CHAPTER FOUR - THURSDAY 23rd  DECEMBER

7:00 a.m.

The morning of the twenty-third of December saw, once again, some early activity at the Amusement Park. For the fourth morning running, and with just two days to go before Christmas, a bedside alarm burst cheerfully into life whilst it was still dark outside. On this occasion however the digital display indicated seven and not six: Malcolm having advanced the alarm by one hour before retiring. He sat up to see the red digital figures glowing a bright seven followed by two zeros. Immediately he silenced the pop music by searching for another channel before settling down to hear the morning news.
For ten minutes afterwards he lay listening to 'South Coast FM' spouting on about the fog and a spate of related accidents; about the expected last minute shopping rush; and about a farmer whose pipes had frozen and could not get water to his pigs; but at no time did he hear any mention of the disappearance of a girl from Castle Point. He waited for the forecast to end before getting out of bed. Apparently the fog was to hang around for much of the morning, with just a chance of some hazy sunshine breaking through in the afternoon before coming down thick again by evening.
With no mention of one certain Miss Wendy Bartlett on the local network, Malcolm assumed that either her mysterious disappearance had, as yet, not been reported, or that the police were still in the initial stages of their enquiry. Either way he was happy, and he also felt very secure. The way everything had gone so smoothly last night, apart that was, from the massive cock-up in mistake and identity, he considered that it would be quite some time before anybody came round to realising that something untoward had happened to the girl. Still lying on the bed, he pondered over his next move. He was still very tired having been awake most of the night thinking about what best to do with Miss Wendy Bartlett. In the end, ironically, his decision was to make no decision, not until the day before Katie came back at least. For that was the deadline afforded him, and realistically he could put off any fateful decision until the twenty-ninth.
On top of the bedside cabinet lay Katie's little box, now resealed with the handcuffs back inside. Malcolm eyed the present over and gave a rye smile. He knew only too well that if he had left it alone, then he would not have been in his present predicament. In a moment of weakness he had succumbed to opening the box and viewing the contents, and there was nothing he could do about it now. He just had to live with the consequences.
He looked down to the floor. Mr. McTavish's present still lay unopened by the side of the bed. He wondered whether to open it or not. In effect to get it over and done with. At least then he could stop speculating about what was inside and get on with some of the more important things that needed doing about the place. For someone usually very cautious in his approach, he made a snap decision. He bent down and collected up the large box from the floor.
There was a label stuck to the top with a robin on the front, and inside were written the words: 'Merry Christmas Malcolm, from Hamish.' The fact that his boss had seen fit to address him on first name terms made a lump stick in his throat. Mr. McTavish was a truly remarkable man, and he vowed to repay him for his kind generosity the moment he got back from Australia.
Being careful with the decorative wrapping, and in order to reseal everything up again afterwards, he slowly began to peel away the covering. The first hint of what was inside came quickly as the lid of the box became exposed. Immediately a glowing smile burst upon his face. Mr. McTavish had bought him a Drawing and Painting Compendium, consisting of everything a budding artist needed to produce work of the highest quality. He tried to put a cost on the present and he whistled softly to himself. The whole thing must have set the Scotsman back at least one hundred pounds, if not more.
In that instant Malcolm vowed to repay the Scotsman in the best way he knew possible. He would, using this present, produce those much needed dungeon sketches for his boss. He thought about what was needed to achieve a series of first rate sketches. To do it properly then two things were necessary: One, the proper tools for the job, and two, a model to pose for him.
He smiled. By a strange quirk of fate he now had both at his disposal. He had a compendium artists set and someone who could pose for him. Like it or not, Wendy Bartlett would be his model. She might have to put up with a little discomfort, but to produce drawings of the standard required for publication, and for the sake of good art, then unfortunately she would just have to suffer a little inconvenience for a short while.

8:00 a.m.

