CHAPTER NINE - 28th DECEMBER

5:00 am.

Malcolm could not sleep and was up and dressed way before the bedside alarm went off. In fact he had not slept at all during the night. All through the small hours he lay awake turning over and over in his mind exactly what he was going to do as soon as five o'clock arrived. Another factor for his insomnia was possibly the start of a head cold. A blocked up nose and runny eyes were starting to irritate and he had taken tablets during the night.
Not bothering to eat or drink he set off on foot for the main gates. On crossing the road to the beach he looked around the long arcing bay towards the headland where the old castle ruins stood. Everywhere was in darkness and he could see but a couple of faint distant lights. In fact the only bright lights he could see were those sighted along the promenade. He looked to the heavens. The clear skies of the night before were gone, and now an overcast sky blocked out the moon and stars. Rain threatened, but the weather for the time being remained dry and very cold. Kitted out in a warm anorak, with hood up around his head, he set off along the beach. On his back he carried a rucksack and on his feet he wore a stout pair of boots.
The previous evening, on his way back from the old castle ruins he had clocked the mileage. The distance by road was two point eight miles from castle car park to loading bay. He reckoned that if he walked the beach and in so doing cutting the corner off, he would save himself about half a mile of that journey. After due consideration he allowed himself one hour to hike what he calculated to be a distance of something just over two miles. A quick look at the tides table the night before indicated that the sea would be way out between five and six. This added bonus therefore meant that if he kept close to the waters' edge, then all his foot marks would become erased by the incoming tide. His one hope now was that no-one else would be around to see him so early in the morning.

6:00 am.

