolm was content just to stare out of the window into the blackness of the morning.
A girl Malcolm knew only by sight passed by the window. Her name was Katie and worked in the offices at Kryton Chemicals. That much he knew, but that was about the limit of his knowledge. Nevertheless he had never seen her at this hour. Today she was more than an hour early. He sat a little more upright and followed her progress towards the café door.
A red-headed young woman in her mid-twenties entered, wiped her feet on the mat, then turned down a high fur collar and undid the top three buttons of a large warm coat. Like all girls Malcolm came into contact with, he was too shy to speak to any of them. Instead he did what he always did when this sort of situation arose - he mentally undressed her. Immediately in his mind he could picture her clearly, stood naked in the doorway, with a bushy mat of ginger pubic hair and a great mass of dark brown freckles spread across the top of a beautiful pair of round, firm and protruding breasts. Of course he would never get to see what was really beneath that coat. But what did it matter? She was far too old for him anyway! She was at least twenty-five! But all the same that did not stop him fantasising about her, or for that matter dreaming about any other young woman he espied under similar circumstances.
The redhead glanced across the room to the table where the three men were seated. She smiled in their general direction. Jimmy had his back to her and could not see what was going on, but Mr. McTavish returned the smile whilst Malcolm simply turned his head away and to stare out of the window once more.
Jimmy, on sensing that something was going on behind him, turned to see exactly who had arrived. Immediately he recognised the ginger headed girl, for like himself, she too worked at Kryton Chemicals. He smiled and spoke to her: "Well if it isn't the delectable Miss Katie Brown! You're looking gorgeous this morning! How about a big kiss for lover-boy then?"
She chuckled. Jimmy always greeted the girls from his work in the same brash manner. It was in his nature. "Cold one this morning Jimmy!" she answered politely, and rubbing her hands briskly together to keep warm.
"It may be freezing here, but there's a heat wave going on in Australia," Jimmy told her, and to emphasise exactly what he was talking about, he held up his newspaper in order for her to read the headlines on one of the inner pages. He gave her a little time to digest the article then winked across the table to Mr. McTavish. "Some people have all the luck don't they?" he added.
"It's today you're off then Mr. McTavish?" she queried, addressing the Scotsman.
"Ayye 'tis that my dear," he replied politely.
"Any spare tickets Mr. McTavish? If so I'll come along with you. You can be my sugar-daddy any day," she said jokingly.
"Now there's an offer you simply can't refuse!" remarked Jimmy with a wink and a wicked glint to his eye.
Mr. McTavish said nothing and looked somewhat embarrassed.
"You're early today?" queried Jimmy turning back to talk to Katie, and in doing so breaking the momentary unease.
The redhead removed her purse from a large shoulder-bag and tossed the bag down with a bang on the table behind Jimmy before answering. "Office party tonight Jimmy. The boss said we could only pack-in early if we made up the time some other way. So we all had a little meeting and decided to do eight till four today instead of nine to five," she explained.
"Kryton's office party tonight hey! Then why wasn't I invited? I'm staff too you know!" teased Jimmy.
"You're banned after getting drunk and pinching all the girls' knickers last year," she told him with a wicked laugh accompanied by a gentle shove to the shoulder. They were joking of course, and together they both knew it. For one thing Jimmy never drank, and for another, he was invited to the party this year but had been forced to decline because of his duties as chauffeur. Prior engagements meant that he had to take his boss to London, but all the same he would be back in time to run a few people with sore heads home afterwards. As for the knickers fiasco last year! Well, that was another story!
All throughout the conversation Malcolm had watched Katie through the reflection in the window. Still staring out into the blackness his eyes tracked her movements to the counter and remained glued to her whilst she gave her order to Alf. He wanted to turn and face into the room but could not force himself to do so. Deep down he really fancied this girl. If only she would speak to him like she spoke to Jimmy, or if only he could pluck up enough courage to talk to her himself, then things could be so much different.