Malcolm hung around in bed for about another hour before finally making a move. His body may not have shown any signs of activity but his mind had been in a state of hyper-activity for all that time. On stepping out of bed, the teenager for once in his life knew precisely what he was going to do next.
He washed, dressed and made for the kitchen. From out of the window the fog around the complex looked as dense as ever. He took it as it came. The weather outside not being top of his priority list this particular morning. After consuming his own meal, he laid out a breakfast on a tray. It consisted of a bowl of milk and corn flakes, two pieces of toast and a large mug of tea. He set off for the basement.
The sparsely clad figure of Wendy Bartlett was curled up on the floor when he arrived. She had removed the hood and was looking up at him through the bars as he approached. Malcolm slid the tray beneath the cell door.
"Sit up," he told her, "breakfast is ready... Do you take sugar in your tea?"
She shook her head, pushed herself up onto her bottom and adjusted the chains between her legs to accommodate the tray on the floor.
"I didn't think you did. I haven't given you any anyway," he replied.
In Malcolm's mind Wendy Bartlett looked like the sort of girl who would remain conscious of keeping a trim little figure.
She looked down at the tray and then back up at her captor. "What's going to happen to me?" she asked.
"Not a fat lot except die of starvation if you don't eat something," he replied.
"I'm not Tracy Goodyear, I'm Wendy Bartlett… You know that don't you?… It wasn't me you were after was it?" she asked.
"I know who you are, but you've still got to remain here for a bit whilst I sort things out," he informed her.
"How much longer?" she wanted to know.
"A day or two, so eat up. We don't want to see you starving do we?" encouraged Malcolm.
The girl stared at the tray for several seconds then picked up the bowl of cereals. She was hungry anyway, having deliberately abstained from yesterday's lunch in order to make room for her Christmas dinner. As Malcolm watched through the bars, she downed everything, including the toast, then drank the cup dry. When she was finished she looked up and waited.
"Push the tray back out then," he told her.
She slid the tray forward with one hand and Malcolm withdrew it completely from under the cell gate.
"You still haven't told me what's going to happen to me! Please tell me!" she begged with hands clasped tightly together as if in prayer.
"It all depends on the way you behave. Keep acting the way you are and not a fat lot will happen. But play me up and it could be a whole new ball game!" he informed her.
"Am I going to be kept in here then?.. like this?" she said, indicating the chains about her ankles.
Malcolm thought for a moment. He could see no real point in upsetting the girl unduly, so he said apologetically: "I'm sorry, but for the time being that's the way it's got to be I'm afraid!"
She shook her head and covered her face in her hands. "Why me? You've got the wrong person... Why me? I've done nothing wrong! It was Tracy Goodyear you were after, not me!" she said with a touch of sorrow to her voice.
"Look sweetheart, I'm sorry, I really am. I know you got the wrong end of the stick, but there's not a fat lot I can do about it now…. Listen, I've got to leave you for a while, but don't worry, I'll be back shortly, and maybe I can find something interesting for you to do!" he replied.
Leaving everything as vague as possible, Malcolm returned to the kitchen with the tray. The clock on the wall indicated that it was nearly nine o'clock. Time was marching on. The shops in the centre of town would be opening about now. To carry out his plan, he had a twenty pound voucher to cash and a few other items to get.

10:00 am.