Malcolm stood on the cliff tops in approximately the same spot as the night before when he had cast the policewoman's wristwatch into the sea. In the darkness he listened to the waves crashing against the rocks below. Switching on his torch momentarily he checked the time on his wristwatch. It was six o'clock in the morning and if all was going to plan then Tracy Goodyear's parents should be leaving about now. He had made the journey in less than an hour, and as far as he was aware no-one had been around to see him. In the darkness he sat down on a bench that looked out to sea and pondered over his next few moves. At least the walk had cleared his head somewhat and he was beginning to feel a whole lot better. He blew his nose and breathed in deeply the fresh sea air. All he could do now was sit and wait. He had already taken a quick look at number three's drive. The two cars were still there, but since his arrival several lights had come on in the house. Obvious signs that the mother and father were up and getting ready to leave.
The moment Malcolm was waiting for arrived soon after taking the seat. To start with he heard voices coming from the front of the house. Then he heard the front door slam. This was quickly followed by sounds of a gate creaking open, the slamming of car doors and the roar of an engine starting up. Finally headlights silhouetted the low roof of the bungalow. Slowly the shadows began to move as the car reversed out into the road and set off up the hill towards the old castle. At the top of the lane the car turned right and set off in the direction of Littlesea.
As darkness and silence returned Malcolm rose to his feet and made his way to the back gate of the bungalow. Despite the overcast skies the threatening rain had still not materialised and the pathways were dry. However, using the small torch he checked his boots to see if they were clean. He did not particularly want to leave a trail of mud behind him. Satisfied that he was not going to leave much of a clue, he put on a pair of gloves and tested the latch. The gate creaked open. Thankfully there were neither lock nor bolt on the wooden gate and he entered into the garden. Now came the difficult part of the operation. Just how was he going to break into the house without being heard? Closing the gate quietly behind him, and using the small torch to guide his way, Malcolm crept up the narrow paved pathway.
The garden consisted mainly of lawns and fruit trees, and on all sides surrounded by a high privet hedge. The path followed alongside the left hand boundary hedge. A greenhouse and potting shed stood over on the opposite side of the lawn. The path led to a few garden steps and a patio bordered by a low wall and lined further by a row of shrubs planted in large pots.
Stepping up onto the patio, Malcolm extinguished the torch. It was too risky to use this close to the windows. In the darkness he could just make out the details of the back of the bungalow. A single door from the kitchen and a pair of glass-panelled doors from the lounge stepped down onto the slightly raised paved area. Pathways from the patio went around both sides of the dwelling to the front. Malcolm set off along the path to the left and peered in through the first window. Everything inside was in darkness, but the pipes leading out from below the window suggested drainage from the kitchen sink. A crack of light below an interior door indicated that the hall light had been left burning. He moved on down the path. The next window had frosted glass in it. This had to be the bathroom so he kept on going.
The third and last window on this side of the bungalow was a bedroom. The curtains were open and Malcolm peered inside. The door had been left slightly ajar and light from the hallway beyond illuminated the room enough to vaguely make out the layout and contents. A second window faced the front of the building. These curtains were also open so added a bit more light to the scene. There was a double bed in here, but no-one was in it. It had been made and left neatly with a hot water bottle resting on the covers. He concluded that this had to be Mr. and Mrs. Goodyear's bedroom.
Malcolm continued on his way to the front of the building. The blue estate car stood in the drive and facing the gate. He tested Katie's keys in the rear door. The tail-gate opened and raised up slightly. Not wishing to make any sound, he removed the keys from the lock and left the door slightly ajar. He smiled, and safe in the knowledge that he had the right keys, he returned to continue his investigation of the Goodyear's home.
The centralised positioned front door stood back inside a porch with bedroom windows to either side. Inside the entrance hung a flower basket and further flower pots stood against the walls on both sides. Malcolm searched for a hidden key. There was a possibility that a key may have been left under a pot, or beneath the mat, or even inside the hanging basket. He searched everywhere, but could not find anything. Finally he raised the flap of the letter box and peered into the illuminated hallway. There was a letter-basket on the inside of the door and no signs of anything like a piece of string with a key on the end. He stepped back in disappointment. It appeared that his spare key theory had come to nothing.
Shrugging his shoulders, Malcolm moved on to inspect the opposite side of the bungalow. Again there were three windows down this side of the dwelling. The corner bedroom had windows both to the front and side of the building and both sets of curtains were drawn. He tried to find a crack to look through, but there was nothing. However, this had all the possibilities of being Tracy Goodyear's bedroom, but just to make certain he moved on to peer in through the next window. The curtains were open confirming his theory that the corner bedroom was the one he wanted. Inside all was in darkness but his eyes were well adjusted by now and he could see enough. This was a small bedroom. There was a single bed in the room and no-one was sleeping in it.
Malcolm moved on with the intent of completing a full circuit of the bungalow. The final corner was definitely the lounge. Through partly open curtains he could see a settee, a couple of easy chairs and a television. At the patio doors he stopped and tested the handle. He was not surprised to find them locked so he moved on.
Arriving back at the kitchen he tested the handle to the door. Again his entrance was barred. But the door did move slightly suggesting that a bolt near the bottom held it closed and not a key in the lock as expected. However, it made no difference. Either way, bolt or lock, the door was secured.
So that was that! There was no easy entrance. He had gone right around the bungalow and found no obvious ways in. All the doors were locked and all the windows were closed. However he had expected this to be the case and had come prepared with a contingency plan. In his rucksack he carried a few tools that hopefully would enable him to make a forced entry.
As Malcolm stood by the kitchen door contemplating his next move, something brushed lightly against his legs. Startled by the contact, he froze and looked down. In the darkness he could just about make out a small creature standing by his legs. Its fur was black which made it doubly awkward to see, but as the purring started up, he realised that it was a cat. He pushed it aside with his foot, but the animal only returned to circle his feet and brush against his legs.
"Go away!" he whispered giving the cat another gentle push with the toe of his boot.
Strangely the cat did just that. It mounted the single step and disappeared into the house through a cat-flap in the kitchen door.
Malcolm bent down to see where it had gone. He had not noticed the cat-flap in the darkness, but now he was curious and he had a sneaking feeling that the discovery may prove useful. Kneeling on the step with his shoulder against the base of the door he inserted an arm and searched for a bolt. It was there as he suspected near the base of the door. He slid the bolt back, extracted his arm and rose to his feet. Gently he tested the handle and a great grin crossed his face as the door opened.
"Thank you cat!" he breathed softly as he crept silently into the kitchen and closed the door behind him.
Once shut he re-bolted the door and looked around. The cat had taken to lapping from a saucer of milk and was ignoring him. This seemed to be a good thing. Now that he had gained access without making a forced entry, it was his plan to leave the house looking as though nothing untoward had taken place. From now on operation cover-up was in force.
Standing by the kitchen sink, Malcolm prepared for his next and hopefully decisive move. From his rucksack he extracted a polythene bag and a face mask. He covered his own face with the mask and extracted another from within the bag. Now he was ready. Moving slowly and quietly he opened the door that led from the kitchen to the hallway. A single bulb illuminated the area and he struggled to adjust his eyes to the light. After a few seconds delay he crept down the passage. There were doors to either side of him. All of them were identified by small ceramic plaques. He stopped at the last door on the right and smiled once more. The small plaque on the door told him this was: 'Tracy's Room'. He placed his hand on the door handle and composed himself in readiness for what he had to do. After several deep breaths he was ready.