In his own eyes Katie Brown was a stunner, she really was. She was tall, at least five feet ten inches in height, with gorgeous shoulder length wavy red hair, dark brown eyes and a beautiful slim body. If only... he was thinking... if only! However he knew what would happen if he began to chat her up. She would just laugh at him and treat him like a child. Just like all the other girls in his class at school used to do. And in a way she would be right, for he was far too young to be going out with her. The truth was, he was only seventeen, had a face covered in pimples, and was not even in the same age bracket. And besides, she had a steady boyfriend. Malcolm had seen them together in his dark blue estate car. He was even older. At least twenty-eight. Malcolm was not certain but he thought that he too worked at Kryton Chemicals. He was a laboratory technician, or chemist, or something like that. But what did it matter? He could not stand the sight of him anyway!
Malcolm followed the reflection of Katie's every move, right up to the point where she sat down at the next table with her back to him and began to sip from her mug of tea. Only then did he feel comfortable enough to face the front and return his attentions to the light conversation going on between Jimmy and Mr. McTavish. Most of the talk was one-sided and consisted mainly of Jimmy's readings from the headlines and articles of the morning's newspaper. At one point he turned the paper round to reveal a girl modelling underwear. The picture was of a young woman with short, straight blond hair showing off the latest designs in bras and panties. Malcolm tried to liken the model's deportment and pose to the images earlier envisaged of a naked Katie Brown, but could make no comparison, they were like chalk and cheese. He began to fantasise that he was a judge in a beauty contest with both the ginger-headed Katie and the blonde haired model stood side-by-side both in their underwear. They were the only two left in the competition and it was his decision to pick the ultimate winner.
Malcolm was still fantasising, with Katie his clear and obvious choice, when Jimmy broached another dubious  subject.
"Well what do you think about this then?" he said puffing out his cheeks before reading the headlines out aloud: "Headmaster Has Sordid Sex Session With Two Girl Pupils."
Mr. McTavish peered at Jimmy suspiciously over the top of his bifocals.
The chauffeur continued despite the glare: "Apparently this headmaster conned two of his girl pupils into going back with him to his bedroom. But they were wise to him and turned the tables. They got him to strip naked, then they tied him to the bed with his old school ties. He thought they were going to have sex with him, but all they did was leave him there for his misses to find when she got home that evening. Boy! Did she have a shock! She's suing for divorce now."
Malcolm's mind embroidered upon the topic of discussion as it invariably did when not a lot else was happening. At first he pictured himself in the man's position, tied to the bed with both Katie and the photographic model bending over him. Feeling naked and vulnerable he considered that this was not really his scene, and decided to reverse the roles. So he thought of Katie on the bed, stretched out naked with arms and legs tied to the for corner posts. This was much better. From this situation he could dominate her and do whatever he liked. But after further thought he felt a little uneasy about the whole idea. As nice as it may seem he could not go through with anything like that. Not with someone he knew and secretly admired anyway.
He cleared his mind and started again, this time channelling all his efforts into imagining the young girl model in the newspaper lying spread-eagled on the bed. Beneath her would be spread satin pillows and bed sheets. It did not take long for the scene to become vivid and almost real. Initially she would be wearing the same underwear as depicted in the photograph. The bra looked like it was one of those that fastened down the front. He would slowly undo this then fondle her breasts. Then he would run a hand up between her legs, move a hand inside her panties and finger her fanny. But even in his own wild fantasies he was too afraid to do so. He knew that whoever the subject may be, she would just scold and castigate him if he attempted to do anything but stand and look. So he reconsidered the situation. It would be much better to have her gagged and blindfolded as well as tied to the four corners of the bed. That way it would be almost impossible to protest at what he was doing. He settled for this fresh approach and fixed the revised images firmly in his mind perhaps to be recalled at a later date. Maybe when he was alone in his room, and the current picture of Mr. McTavish completed and out of the way, he would take up pad and pencil again and make sketches of what he pictured in his mind.
The breakfast session continued in much the same vane. With all three gentlemen living very much with their own very different thoughts. After consuming a plateful of bacon, sausages, mushrooms, eggs and tomatoes, plus downing two vary large mugs of tea, the young and impressionable Malcolm Smith stepped outside the café briefly to say farewell to Mr. McTavish.