The trip to the shopping centre went smoothly enough despite the Christmas rush. The teenager walked the half mile there and back in double quick time and was back outside the complex by ten o'clock. The fog, though bad in places, was beginning to thin. He had managed to get all the things he wanted and was loaded down with carrier bags when a dark coloured limousine circled the small traffic roundabout outside the main gates and turned into the drive to the complex. Malcolm was about to unlock the service gate when he heard a car pull up behind him. On seeing that it was Jimmy Jones, he walked over to the car to have words with the chauffeur.
Jimmy stepped out of the Jaguar and put on his peeked cap. "Morning Malcolm, mind if I leave the car here?" he asked.
This small section of  drive had double yellow lines painted on either side, but in effect was private property owned by the complex. Malcolm shook his head. "No, not at all!" he replied.
"Can't bleeding park anywhere. Shoppers everywhere. The centre of town's choc-a-bloc. And look at that lot outside Alf's! You only see them once a year. They descend on the place, clog everything up and think they're doing you a bleeding favour," bemoaned Jimmy.
"I know! I've just been to town myself and you can't move for people down there," replied Malcolm talking from first hand experience.
"Coming over for a quick cup of tea then?" asked Jimmy. "I've got a bit of interesting news I think you should hear!"
Malcolm's mind raced. He thought the worst. The taxi driver had seen the car last night and reported it to the police. They were questioning all Jaguar owners. They had already spoken to Jimmy, and Mr. McTavish's name was on the list! What would he tell them when approached? 'The owner's in Australia! I know nothing!' seemed the best way to handle the situation.
Malcolm could see that Jimmy was waiting for an answer. "Why not!" he responded. He may as well hear the bad news now before the situation got out of hand. Perhaps he ought to dump the girl quickly! He began to consider the best ways of going about it.
Malcolm waited nervously at the table whilst Jimmy paid for the two teas out of gratitude for being allowed to park. Only after shovelling three heaped spoonfuls of sugar into his mug and giving it a good stir did the chauffeur lean forward and say what he had to say: "Have you heard the news about Katie Brown?" he asked the teenager at a whisper across the table.
The boy's mouth dropped and he did not reply immediately. He was stunned into silence on two accounts: Firstly, he was expecting cars to be the topic of conversation and not women, and secondly, the very mention of Katie's name always sent shock waves through his body anyway. "Err... err... Do you mean the girl who calls in here some err... mornings," he stammered.
"That's the one. The ginger haired piece with a body like an hour glass," and he gesticulated with his hands the shape of an egg-timer. "Well, guess what?" he asked afterwards.
Malcolm shook his head. "I've no idea," he said honestly.
Jimmy smiled and collected his thoughts, for he had quite a long and complicated story to relate: "Well it's like this!" he started before taking in a deep breath. "Katie Brown had this argument see, with this guy she's being shacking up with. The guy's name is Richard Davies and he works at Kryton... in the Laboratory... Well, apparently, she caught him two-timing her, and she booted  him in the balls when she found out. A real corker it was, and she told him what she thought of him, and that was two days ago... Well last night I was meant to collect this guy, see?..  and take him to the works party. But when I got there this other girl was waiting for me, see?.. Remember that girl from around Castle Point I told you about?"
Malcolm nodded tentatively to the question and Jimmy continued: "Well it was her.... I'd got a message from work saying that she wouldn't be at home to collect.... but I didn't expect to find her at this guy's place... But that's by and by... Well anyway,  she was waiting for me at his flat when I got there, and she told me the bad news... She'd just taken him to the hospital..... with guess what?.... Swollen balls... She didn't actually say that in as many words... but that's what she implied... and I found out about the argument and details later... But that's the gist of it... Our Katie's gone and given this Richard Davies fellow the biggest set of swollen balls in the world… So what do you think about all that then?... You wouldn't think our little innocent Katie capable of doing such a nasty trick as that, would you?"
Malcolm shook his head. "Is he going to be all right?" he asked hoping to hear that drastic surgery was needed.
"There's a faint possibility he'll be out of hospital for Christmas... provided he's cared for properly... but they'll only give a verdict on his future love life after the swelling's gone down a bit!" explained Jimmy with a chuckle.
Malcolm wanted to know more, especially about the new girl at his flat. But he edged away from asking any direct questions about her. "Where's Katie now then?" he asked already knowing the answer.
"Oh she's gone back to her parents... up north somewhere... She probably won't even get to hear the good news until she gets back."
"Who's going to look after this guy then? If he comes out?" asked Malcolm.
"He'll  be all right with his new dolly bird of his. 'Big Bouncy' they call her at work... On account that if she ever tripped over she wouldn't damage her face... Do you know what I mean?" and he demonstrated with his hands precisely how big, big was. "With her around to massage his balls I guess he won't want to get better too quickly anyway!"
Malcolm wanted to ask further questions but decided against saying anything that might show an unwarranted eagerness to learn more. Instead he simply looked at his watch and swigged back his tea. He told the chauffeur: "Sorry Jimmy I've got to get back... I'm expecting a call from London... But no doubt I'll see you around... If not have a Merry Christmas... and keep me informed about this fellow of Katie's... I'd love to see the look on her face when she gets to find out."
"Me too!" responded Jimmy with chuckle. "And a Merry Christmas to you too Malcolm. See you around sometime!"
And with that Malcolm gathered up his parcels and made his way back to the complex. He had something very important to do, though the tale about Richard Davies did cheer him up all the same. He could not wait to tell Katie all about it as soon as she got back.

11:30 a.m.