Opening the door quickly he stepped into the room and made directly for the bed. Tracy Goodyear was sleeping soundly and did not stir as the light from the hallway burst into the darkened bedroom. She was lying on her back with her head upon the pillow. Malcolm thrust the mask against her face and held it there, pushing her head backwards into the pillow. Within seconds the girl was awake and starting to fight against whatever was gripping her face. He pressed down even harder and started to count. He was expecting the struggle to last about ninety to one-hundred seconds.
 For the sleeping Tracy Goodyear the sudden interruption to her natural breathing pattern turned what was a pleasant slumber into a horrible nightmare. Stinging fumes were entering her mouth and nose, choking her passageways and burning into the back of her throat. She tried to tear away whatever it was that covered her face, but could not budge a thing. She recognised gloved hands and she clawed the material wildly in the hope that they would release their grasp. But nothing moved. Whatever was gripping her face remained stubborn and persistent. She opened her eyes but could see very little, just the outline of a shadowy figure standing over her. Then the fumes started to take effect and she could see herself falling down a long and spiralling tunnel. She tried to resist and to fight everything. Suddenly she was kicking and throwing her arms about everywhere in a desperate struggle to break free. But that was about her last conscious recollection of the real-life events going on about her.
As the muscles relaxed and the arms dropped back to the bed, a light appeared at the end of the tunnel. It was so peaceful and relaxing here that she decided to stay. No-one was going to hurt her in such a pleasant place. There were green fields and flowers, and trees and lakes, and she was free to skip along the shore and bathe in the waters. Yes, this just had to be heaven, as nowhere else could be so beautiful.
Malcolm's counting had just reached the eighties when the girl's arms fell back to the bed. From start to finish the operation took about ten seconds less than his previous experiment on the snooping policewoman. But he had no time for comparisons, quickly he pulled the elastic of the mask over the back of the head and cast the bedclothes aside. Tracy Goodyear was wearing a long pink cotton nightdress that reach down as far as the ankles. He raised up the hem as far as the waist to see what she was wearing beneath. The sight that greeted him however was something he did not expect. All he found was a dark triangle of black pubic hair and nothing else. The sight made him lick his lips. But this was not the time to get sexually aroused. He had too much work to do. Sitting the girl up so that the torso flopped forward, he set about removing the nightdress from above the girl's head. The operation proved to be a bit of a struggle, but in the end he won the day despite the lack of co-operation from the limp and flailing arms. Once relieved of the garment he let the body fall back upon the bed then flipped her over onto the stomach. Drawing back the arms he placed Katie's handcuffs about the wrists and locked the bracelets tight. For a short while he sat on the bed and waited whilst he regained his breath. The girl had put up a remarkable amount of resistance and holding the mask in place had been quite a struggle.
After a few seconds Malcolm rose and returned the unconscious girl to her back. He chuckled to himself as the naked body rolled over to reveal two huge and wobbling breasts. There was definitely no mistaking 'Big Bouncer's' infamous trademarks. At long last he had Tracy Goodyear in his grasp.
Malcolm sat the naked and handcuffed body up on the bed, then heaved the dead weight up and over a shoulder in a fireman's lift. Struggling under the weight he made his way out of the room and through the front door into the darkness of the drive. Outside he raised up the tail-gate of the estate car and rolled the limp body inside. After checking that the mask was still in place he closed down the rear and returned to the bedroom. Here he re-made the bed, fluffed up the pillowcases and folded the nightdress up neatly. He wanted everything to look as if she had got out of bed and left the building of her own accord. Searching through the various drawers and wardrobes he selected a set of clothing he considered she may have worn on a cold winter's day. This included bra, panties, tights, shoes and warm outer garments all of which he managed to cram into his rucksack. He also gathered up a wristwatch from the side of the bed and the girl's leather handbag with her own set of keys inside.
Having collected everything he considered relevant he drew open the curtains and took one last look around the room. Nothing appeared out of order with no apparent signs of any struggle taking place. He closed the door and moved towards the porch. On passing the hallway stand he collected a warm winter coat and switched off the light. He was careful to select something that he knew to be Tracy Goodyear's. This particular bright blue coat was unmistakable as he had seen her wearing it whilst driving the car. Happy with the way he was leaving the bungalow, and after one last look around, he pulled the front door shut and made for the car.
Using Katie's keys he unlocked the driver's door, hurled his bulging rucksack and the blue coat into the back seat, then jumped quickly into the car. Once inside he removed the mask from his face and tossed that too into the back. He had never driven this make of car before but it was not too difficult to locate all the switches and controls. He found the lights and switched them on, then inserted the ignition key and turned. The engine started smoothly enough and soon he was on his way. Within seconds he was driving out through the already open gates and speeding up the lane.
From Tracy Goodyear's home to the outskirts of Littlesea Malcolm did not see anyone walking or encounter any traffic on the roads. On reaching the town he turned off the main Promenade Road to negotiate a network of back streets. Twisting and weaving his way through many rows of parked vehicles he made his way around this mainly residential area of Littlesea to arrive at the rear entrance to the Amusement Park.
At the gates, shielded by trees on either side, and at the bottom of a little private service road, he stopped the engine and got out. He quickly unlocked the gates then returned to the car. He had already done a little bit of preparation and a large but empty waste bin awaited him on the inside of the gates. Opening up the tail-gate he once more grabbed hold of the unconscious Tracy Goodyear in a fireman's lift and carried her through the partially opened gates. On the other side he deposited the naked body into the bin. She landed with a heavy thump in the bottom but showed no signs of coming round despite the buffeting. Satisfied that she was not going to wake and scream, he did one more journey to the car and returned with the rest of her items. All these he dumped quickly into the bin to land somewhere near the sleeping girl's feet. He made one last check to see if the mask was still covering the girl's face then closed down the lid. Hopefully she would remain asleep until his return.
As quickly as he came, Malcolm was away again, locking the gates behind him and returning to the car. Driving back around the streets he returned to the Promenade. Here he parked the car right outside Richard Davies's flat and locked everything up. By doing this his intent was to add further confusion to case. Hopefully the police would be thrown by his actions and start by searching the flat for any signs of abduction rather than investigate the bungalow out at Castle Point. That was his theory anyway!
It was still dark as Malcolm re-entered the Amusement Park via the side entrance in the alleyway. From here he headed diagonally across the grounds to the rear gates. On reaching the waste-bin he raised up the lid and peered into the darkness. He could not see much, but Tracy Goodyear appeared to be still sleeping soundly. At least he could hear deep breathing coming from within.
The large bin was on wheels and Malcolm set off, pushing the waste container along the wide public paths towards the back of the main building. He looked to the sky in the east. The first signs of dawn were breaking above the rooftops. As the bin rumbled into the courtyard he breathed a big sigh of relief. Inwardly he glowed. He had managed to kidnap Tracy Goodyear and get her safely to the building without, as far as he could tell, being seen by anyone. Quietly he congratulated himself on a job well done.
From the loading bay Malcolm took the easiest route to the basement. Still rumbling the bin along he traversed the ground floor showroom to the service lift at the front of the building. From here he descended to the basement and continued on his way until reaching the dungeon area. Positioning the bin close to the rack, he raised the lid and peered inside. The naked body of Tracy Goodyear remained peacefully dreaming with the mask still about her face.
Malcolm leaned inside the bin and grabbed hold of the girl's shoulders. With one mighty heave he pulled the dead weight up towards him. The torso rose about half the distance required then slipped from his grasp. With a thump the limp and lifeless body dropped  back against the floor of the waste bin. He tried once more only for the same thing to happen. Somehow this struggle had never figured in his plans. From this point onwards everything was supposedly meant to go like clockwork. Then he had what he considered to be an excellent idea. Why not simply push the bin over on its side and drag her out? It was so simple, why had he not thought of it before?