"Noo remember to do all I've told yee on ma' wee list," said Mr. McTavish to his understudy before stepping into the car.
"I will," promised Malcolm.
Mr. McTavish shook his hand. "And Malcolm," he said, "if ye look on top of ma wee wardrobe, ye'll find a wee present fa' Christmas. Now dunna ye goo and open it until then though!... Now promise me you won't!"
Malcolm looked both surprised and delighted. He had only ever received presents from his mother, and those were only when she could afford them. "I won't open it until Christmas Day, Mr. McTavish, I Promise!" vowed the teenager.
"See yee in February then," said the Scotsman, "and I wanna see that yee made a good use of ma' wee present when I get back."
Malcolm considered what the mysterious present may be, but said no more as Mr. McTavish closed the door and gave a little farewell wave. As the tail-lights of the Jaguar disappeared into the darkness he returned to the café for yet one more cup of tea. To be quite honest, it was not the tea he wanted, he was bloated, but the opportunity to take one last look at Katie Brown before she went to work.
The redheaded girl he was passionately in love with had just finished her breakfast and was draining the last drops of tea from her mug as he entered. On seeing that she was about to leave,  he set his mind's eye quickly. His memories of her had not faded, and his vivid imagination quickly began to penetrate her many layers of clothing.
With deep concentration he was able to perceive everything in the greatest of detail: A pair of firm round breasts dotted with freckles, and two long slender legs topped by a neat little triangle of ginger pubic hair. She was seated with knees slightly apart so he rotated the image in his mind so as to view directly between the legs. He drooled. Perhaps after all it was not the young girl model he wanted at all in his dreams, but Katie Brown instead. As long as she consented and he only an observer, then possibly it would be all right to think this way. Still pondering over this fresh train of thoughts, he brought back the scene he had pictured moments before and replaced the image of the model on the bed with that of Katie. This was much better, and his mind began to embroider on some of the finer details needed to complete the picture.
Katie Brown finished her drink, stood up and collected  her rather oversized shoulder-bag from off the table. Ready to leave, she looked up to see the teenager standing with mouth agape in the doorway. She gave a little smile. "Well, bye-bye for now Malcolm, see you tomorrow morning perhaps?" she said with a little friendly chirp to her voice.
It was only a casual and passing remark on the redhead's part. She was by nature a friendly person. But to Malcolm the very fact that she had spoken to him in person sent shivers down his spine. "G.. good bye," he croaked, choking on his words. This was all he could manage to say and found himself rooted to the spot whilst she stood up and fastened the remaining buttons to her coat.
Unawares of the emotional traumas she had inflicted upon the teenager, Katie Brown called across to the man behind the counter: "Cheerio Alf, see you tomorrow morning."
"By sweetheart!" returned Alf whilst turning over a rasher of sizzling bacon.
Katie turned up her collar, walked to the door, and gave Malcolm one last smile. He stepped aside to let her pass. From inside the café he watched her disappear into the gloom of the darkened street outside.
Standing alone by the café door the teenager struggled to come to terms with what had just happened. For a while he remained totally gob-smacked. The girl of his dreams had just spoken to him, in person. But what was even more important was the fact that she had called him by his first name. He wanted to know how she had found out that his name was Malcolm! He guessed that it must have been Alf that had told her, but all the same, why would she want to find out such trivia? The teenager did not know what to think and remained confused. However there was one thing he was absolutely certain about - he had fallen deeply, madly, and passionately in love with Katie Brown.
Dawn was breaking as Malcolm Smith crossed the road to the Amusement Park, but the teenager was too preoccupied in his thoughts to either notice the spectacular red dawn, or for that matter to show any concern for the sub-zero temperatures that bit hard against his ears and cheeks. His thoughts were totally channelled elsewhere. Those stark and lasting images of Katie Brown tied to the bed now appeared more vivid and as real as ever, and the passion that flared within him burned so deeply it physically hurt. On the public notice board next to the main doors of the building he traced his initials 'M' and 'S' in the frost, then drew a heart pierced by an arrow and underneath added the initials 'K' and 'B' for Katie Brown.

4:00 p.m.