Malcolm returned to the basement and took his time to organise a few things before visiting the cell. "And how's young Wendy feeling now?" he asked with a smile through the bars when he was ready.
Through steely eyes she glared back at him but gave no reply, relying on the look to say everything. She was wondering what was going on. She had seen her captor arrive and place several items upon the floor, one of them was a big box, the other items came in carrier bags. He had also moved a stool across the floor, but she could not see why.
"Still being co-operative I hope!" he exclaimed as he stood looking in through the bars of the cell.
She nodded her head but said nothing.
Seeing her positive response, albeit just a nod of the head, he praised her with the now familiar: "Good girl!" before unlocking the cell door.
Once open Malcolm recovered the bag from the floor and held it high. As if knowing what was expected of her, she bowed her head in readiness. He placed the bag over her head, then knelt down and unlocked the padlock that linked the chain attached to the wall with the short one between her legs.
"Right come with me!" he told her.
The girl shuffled forward in her fetters. He did not lead her a great distance, and remained calm and patient, allowing her to cross the floor in her own good time.
"Sit down for a while," he told her, then helped her onto the stool.
She settled down on the stool.
"It's bra off time I'm afraid," he told her as he gripped the strap at the back.
Immediately he felt her body tense.
"Just relax! I'm not going to hurt you," he assured her, and he stroked the nape of her neck gently in the hope that she would settle down.
The girl fought against all natural instincts to resist and let him get on with it.
Malcolm removed the garment and cast it away. The girl's breast were small and conical in shape. Nothing like what he had imagined and came as a bit of a disappointment. But she was still young and different people matured at different times. Perhaps she would fill out in time.
"Give me your hands," he said taking a grip of her wrists.
He arranged them with palms and thumbs together as if in prayer. The girl was confused. In the blackness of the bag upon her head she had no idea what was going on around her. She began to panic. A gentle hand returned to stroke her on a shoulder, and a voice said: "Relax, nothing's going to happen! Just keep them together like that and don't move."
She honestly wanted to believe that nothing serious was going to happen, but she had already seen what lay beyond the bars of the cell, and observed the chain and the rack in the adjoining aisle. Quivering slightly she kept her hands together and held them there whilst her captor placed a cold and somewhat heavy metal object about her thumbs and set about turning a screw or something of that nature. Slowly two cold metal plates began to close and sandwich against the skin.
As the pressure intensified she hissed sharply: "Ouch! That hurts!" and instinctively pulled her hands away. The casting, now firmly attached to her thumbs came with her, and at the same time yanking it from her abductor's grasp.
Malcolm was annoyed and grabbed back the thumbscrews. He castigated her: "I told you to keep still! Now do it! I know it's a bit painful, but it'll only hurt even more if you keep on struggling like that!"
As if apologising for her knee-jerk reaction, she replied: "I'm sorry! I'm trying my best to keep still. But this thing on my thumbs, it hurts! It really does! Please, take it off... what ever it is... Please... I'll be good.... I promise."
"I'm sorry sweetheart, but I'm afraid it's something that's got be done. Unfortunately there's no alternative! You've just got to have it fitted to your thumbs, and I'm sorry if it hurts!" he said sadly.
He tested the firmness of the clamps by pulling hard several times between the thumbs. The girl winced as he did so, but refrained from further protest. Malcolm twisted the screws another couple of turns before being satisfied.
"Okay, now stand up," he told her, and he helped her to her feet. From there he lifted her up onto the stool. She was no great weight. He waited momentarily for her to gain her balance, then, as soon as she able to stand unaided, he released his steadying hands from her thighs. The device was heavy and she continued to struggle with her balance as the combined weight of both chain and casting pulled downwards on her thumbs and arms.
Malcolm realised that he must act quickly. "Just stay like that! Don't move!" he said stepping towards the winding gear positioned on the floor a couple of paces behind her.
He set about turning the handle. Soon a rhythmical clicking of the gears set in, and slowly the girl's hands began to rise upwards. The chain continued in its relentless movement. Whilst her hands remained low she said very little. But once above head height the pain set in and eventually there came a limit to her endurance. "That's enough! Stop! Please stop! You're hurting me!" she yelled as her arms reached the point where she could stretch upwards no longer without raising her heels from off the surface of the precariously balanced stool.
Malcolm gave the handle a few more turns then stopped. The girl's heels were drawn away from the surface, but her toes still made contact with the stool. Satisfied with that position, he locked the mechanism in place and returned to her side. On his way he collected a pair of large scissors from one of the carrier bags.