Taking hold of the top of the bin with two hands he began to push. Slowly the bin rose up onto two wheels and tilted sideways. Then with one last effort the waste bin fell to its side. However, as it did so a mighty crack echoed about the chamber. Immediately Malcolm recognised that the bin had landed on something and broken it. He looked to see what damage had been done.
"Shit!" exclaimed Malcolm on discovering what had been broken.
One of the wooden posts that supported the boundary rope had snapped in half under the weight of the bin. He extracted the rope and the pieces of broken stand from beneath the bin and assessed the damage. The break had been clean and was not too serious. He concluded that a little touch of glue would fix the problem.
No longer concerned with the breakage, Malcolm dragged the body out of the bin and onto the floor. Then taking a firm hold beneath the arms, he dragged her over to the side of rack. Re-adjusting his grasp he lifted. He had gone through all this before with the policewoman and was becoming a bit of an expert at handling lifeless bodies. The last time he did this the handcuffed arms proved troublesome and the body difficult to manoeuvre. On this occasion he planned to remedy all this. Raising the body up and holding her in his arms, he leaned the girl forwards over the edge of the bed and let her flop face down with those huge tits of hers pressing flat against the boards.
With the body slumped forward in this position, and with the arms behind the back, he removed the handcuffs and placed them in his pocket. The girl's arms fell to her sides and he tossed them above her head and onto the boards. From now on it was easy. With one last mighty heave he grabbed the feet and swung everything up onto the surface.
As the feet landed Malcolm smiled and rubbed his hands together. All that was left to do was turn the girl over onto her back, grab the ankles and draw the feet down to the bottom of the rack. He did just that and opened out the legs. After another little tug of the feet and further slight adjustment he set about buckling the stout leather straps about the ankles. Finally he tested the moorings for strength. Nothing moved and everything felt as solid as a rock. He nodded his approval. There was no way she could escape from that little lot.
Having secured the legs to his own satisfaction, Malcolm moved to the top of the table to deal with the wrists. Rapidly becoming adept at this sort of thing, he raised up the girl's arms above her head and laid them out with the back of the hands resting on the boards. He then secured the straps about the wrists and straightened out the ropes as far back as the drum. Continuing to walk around the rack he arrived at the wheel to set about winding in the mechanism. At the point where the ropes began to creak he stopped to test the tension. He smiled at the findings, even the noises were becoming familiar to him. In his opinion the set-up was just about perfect: Just enough tension present without causing unnecessary discomfort. The rest he would leave to Katie when she returned tomorrow. He chuckled loudly at the thought. He was going to enjoy just standing to one side and watching someone else use the equipment. Hopefully he would have pad and pencil handy to record the moment, but that too would be left to Katie to decide. Tracy Goodyear was hers to play with, not his.
All that remained now was to remove the face mask. From his rucksack at the bottom of the tipped over waste bin he recovered the polythene bag and returned to the rack. With his blocked and snuffling nose he could not sense any fumes, but he held his breath anyway whilst he pulled away the elastic strap from behind the head and deposited the mask inside the bag. Only when he had resealed the opening did he start breathing again.
With the operation complete, Malcolm looked to his watch and smiled. The time was just half past seven. The entire exercise from the time of the parents' departure to the securing the girl on the rack had taken just ninety minutes. Once more he congratulated himself on a job well done and decided to celebrate by returning to the kitchen and making himself a nice pot of tea.
"Goodbye!… Don't go away!… And pleasant dreams!…" he told the sleeping girl as he patted her lightly on a thigh.
His instinct was to squeeze a nipple or probe a finger between her legs, but he resisted temptation. He told himself that the big breasted girl was not his to toy with. She was Katie's Christmas present from him and nothing could be soiled. If on her return she gave him permission to do such things then he would gladly comply, but on no account would he do anything beforehand.
With thoughts of his one true love swilling around in Malcolm's head he turned his back upon the stretched out body of Tracy Goodyear and crossed the floor. He felt it best to check upon his other guests before retiring to the kitchen. He walked across to the cell that held WPC Watkinson and peered in between the bars. The woman was facing him, looking upwards with eyes open. She was slumped sideways across the floor, lying with knees bent and head lowered so as to accommodate all of her body in the limited floor space available. She was totally naked with fetters about her ankles which in turn were padlocked to the rear wall by a second chain.
WPC Georgina Watkinson had recovered consciousness in the cell only to discover a dislocated shoulder amongst her many others problems. Having managed to re-set it, she now found the use of the arm almost impossible and clutched it rigidly to her chest. Whilst the boy had been strapping his latest victim to the rack she had looked on in silence. On seeing her captor's arrival she struggled to push herself up into a sitting position using her one good arm.
"Water! Can I have a drink please?" she asked on reaching a somewhat slouched seating position against a side wall.
Malcolm took a few steps sideways to glance into the adjoining cell. To his surprise the food on the tray and the mugs of cold tea had all been consumed by the occupant. He looked around the floor area to see if he could spot something else. The glass with the orange juice that the woman had originally consumed stood on the floor near to the rack. There was still a little bit in the bottom. He collected it and returned to the cell.
"Here drink this," he told her passing the glass through the bars.
She took it from him with her one good arm and downed the contents gratefully. In all there were about two small mouthfuls left in the bottom.
Holding up the empty glass she asked: "Can I have some more please?"
Malcolm realised that for one reason or another none of his women had really drunk or eaten a great deal since being imprisoned down here. However, with Tracy Goodyear now firmly in his grasp the situation was a whole lot different. There was no more kidnapping to do so he could now concentrate fully on the welfare of his prisoners. Being in such an elated mood, he decided that this was to be 'kind and generous day', and give them all a treat. For starters he would do a big breakfast tray and bring it down with him on his next visit.
"I'll bring you something after I've been to the kitchen," he informed her, and adding: "Just be patient for a while!"
Not wanting to get into any sort of debate Malcolm moved on to the adjoining cell. He peered in through the bars. Wendy Bartlett remained seated and fixed in that perpetual stare towards her shackled feet. But at least she was eating again. He ignored her and crossed the floor to check on Davina Townsend.
On arrival Malcolm realised that when he had left her last he had forgotten to lower the chain. The woman remained standing on tip toes on top of the crate. He looked up at the limply hanging body. A strip of white surgical tape covered the eyes so it was difficult to tell whether she was awake or not. From the negative response to his approach, and the way she just hung from the chain with all the weight concentrated on the wrists, he concluded that she must have passed out somewhere along the line. Stretching upwards he peeled the tape from her face to reveal a pair of dark sunken eyes that remained stubbornly shut.
Walking across to the winding mechanism, Malcolm set about lowering the chain. The limp body of the woman folded and crumpled as the chain descended. His plan was to lower her down gently on top of the crate. But this did not happen. Unable to be in two places at once, it was impossible to save her as the body slumped and fell quickly. First the body rolled sideways and swung away from the crate, and then the legs followed. With a thump the feet dropped to the floor. The shock must have brought her round, for the woman yelped and began to moan almost immediately on impact.
Malcolm had no alternative but to continue lowering the chain until she became seated on the floor alongside the crate with arms held loosely about her head. Not certain as to what to do for the best, he paused for a moment. As he looked on the woman slumped sideways to bounce against the side wall of the crate and fall flat on her back with arms held up-stretched by the chain.
On seeing that her situation now looked reasonably comfortable Malcolm lowered the chain a little further and re-locked the mechanism. He hoped that by lying flat on her back she could get a little rest whilst he was away. Taking one final look around and checking that nothing was out of order, he set off for the kitchen. His plan was return very shortly with food and drink for all of them.
 