It was late afternoon, with what little daylight that remained about to disappear, when Malcolm Smith finally decided to stop moping around and do something positive. But even then none of his thoughts were decisive. In the end he remembered Mr. McTavish's present and he shuffled up the narrow attic stairs leading from the kitchen to the bedroom where he was told he would find it. The room was locked, but Malcolm had been handed the keys. He selected the appropriate one; they were all marked and clearly identifiable; he unlocked the door and entered.
The room was quite large and doubled up as a study and bedroom. Next to the window was a large, antique, flat-topped desk, the surface inlayed with a gold etched, green leather covering. On it stood an angle-poise lamp, an out-of-place modern digital telephone, and an old-fashioned typewriter. A buff coloured folder and a profile sketch of Mr. McTavish lay next to the typewriter. Malcolm recognised the drawing. It was an earlier sketch he had done quickly and presented to his boss about one week earlier.
The desk faced the window, and against the wall, to one side, stood a metal filing cabinet. On the opposite side, a large bookcase rested, crammed full of leather-bound reference books and expensive looking encyclopaedias. He assumed that Mr. McTavish had been working right up to the point of leaving, and recalled having listened to the clatter of the typewriter the night before as he lay drawing in bed in the room next door.
The teenager turned his attentions away from the window and towards the interior of the room. The bed was double sized and flanked on either side by a wardrobe and a dressing table. He spotted a gift-wrapped parcel resting on top of the wardrobe and lifted it down onto the bed. It was very large and quite heavy and he wondered what it might be. The packaging, shape and weight suggested that it may be something like a compendium games set, or even a train set, but on shaking the contents lightly the feel and rattle suggested otherwise. In the end he did not know what to think, but he overcame any temptation to peek beneath the festive wrapping. He had promised Mr. McTavish that he would not open it until Christmas Day, and he would be true to his word.
Malcolm had never been in this room before, though on several occasions he had cause to stand in the doorway and  look in. Out of curiosity he moved across to the desk to peer out of the window. The view was not that much different from that afforded from his own little room, but was more to the right and gave a better perspective of the Old Castle ruins and less of a view of the bay and the shops.
The folder on the desk caught his eye. A label stuck to the front read: 'Littlesea Dungeon Project'. Malcolm opened it to discover a vast collection of both scribbled and typed notes, plus plans of the Old Castle, about a dozen large black and white photographs, and a separate printed report entitled: 'Archaeological Dig - Littlesea Castle.'
On the top of the pile rested a few sketches done by Mr. McTavish. They were crude to say the least, and depicted what could only be described as match-stick men striking up rather unnatural poses. However, Malcolm could see what they were meant to represent. They were the Scotsman's initial thoughts on how the waxwork dummies for new dungeon project should be arranged, and showed several ideas on how best to depict the various forms of interrogation and torture that went on in the old castle.
 Absently he flicked through the sketches until he came to some typed notes. The first sheet was a list of things to be done as soon as the Scotsman returned from Australia. Beneath were notes concerned costumes and dummies. Malcolm was about to close the file when one line on the top list came to his attention. It read: '5.  Artist required to do sketches for new Summer season brochure. Printing must be well underway before completion of exhibition area, so photographs not possible this year. Sketches and notes to be finished ASAP on return. Must try and get Malcolm to help with sketches. He looks quite capable of doing a very good job. But if not must engage professional artist quickly. (Must check budget and confirm with HQ on this one.)'
The teenager felt proud to find his name mentioned in such a context. He had only revealed his hidden artistic talents to his boss a few days beforehand, so these notes must have been some of the last Mr. McTavish had made. He decided that he would love to assist in any way he could, and to get the opportunity to display his talents would be absolutely fabulous.
With his interest aroused, instead of putting them away, Malcolm browsed through the rest of the notes. He did not absorb everything in great detail, but casually scanned the typed sheets just enough to get the gist of what Mr. McTavish was proposing. The teenager was already aware of most of the facts, it was not a secret, and the two of them had talked about the new Dungeon Project on many occasions during the course of their work. So the information held within the folder came as no surprise to Malcolm, indeed, it just helped refresh what he knew and to fill in a few of the missing details.