"It's panties off  time!" he informed her sarcastically. He had considered in great detail the best way of achieving his final objective. If the fetters were to remain about the ankles then he could see no other way of removing the last remaining garment other than cutting them away with scissors. Gently he sliced through the panties on either side of the waist and pulled them away from between the legs.
Now all of her clothing had been removed, and with all the preliminaries over, Malcolm withdraw the bag from her head. The bright lights blinded her momentarily and she blinked awkwardly. But that was the least of her worries. The pain in her thumbs had spread as far as her wrists now, and was becoming unbearable. She re-doubled her efforts to stretch up as high as possible to alleviate the pressure.
Finding little relief from her actions, she tilted her head backwards to look up and see exactly what had been done to her. On seeing the device, and the way her thumbs had been squeezed flat between the plates, she began to scream loudly: "Oh no please!... Take them off!.... Please, I've done nothing!... Everything's a big mistake!.... I'm not Tracy Goodyear!... Oh please let me down!... Please!"
These hysterics were getting them both nowhere and Malcolm sought co-operation. He attempted to explain what he was doing: "I'm sorry, but I'm afraid you'll just have to stop like that for a little while longer! I know it may feel uncomfortable, and possibly take some getting use to, but I'm not going to do anything violent or nasty to you,… I promise…. What you're doing is all for a good cause… and all I ask is for you to be a good girl, keep perfectly still, and pose for me whilst I to make a few sketches… That's all…  Just bear with me for a while, try to relax.... and I promise you'll be back in your little cell before you know it!... I won't keep you up there like that a minute longer than is absolutely necessary!"
Strangely his well intended comforting words did very little to calm her down, and she continued to groan and whinge. With a reluctant shrug of the shoulders, Malcolm collected a long blonde wig from a bag, shook it out, and placed it upon her head.
"This is to make you look a little more mature," he informed her, then set about arranging the locks so that the long tresses hung in equal proportions about the shoulders.
The girl however seemed little impressed with her new hairstyle, and more concerned over what was happening higher up above her head.
"Please!... My thumbs!... They're coming off.... Please.... let me down!... Oh please!..." she begged of  her captor.
In an effort to quieten her down, Malcolm found a block of wood left behind by the workman and slid it under the gap beneath her heels.  If it helped shut her up, then he did not mind, since the block still retained her feet in the tip-toed position he wanted.
"How's that? That's got to be better for you, hasn't it?" he asked her once in place.
The girl felt the object slide beneath her heels and gratefully took full advantage of what was being offered. At least now she had a stable platform from which to push her arms upwards and relieve some of pressure on her thumbs.
"There you are! That's much better isn't it?" he enquired, then added: "Now please be quite will you? And try to settle down and pose for me like a good girl!"
But despite his kindness, she still refused to be quiet, and continued to issue a series soft sobs intermingled with one or two strange gurgling noises. He shrugged his shoulders: No-one could blame him for not trying! He had done everything humanly possible to help her. But he supposed it was to be expected. Most great artists had encountered hardship at one time or other during their lives, so he guessed this minor distraction was only to be expected. He accepted the situation philosophically and set to work. Whilst out shopping that morning, and taking advantage of his mother's vouchers, he had purchased several pots of paint. Now, with a big round jar in one hand and a brush in the other he daubed a red streak across the top of her breasts.
"This is to represent a whip mark," he told her in an effort to keep her fully informed, and thereby, hopefully, stop her panicking.
She saw no fit reason to feel comforted, and closed her eyes to what the boy was doing.
Thoughtfully Malcolm said on completion of the brush stroke: "Now think yourself lucky that's not the real thing!"
Taking great care, he painted a second line across the girl's breasts, this time a little lower and passing the brush near to the tops of the nipples. After that he set to work in earnest, adding further lines to her breasts, then continuing downwards across the stomach. After that he covered her back and bottom in much the same manner before adding the odd line or two to the fronts and backs of legs. As a final thought he touched the undersides of her up-stretched arms in several places just for good measure.
Only when he was totally satisfied that there were enough marks upon her body, did he sit down on a crate and take up pad and pencil. His plan was to make a dozen or so initial sketches at this session, taken from several different angles, then go away and select the best two or three over lunch. After that he would return to add shade and colour to finish them off. If necessary he would keep on working until midnight and beyond, and do whatever was needed to complete the work to his total satisfaction.