8:45 am.

Malcolm having quickly finished his own breakfast returned to the basement via the back stairs. In his arms he carried a tray. On it lay a plate stacked high with buttered toast, a few chocolate bars that he had purchased on that fateful morning when he bumped into Katie, a full carton of orange juice, and a collection of plates and empty glasses. He was feeling a bit tired after his exhausting morning and his head cold had returned. With a sniffling and runny nose he was in two minds whether to carry on with Mr. McTavish's sketches or take another couple of aspirins and go back to bed. As a result he had left the initial sketches and drawing materials in the kitchen. On this visit he would just feed his three conscious women and then return. After that he would see how he felt before making any further decisions.
On crossing the vast empty floor of the exhibition hall Malcolm's eyes fell upon the hastily abandoned cardboard box dumped there the day after Katie's departure. Ever since that time he had been meaning to return the box and its contents to the repair area, but had, for one reason or another, never got round to doing so. Since then however circumstances had changed somewhat, and now he had a cause to make use of the contents once again. He now had a broken rope stand to repair in the dungeon.
Breaking the stand had been a stupid thing to do, and he knew it. Why had he not checked to see if anything was in the way before pushing the waste bin over on its side? His conscience told him to get it repaired as soon as possible. Making a detour to the box he placed the tray on the floor and opened out the flaps of the lid to reminded himself of the contents. Inside was a tin of glue, a brush, two face masks and an assortment of tools. He placed the tray on top of the box, picked the two up together, and carefully set about carrying both to the grotto.
Malcolm placed the box and tray upon the floor next to the first cell and peered in through the bars. Georgina Watkinson was slumped with her back against a side wall, and in very much the same position as when he had left her. She was staring up at him but saying nothing. An empty glass lay on the floor of the cell close to the bars. He collected it and poured in the orange juice from the carton.
Handing back a full glass, he said: "Here, drink this!"
She took it from him with her one good arm and began to sip slowly at the contents.
Whilst she was drinking Malcolm placed four slices of toast and a chocolate bar on a plate and pushed it under the bottom of the cell gate.
"And here's a little something to eat," he told her.
Georgina Watkinson stared at the plate and took another small sip from the glass. The last thing she wanted right now was something to eat, but the orange juice was much appreciated.
"Thank you," was all she could utter.
The systematic torture on the rack had taken the fight out of her. She no longer wanted to shout or throw insults at the boy. All she asked was to be left alone and allowed to suffer the pains in silence. However, somewhere beneath all this deep depression glowed one small glimmer of hope. In the box by the boy's feet she could see a small file amongst the many items of tools. If only he was to leave it within reach, then maybe she still had a chance. Then suddenly her hopes were dashed. The boy collected the tray, and pushing with a foot, slid the box away from the cell to rest a short distance away from the nearest central stone column that supported the high vaulted ceiling. Georgina Watkinson took another sip from the glass and sighed deeply. If only there was some way of reaching that box then she could see a way of escaping.
With tray in hand Malcolm visited the second cell. Wendy Bartlett was seated upright against a side wall. Both hands were bandaged heavily and the red paint across her breasts and arms was beginning to peel and look an unsightly mess. As ever she insisted on staring down at her shackled legs despite being aware of her captor's presence.
"Breakfast time," he called through the bars.
For a moment she looked up to see the boy pouring a glass of orange juice. She dropped her head again and waited whilst offerings of toast, chocolate bar and drink to be pushed in through the bars. Tidying up her belongings, Malcolm took the old tray away with all the dirty mugs and plates.
Wendy Bartlett stared at what she had been left with. At present she was not hungry, but all the same was grateful for anything she might receive. At least her thumbs were beginning to heal and she could now hold a glass without spilling anything. She would eat something later, but not now.
"Well? What do you say?" snapped Malcolm to the brooding girl.
It was obvious from the tone of her captor's voice that he wanted an answer.
"Thank you!" she replied sullenly but still refused to look him in the face.
"That's better! Now eat something or you won't grow up to be big and strong," mocked the boy.
On getting no further response, Malcolm simply shrugged his shoulders, picked up the tray and set off to attend his third prisoner.
"Sulk then!" he muttered as he walked away.
Malcolm found Davina Townsend to be awake, but all the same she looked very weak after her prolonged ordeal. In a way he was grateful that he had lowered her all the way to the floor and allowed her to take a short rest by lying flat on her back. His reasoning being, that with one further sitting remaining, then a few hours recuperation would probably have done her the world of good. The woman followed her tormentor's approach through dark sunken eyes and watched him place a tray by her side. She then traced his further movements as he moved across the floor to the winding gear.
Davina Townsend's heart sunk as she came to realise that her relief was to be short lived. The evil boy was going to raise her up again. She braced herself for the inevitable merciless tugging on the wrists and waited. But to her astonishment the expected upward movement did not materialise. Instead the chain slackened and began to descend even further. Eventually her manacled arms dropped to her stomach and the chain began to gather in little loops upon her chest. Soon there was enough free chain available to cast it all to the floor.
Malcolm wound on, turning the handle until there was no more chain left to unwind. Then returning to the woman he sat her up with her back propped against the side of the crate. He poured out a glass of orange juice and held it to her lips. She took a sip and then a gulp. This is what her dry mouth had been craving. Slowly she downed the complete glass.
"Would you like some toast?" asked Malcolm offering her a slice.
The woman proved to be remarkably resilient and stretched out her manacled hands to take the toast.
"Another… drink… please?…" she groaned as she nibbled tentatively at the corner of the bread.
Malcolm refilled the glass and placed it by her side. He also laid out a plate of toast and chocolate bar alongside. All three woman had now been presented with identical meals.
"Eat and drink what you can," he told her as he rose to his feet.
It was time to leave them again, and Malcolm took one last look around. His three surplus woman had been adequately fed and watered. Quickly he checked the woman's manacled hands. They were firmly padlocked to the ring on the end of the long chain. Although reassured, he remained uncertain whether to leave her with this much freedom of movement and considered the consequences. If she was able to stand up and walk around then what damage could she do? He concluded very little. The chain would keep her within a very limited area and there was definitely no possible means of escape. The other end of the chain was firmly fixed to the winding gear. He decided to leave her propped up against the crate and nibbling at the toast. And besides, he would not be gone for too long. He was feeling a bit better and made a decision to return with his selected drawings to complete the sketches rather than go back to bed.
Standing up to leave and carrying the trays of dirty crockery with him, Malcolm crossed the floor to the rack. The naked and stretched out body of Tracy Goodyear appeared to be sleeping soundly with no irregular breathing. He thought back to the events of the previous day. On that occasion the incumbent on the rack had taken something like two and a half hours to come round, and after that slept on for a further hour, so he was not expecting any response from the new girl until sometime around midday at the earliest. But then he told himself what did it matter anyway? Time was an irrelevance. He had no further plans for the young woman. What happened to her from now on was for Katie to decide. If the big breasted girl asked him nicely for something then he would perhaps consent, but other than that he would simply leave her alone, to stare up at the ceiling and contemplate her own future.
Before leaving the dungeon Malcolm glanced at his watch. The time was near enough nine o'clock. Suddenly he sneezed and took out a handkerchief from his pocket. Perhaps his cold was getting worse rather than better, and he considered what best to do next. He had hoped to finish his sketches but now he wondered whether he ought to take a quick nap first.
Malcolm started to go through all the list of things still to be done. After due consideration he concluded that sleep was out of the question. To start with the waste bin needed returning to the courtyard. Then there were Tracy Goodyear's clothes and belongings to sort and incinerate. After that there was the washing up to do, and finally there were his sketches to complete. But his day did not even end there. He still had to prepare and secure a storeroom in order to transfer his three surplus women upstairs.
Malcolm sighed deeply. It was a long schedule and best all be done today so that he could clean and tidy up everywhere in readiness for Katie's return tomorrow. If he had the start of a cold coming on and did feel a little tired, then he was not going to get any sleep until that little lot was done. With a reluctant shrug of the shoulders he righted the waste bin and dumped all the spilled out items back inside. He also dropped in all the trays and  washing up and, with one mighty initial shove he set off rumbling the large bin out of the grotto. There was no peace for the wicked he muttered to himself as he made his way along the cave passageway.