Basically, the new Dungeon Project was a sign of the times, brought on by popular demand. The majority of Summer visitors came to the complex for the fair ground rides and the gaming machines, but there were also a small percentage that opted to pay the additional entrance fee and visit the waxworks. However, even this of late had dwindled to the point where something drastic had to be done just to make the exhibition viable. During the previous Summer, a survey had been taken and its conclusions were, that the public were no longer willing to pay to see rigid and immobile wax figures dressed in period clothing, but instead wanted to see a bit of action.
To remedy this, the entire basement had been cleared of kings and queens, then descended upon by a vast number of workmen during the Autumn. There was now a completely new structure in place, and baring any last minute hitches, destined to become the 'Littlesea Castle Dungeon Exhibition' when the Summer season opened at the end of April. The men were all gone now, but were booked to return in March to complete the work. Malcolm was also fully aware that the final shape of the display had been entrusted into the capable hands of Mr. McTavish. This is what he must have been working on right up to the last possible moment.
Having scanned through Mr. McTavish's notes with more than passing interest, Malcolm found the Archaeologist's report on the recent excavations at Littlesea Castle a lot more educational. He knew nothing of the local castle's history and was fascinated to learn some of the facts. Apparently it dated from the eleventh century and was built originally by the Normans, not to keep the French out as one would suppose, but to use as a staging post for cross channel travellers. As the centuries passed the castle went through extensive changes and uses, including, ironically, a time when it WAS used to keep the French out. The castle's demise was to come during the English Civil War, when the walls were besieged and finally pulled down by Roundheads, and in that state of decay the ruins remain today.
Like all old castles this one had a dungeon, early writings suggested this, yet for several hundred years its whereabouts remained a total mystery. Then in the mid-nineteen-eighties something was unearthed. Records showed that in the eleventh and twelfth centuries the castle had a route to the sea via a maze of passageways within the cliffs, and amidst that labyrinth there existed a dungeon and many other underground rooms. Unfortunately  a land-slip in the thirteenth century sealed all this off and nothing was heard or seen of again until a second slide this century reopened  it all up again.
Still dangerous  to the public and prohibited to visitors, the archaeologists were granted access to the catacombs, and as a result came up with the report Malcolm now had before him. Having been sealed off for nearly seven hundred years, some of the findings were amazing. Firstly, many skeletons were found bricked up in alcoves. The apparent causes of death being either starvation or asphyxiation after being chained to the walls, sealed in, then left to die. Secondly, extensive evidence of torture was discovered. A badly decomposed framework of something resembling a rack was unearthed. Working evidence however was flimsy, since most, if not all of the wood and ropes had rotted, leaving only a few metal cogs and fittings to be pieced together. There were some finds however that could be substantiated. These included a vast array of thumbscrews, branding irons, chains and manacles, and all very real evidence to substantiate claims that this truly was a place of evil.
This is where all the work currently being carried out came in. The new exhibition in the basement was to replicate a true scale reconstruction of the castle's dungeon. With all the recent publicity from the media it was felt that there now existed enough interest to promote the findings, and since the public were still unable to see the real thing due to safety reasons, then an agreement between the Littlesea Castle Trust and Madame Troudeau's had resulted in a compromise being made. A montage of events, depicting the rack, the use of the thumbscrews, together with an explanation of the alcoves, plus a few more side exhibits including models of the castle and archaeological finds, would all be set on display for the public to see in complete safety. In the end both sides seemed happy with the agreement, with any profits being divided equally between the two parties.
Malcolm closed the folder. The notes had made him more aware of exactly what was going on, and he felt a lot happier within himself for reading them. The insight would most definitely be of use to him when it came to actually sitting down and making sketches for the new advertising brochure.
Deep in thought, and with ever changing images of Katie Brown and the photographic model intermingled with Mr. McTavish's match-stick men scenes, the teenager collected his Christmas present and took it to his own room. As for doing any work! Well, all that could wait until tomorrow. This was his first day in charge and he needed more time to adjust to all these fresh new circumstances that now played havoc with his mind.

End of Chapter One