4:00 p.m.

In all, Malcolm completed sixteen acceptable sketches, with only a couple of rejects at this early stage. Ready for a break, he packed everything away neatly, placed his sheets into a folder and put all his pencils and charcoals back into their boxes before turning his attentions to the girl. Wendy Bartlett's face was drawn and haggard, but she had been quiet for at least the last hour. Slowly he lowered the chain a few turns and returned to confront her. He would allow her to relax for a while. It was only right that she be allowed to rest whilst he took a break.
The lowering of the chain revived her from a state of semi-consciousness. For the first time in an hour she opened her eyes and grimaced. Unknown to Malcolm his well intended gesture had achieved the exact opposite to what he wanted. Suddenly the pains in her thumbs and wrists had returned and she shuffled uneasily on the stool hoping to find another stance that would return the comparative comfort she previously enjoyed.
 Malcolm attracted her attention with a tap to the waist. She stopped squirming and a pair of watery eyes looked down at him.
"You've been a very good girl," he told her, then sadly added the bad news he thought she ought to hear: "But I'm sorry to tell you, I'm not quite finished. For the time being I've let down the chain a little, so just relax like that for a while. I won't be gone long, so don't fret. It'll all be over soon and you'll be back in your comfortable little cell before you know it!"
The girl however did not appear to grasp what was being said, and instead burst into hysterics: "Oh!.... No!.... Please!... No!.... Don't leave me here like this!" she screamed and shuddered uneasily on the stool.
Malcolm collected his folder and made his way to the kitchen. The girl could shake and scream as much as she liked. Hopefully she will have quietened down by the time he returned.

4:30 p.m.

Back in the kitchen, with a cup of tea made, Malcolm spread his sketches out along a work surface and slowly walked down the line. Occasionally sipping at his drink and assessing the work as he moved. He began to tut and shake his head. The results of four hours hard labour were very disappointing indeed. Despite the wig, the drawings still depicted a girl in her teens, and nothing like a mature woman of thirty-five. Weighing everything up, he concluded that the body was far too slim, the breasts too small and the wrong shape, and the face looking nothing like the one he had once envisaged. Furthermore the whip marks were ugly and all over the place. If someone had stood in front of the girl and used a real whip, then the pattern laid down by the lashes would undoubtedly have a lot more symmetry about them.
Selecting one particular sketch drawn from almost front on, and with soft pencil in hand, he tried to re-sketch a few faint body lines around the outsides of the existing ones. The attempt gave the image a fatter look, and to further enhance the detail he over-scored the existing lash marks with several heavy parallel lines. But still nothing came out that pleased him in.
"Damn!… Damn!… Damn!…" he swore, and he thumped the work surface hard several times. "What must I do to get it right?" he asked himself.
Using Wendy Bartlett as a model had proved a total disaster. She was a poor substitute. What he really needed was a much older woman to pose for him. Someone in her mid-thirties with bigger breasts and her own natural looking, long blonde hair. The whip marks were also wrong and needed to be real if he was to stand any chance of achieving the results he wanted. Daubing paint was definitely not the answer. An artist of his immense talent needed far better working conditions than these in which to operate, otherwise how could he ever reach perfection?

6:00 p.m.

After having something to eat for himself, Malcolm returned to the basement with a tray of food including a hot cup of tea. He was trying to be thoughtful and show a little consideration for the girl. He would lower the chain further, hold the mug to her lips and spoon feed the meal to her. However on reaching the mouth of the cave he guessed that he may very well have to alter his plans.
Immediately he heard the screaming he knew that something was wrong. Muffled noises were issuing from deep within the chamber. He moved quickly and arrived to find the exact reason why. The stool was on its side, and Wendy Bartlett was writhing and screaming, suspended by the thumbs on the end of a long and quivering chain. Quickly he wound down the mechanism until her feet touched the floor, then he undid the screws about her thumbs. With a thump she collapsed to the floor.
Malcolm tried to assess the extent of the injuries. He had been away for about two hours. For all he knew she could have been suspended by the thumbs for all of that time. What a silly ass she was! Why couldn't she have kept still! He had even gone to the bother of lowering the chain for her before he went away.
He looked to her hands. After examination he diagnosed that she must have been hanging there for quite some time. Both the forearms and wrists were very badly swollen. The colour of her hands ranged from a deep purple at the thumbs to a strange tint of blue at the wrists. The skin had also been broken by the jagged clamps, and long streaks of blood had traced paths all the way down her arms and dripped spots onto the wig, face and breasts.
On touching the ground the girl had fallen silent.
"Can you get up?" he asked and he shook her by the shoulders.
There was no response. The girl's eyes were firmly closed and she was breathing heavily. Reluctantly he carried her back to the cell, propped her up against a side wall then re-set the padlocked to the chain between her legs.
Leaving the tray of food inside with her, he locked the gate and left her to her own devices. He shrugged his shoulders. What else could he do? He had tried everything to make her comfortable and she had gone and done this to him. Hopefully she would get a good nights sleep. In the morning he would return to see if she was any better, and perhaps continue with his drawings.
All in all it had been a very bad day. A very bad day indeed!
Perhaps tomorrow would bring better things, he was thinking as he returned to the top floor of the building.

End of Chapter Four