9:05 am.

As the rumble of the waste bin disappeared from earshot and silence fell upon the grotto, WPC Georgina Watkinson struggled to her feet. There were torn muscles and ligaments in her legs and the whole operation proved quite a painful struggle, but to survive she knew full well that she had to stand up.
The unexpected rattle of chains echoing about the chamber attracted Davina Townsend's attention. Slumped upon the floor with her back propped against a crate she turned her head to focus on the source of the noise. With all the trouble and pains inflicted upon her, she had not even been aware of any other person's presence. Being blindfolded for most of the time and in intolerable pain throughout, she had remained oblivious to the world about her. But having suddenly been distracted she was at pains to locate the source of the unexpected noise. She looked around. The dungeon was not a pleasant sight with its cold granite blocks and vast arched ceiling. As she scanned the full horror of the place came home to her. This truly was a place of evil. However she gained encouragement from the fact that she was not alone. There were at least three other females down here to keep her company, and seemingly all in the same predicament. There were two girls behind bars in two separate cells and looking up she could just about detect the body of a third girl stretched out on a rack in the next aisle.
"Are you awake?… Can you speak?…" whispered Georgina Watkinson in a low voice across the dungeon floor. Part of her view was obscured by a stone pillar, but by placing her head to one side of the cell bars there was a direct line of vision through to the crate and the woman propped up against it.
Davina Townsend felt very weak and her body from head to toes throbbed with pain. She sat up a little higher against the crate and forced herself to concentrate on the callers question.
"Just about!" she replied. Everything about her was still very hazy.
"What did he do to you?… Were you whipped?.." enquired the policewoman. The marks across the woman's body were still very much in evidence.
The elder woman fingered the welts. This was her first chance to investigate the real state of her injuries. Horrible dark scabs ran in long rows across her breasts, yet thankfully the bruising and soreness had healed enough to endure a light touch. At least she was no-longer in such a deep and agonising pain.
She looked up and answered with bitterness in her voice: "Yes, the bastard whipped me! He caught me on the back as well."
"But you're okay?… You can move about a bit can you?" Georgina enquired. This was important for her plan to work.
"I guess so!… I don't think anything's broken," answered Davina, then added: "What about you?"
By leaning sideways to gain a better view, she could see that the woman in the cell looked uncomfortable in her stance and was holding one arm rigidly to her chest.
"I'm fine! Don't worry about me!" she assured the woman.
"You look hurt! What about your arm?" replied Davina.
"Look I'm fine… Don't worry about me!… Now listen… You're Davina Townsend aren't you?" she asked even though she already knew the woman's identity.
She nodded. "Yes! I'm Davina Townsend! How did you know that?" she asked.
"I'm a Police Officer, and would you believe, I came here to rescue you!" she stated with irony in her voice.
"You knew I was here?" she questioned.
"Just a hunch?… Now look!… Listen to me!… I may have a way out of here," Georgina informed her.
Having established a dialogue Georgina needed to move on quickly. This general chit-chat was getting them both nowhere and the boy could return at any minute. She had a plan, and with Davina's co-operation it just might work.
"Can you stand up and walk about?" she asked.
"I think so!" replied Davina.
"Good, now can you see this box lying next to the column between us?… Is there any way you can reach it?" asked Georgina.
The blonde woman looked to the cardboard box. It was positioned close to the stone pillar and about half distance between the two of them.
"What's in it?" she asked.
"Tools," replied the policewoman. "Tools we can cut ourselves free with."
Davina sat up some more. Her entire body ached and she felt so weak even the slightest of efforts proved unbearable. She grimaced and sat herself upright. The pain and the agony no longer mattered. The thought of getting out of this wicked place had become the prime motivation for driving her on.
"I'll see if I can get to it," she said as she struggled to lift herself from the floor with the aid of the crate.
"Good girl!" encouraged Georgina. "But be careful, the boy may return at any time."
Davina rose to her feet and supported herself with her hands on top of the crate. After a short pause to regain her breath she stood erect without assistance and turned around. The long chain hung down from the ceiling and just touched the floor before turning back up again to reach the hands. She looked to the cardboard box. Somehow the chain just did not seem long enough. On teetering legs she set off. After a few steps the chain lifted from the floor and began to straighten. She turned her body and pulled on the heavy chain. This gained her enough freedom to advance another few paces. Facing in the opposite direction, from the corner of an eye she could see the box. It was no more than another pace away. If only she could get a foot on top then it would be possible to drag the whole lot towards her. She stretched out a leg and inched her way forward. The chain was now at full stretch and so were her arms. In the opposite direction a thrust out leg almost reached the side. But despite all the effort she was still short of her objective. With a strength sapping final attempt she stretch herself to the limit. For a fleeting second her big toe made contact with the box, but that was all. Weaken by the massive expenditure of energy she allowed the weight of the chain to pull her back towards the crate.
Panting strongly she apologised across the floor: "I'm sorry,… it's just… that little bit… too far!"
Georgina Watkinson felt helpless. All she could do was stand and watch.
"It's okay!" she told Davina sadly. "Never mind! It was worth a try!"
Davina Townsend looked around to see if there was any other objects lying about that may assist her, but could see nothing in reach but the food she had been left and the large crate. She checked the lid only to find everything all screwed down. Placing her hands against the side she pushed with all her strength but nothing budged. The crate was far too heavy to move anywhere and any possible use a definite non-starter. With a shrug to the shoulders she dropped any idea of using it. But there was still one faint possible chance.
"Look,… I'm going to try… one more thing,…" panted an out of breath Davina.
"Do you think you can still reach the box?" enquired Georgina.
"No it's just too far away. But how heavy is it? Have you any idea?" she asked.
Georgina had witnessed the boy carrying the box, and watched him slide it across the floor with one foot. These were signs that the contents were not too heavy.
"It's not that heavy," she replied, then queried: "But why do you want to know?"
"I've got another idea… I reckon if I take a run at the box I can kick it in your direction. If it gets close enough perhaps you can grab it and pull it towards you," she said trying to explain her latest theory.
"Well be careful won't you. You can only do it once and it's got to be good," responded Georgina positively to the suggestion.
At this stage anything was worth a try. If the boy came back and found the box had moved, then what could he do? They all looked doomed anyway. These were desperate times and drastic measures were needed.
Davina hobbled back to rest herself by sitting on the crate. Only when she was ready would she go for it. After a short while she spread the chain to one side so as not to interfere with her run and stood up. The policewoman was right, she would only be allowed one go at this so the attempt had to be good.
With one mighty burst of energy she took three quick accelerating steps, leapt into the air and flung her legs forward. The momentum of the run sent her entire body hurtling feet first towards the box. Her soles caught the side of the box full on, the impact sending it rocketing off in the direction of the cell. At the same instance the chain snapped taught and her arms jarred against the force. The metal bands about her wrists moved into the backs of the hands and dug into the flesh. As the weight of the chain dragged her back with feet trailing along the floor she felt the pain. But she did not care. If she had made it, then the sacrifice would have been worth it.
As she skidded backwards to a halt and end up seated on her backside, she looked to see where the box had ended up. She had caught it a good blow and it had travelled quite a distance. But was it just far enough? She could see the woman in the cell stooping low and stretching out an arm towards it.
"Go on, grab it! You can make it," she screamed across the floor in encouragement.
Georgina pressed her face against the bars and stretched out her one good arm. Like Davina with her toes, the box was so near yet so far away. If she really stretched then she could just touch the side of the box. What she needed was something to hook over the top and drag it in her direction. She looked around. All that she had at hand was a small plate and a glass. Quickly she tipped the toast on the floor and passed the plate out through the bars.
Stretching out with plate in hand she was now able to reach the top of the box. But that was about all. It was still impossible to get any leverage inside the open top, and certainly not enough to drag it towards her. Try as she might, she could not quite get enough purchase on the top to drag it forward. The problem was, she was doing all this with her right hand and she was naturally left handed. What was really needed was for her to try again with her other arm. She had watched Davina struggle against all odds and now it was her turn to return the compliment.
Despite having recently struggled to re-set the shoulder it was now imperative that she used the arm at whatever cost. Changing her stance she gently eased her stiff and aching arm out through the bars. Then with plate in hand she fumbled for the top of the box. For the first time she managed to find some purchase on the lip and pulled. The pain was intense and she gritted her teeth. Slowly the box inched towards her, and after a short distance the movement picked up speed as the plate gained more purchase within the open lid. Eventually she was able to drop the plate inside and continue the rest of the way by holding the top of the box with the hand.
"I've got it!" she called out in delight as the box reached the bars.
In the distance Georgina heard two cheers. Both Davina Townsend and Wendy Bartlett had been looking on with hope in their hearts. Now they all had an outside chance of escaping from the evil clutches of the teenager that held them.

10:00 am.

Malcolm returned to the kitchen and dumped the trays and washing up into the sink. Quickly he filled the electric kettle and switched it on. He would have one quick cup of tea before returning to the dungeon.
After such a busy morning and with signs of a head cold coming on, Malcolm was no longer in such a happy mood and the lack of sleep was finally beginning to take its toll. He felt exhausted after having spent the best part of an hour cutting up clothes and incinerating them. In the end he began to wish that he had not gone to so much trouble in covering up all the evidence back at the Goodyear's bungalow. Perhaps then he would have only had a nightdress to dispose of. Anyway it was done now, and there was only a bag full of non-combustible items left to deal with. He would dump them in the sea sometime this evening.
As for the immediate future Malcolm planned to return to the basement as soon as he had drunk a nice refreshing cup of tea. He would take with him his drawing materials along with his two first choice sketches. After much deliberation he had decided upon the two taken from opposite sides of the subject. His third choice, the one taken from the rear and showing that extra sting of the whip beneath the armpit was all very good, but he considered it an overkill. In his opinion to show the welt once in the brochure was more than sufficient. So this was his final judgement. But it had been a very close decision and even at this late stage he still had a few doubt as to whether or not he was doing the right thing.

10:15 am.

WPC Georgina Watkinson heard footsteps approaching down the long cave entrance and took immediate action. After going through all the tools in the box she had finally settled on keeping the file and a pair of pliers. There were possibly other more practical tools inside, including a chisel and a hammer, but with nowhere to conceal anything other than beneath her body, she felt it much safer to retain only these two smallish items.
Standing up, and with one foot between the bars of the cell door, Georgina kicked the box away with all the strength she could muster. The box went hurtling across the floor, skidding and spinning towards the grey stone column. If anything the force behind the kick was a little too strong and the box crashed heavily against the pillar. At that precise moment, fate took a hand. The lid to the glue tin bobbed up and slid open just a fraction. Slowly the fumes began to permeate into the surrounding atmosphere.
Quickly Georgina lay down on the cell floor and arranged the glass and plate next to her feet. Then tucking the tools beneath her body she slumped down, placed her bad arm across her chest and closed her eyes. With any luck the boy would think that she had not moved from the time he had left her. Across the floor Davina Townsend did the same, returning to sit on the floor with her back propped up against the side of the crate.

10:17 am.

Two minutes later Malcolm announced his arrival with a big sneeze. He was feeling tired and ill, and not in a very good mood. He wanted to go to bed but with so much still to do he felt that he just had to carry on regardless. He glanced briefly into the first cell. The policewoman had not touched her food and remained slumped sideways across the cell floor. The girl in the second cell looked very much the same. His attention moved to the rack. Tracy Goodyear looked to be sleeping peacefully. On reflection he guessed that not a great deal of activity had taken place since he went away, and that was the way he like it.
Crossing the floor he deposited his drawing compendium set and sketches next to the small stool then headed for Davina Townsend. She too had neither drunk nor eaten anything since his departure, but that was not his problem. He had done his best for them, and if they chose not to eat then they had only themselves to blame if they felt hungry later.
Davina Townsend's eyes followed the boy's approach but said nothing. He had a black bag and a strange metal object in his hands and suddenly she feared the worse.
Placing the thumbscrews on the floor Malcolm opened out the felt bag that once covered Wendy Bartlett's head. Davina knew what was going to happen, and with the freedom afforded her by the slackness of the chain she considered the possibility of putting up some sort of resistance, but in the end decided against doing anything silly or rash. With the manacles about her wrist, and padlocked to the end of a long chain, she could do very little other than alienate the boy further. In such a situation it was best to remain co-operative and docile. In the end she just sat and watched the open bag come nearer and nearer.
"It's blindfold time again!" said her tormentor as he trust the bag down over the head.
Suddenly a blackness covered the woman's face and her body shuddered physically at the thought of suffering further torture and degradation. She recalled the strange mock trial when she had been accused of illegal parking. The boy had said when passing sentence that her punishment was to be administered in two halves. Firstly it was to be ten strokes of the whip and that was to be followed by something like the suspension of the thumbs. She was not too sure what the second part entailed, but that strange metal object placed next to her feet looked ominously like thumbscrews.
"Now just stay like that!… Understand?… Just one false move and your throat gets slit!… Do you understand?" threaten Malcolm.
Davina had gone through all this before and she was starting to live the nightmare all over again. The last time she had hesitated with a answer the boy had trust the point of a knife into her back and it had hurt badly. Quickly she nodded her hooded head to indicate a positive response.
"Please don't hurt me again!" she begged afterwards.
"Keep quiet!.. I don't want any talking either!" the boy replied grumpily as he unlocked the padlock that held the manacles to the chain.
Beneath the bag Davina bit hard into her bottom lip and nodded her head vigorously to indicate her willingness to comply. At least she would try very hard to keep quiet, but there were limits to what she could endure.
Malcolm saw the woman's positive response and continued with what he had to do. As far as he was concerned the manacles could remain about the wrists. They did not get in the way and all he wanted to do was sketch the hands with thumbs locked into the device.
Positioning the woman's hands as if in prayer he told her: "Keep them like that!… Don't move!"
Once more the woman reluctantly did as she was told as Malcolm slotted her thumbs into the apertures of the casting and wound up the central screw until they gripped tightly. He then gave it another complete turn.
"Ouch!… You're hurting me!" protested the woman through the bag that covered her head.
"I told you to keep quite!" snapped an irritable boy, and in a temper struck the side of the bag with the palm of his hand.
"Ouch!" repeated the woman as her head jerked under the impact.
Immediately Malcolm recognised that something was getting to him, and he told himself to calm down. He needed to get himself into a relaxed state if he was to complete the drawing properly. For one reason or another he was not thinking too clearly. He put it all down to the head cold. If only he could breath though his nose then things would be a whole lot better.
After clearing his nose and taking in several deep breaths he padlocked the thumbscrews to the chain and stood up.
The woman was now ready to be raised back up.
Grabbing her by the shoulder he told her: "Right!… Up!"
With Malcolm's assistance the woman staggered to her feet and then up onto the crate. She hated every minute of the humiliation and placed all her faith and hope for survival on her policewoman colleague. She had done her part in getting the box across to her. Now it was down to her to break free from her shackles and go for help. She prayed that this might happen.
Malcolm crossed the floor to the winding mechanism and set about turning the handle. There was a lot of slackness in the chain to take up before reaching the woman arms, and he wound on rapidly.  Eventually he reached the point where the hands began to move. He continued to turn, with the rattle of the chain and the winding gear echoing feverishly about the walls of the chamber.
As the woman's heels began to lift from the crate she could contain herself no-longer and she screamed: "No!… Stop!… No more!… Please!"
Malcolm alerted by the cries of anguish noted the position and stop winding. Quickly he wound back the handle a couple of turns so that the heels re-established contact. Happy with what he saw he re-locked the mechanism.
With the woman's feet now firmly back on the crate she appeared to be full of gratitude for the boy's apparent kindness. Almost immediately she stopped her protest, and panting loudly breathed the words: "Thank you!"
As the woman shuffled uneasily about on the crate lid trying to find a comfortable position in which to stand, Malcolm crossed to meet her. His priorities were to check out the revised pose very carefully. The hands and thumbs were all he was particularly interested in and the way she had positioned herself made everything look just about perfect. Stepping up onto the crate he removed the bag from her head and re-arranged the tangled hair with his fingers.
"Please!… You're hurting me again!… No more!… Please!" she begged as the roughness of the boy's actions wrenched against her severely aching thumbs.
Stepping down from off the crate, and looking up into her eyes, Malcolm explained to her: "I want you to keep perfectly still like that for about thirty minutes or so… I'll be as quick as I can… I just need to draw your hands… That's all… If you're a good girl then I'll let you down afterwards… But do anything silly and play me up, then it's all the way up to the ceiling for you!… Do you understand what I am saying?"
 The woman responded the best she could through gritted teeth: "Yes!" she hissed and closed her eyes.
She just wanted the boy to get on with whatever he intended to do. Half an hour seemed an awful long time to expect someone to endure so much discomfort. But she would try her best. At least her feet were flat on the lid of the crate and she could stretch upwards once in a while to alleviate the pain.
Happy with the state of things, Malcolm collected the stool and crossed to take up a position that roughly matched the angle of his first sketch.
This particular drawing was the one taken from the front and side, with the whip mark beneath the armpit clearly showing. After consulting both model and drawing he placed down the stool. The location was right next to a central pillar and very close to the box that held the repair materials for the broken stand. With the aid of a foot he shuffled the box to the other side of the column. Returning to the stool he sat down and began to add the missing details.
After just two minutes however, Malcolm stopped and held his head. Something was wrong. Somehow he was losing concentration and nothing was going right. Hands were always particularly difficult to portray, but even with his own immense talents he was having great problems in getting anything right.
Malcolm sneezed and blew his nose. It was no good, he could hardly breath. He would just have to return to the kitchen, have a cup of tea and take a couple of tablets. Leaving the woman stood upon the crate and looking somewhat bemused, Malcolm rose from the stool and proceeded to walk away. Unfortunately for her, she would just have to hang around a little longer than promised. He was sorry, but there was nothing he could do about it.
As Malcolm circled the great stone pillar he stumbled once more over the cardboard box. Suddenly his anger boiled over. The damn box was starting to become a nuisance to him.
"Shit!… Fucking thing!" he raged and gave it a mighty kick.
The box set off on its travels once more. This time lodging itself beneath the great drum of coiled ropes at the top end of the rack.
 

cont.