those
hungry, poisonous jaws.
God help me … I redouble my efforts to climb, the
latticework metal grille at the top a blur as I ascend.
"Help!" I hear
a shriek, and then recognise it as my own, while I batter my knuckles
and palms of my hands on the underside of the grille. "Let me
out! Help me!"
And then I'm punching
nothing. Something clamps around my wrist, and I'm dragged bodily out
of the vent. I scream again, trying to identify the sensation. Do
monitor lizards drag their prey, or bite first? Am I out of the
frying pan into a fire?
Then I find myself
dangling at eye-level with Carvery Slaughter, and realise that yes –
quite possibly I am…
"Why am I always
catching you hanging around me at the moment?" he demands.
"Wishful thinking?"
I suggest, my voice a mouse's peep.
"Not mine, I think
you'll find," he remarks, and deposits me back on my feet,
before kicking the grid back over the hole in the floor.
It's a stonework tunnel
similar to earlier – I must be back on the level of the secret
passageways inside the house. A glance at Carvery does nothing to
settle my stomach. Even worse, he seems to be alone.
"Where are the
others?" I ask. "And what have you been up to?"
He's covered in blood,
for one thing. My hope that it's his own, is quickly dashed.
"Well, Homer won't
have to worry about returning that blonde wig to Mrs. Frittata now,"
Carvery shrugs, and the next thing I note is that he's now in
possession of a shotgun. I glance at it nervously, as it rests on his
shoulder.
"Why is it that you
always pick on the women, and not the men?" I want to know.
"I think that last
one was debatable," he grins. "You didn't see her.
Nightmare."
He takes a step closer,
eyeing me up and down.
"Anyway," he
continues. "What are you hiding behind your back? Been
collecting a few souvenirs of your own?"
"No!" I cry,
holding out my empty hands to show him.
"You're a terrible
liar, Sarah," he says. The muzzle of the shotgun is suddenly
under my chin. "Turn around and face the wall."
My hands now in the air,
petrified, I do as he orders. I let out a whimper, as I feel his own
hand go up the back of the pyjama top.
There is an ominous rip.
I close my eyes, expecting the worst…
"Hmmm," he says
at last. "I put only one hand up there, so why did two come
out?"
"What?!" I
yell, and try to turn, flinching as the shotgun barrel jabs me in the
ear.
The felt rabbit drops on
the floor with a last regretful squeak, dissected beyond playroom
resuscitation.
Carvery is examining
something shiny in the darkness, glinting with polished gemstones.
"This is that
clockwork hand thing he was going on about earlier, isn't it?"
he says. "What are you doing with it?"
"That was given to
me to look after!" I say indignantly. I'm such a dork. It was
the actual hand that Mr. Dry Senior was entrusting me with!
Not the toy at all. "Give it back!"
Carvery looks at it a
moment longer, then holds it out.
"Sure," he
says, dismissively. "Take it."
Cautiously, I do so.
Then he changes his grip
on the gun, and aims it back at my head.
"Now YOU give it
back, please," he says, and with a sigh of defeat, I hand it
over. "Well done. Remember – never try to negotiate with
an armed man, unless you have something bigger up your sleeve."
I wonder if the
leather-bound diary counts as something bigger. Knowing my luck, he
would find it only mildly less offensive than the contents of my own
diary.
But I'm glad it has
stayed hidden, in my waistband at the front. Maybe Crispin will still
be able to decipher something useful from it.
"Right,"
Carvery says, as I nod my acquiescence. "Let's go and find the
others."
Phew, I think, as I fall
into step beside him, pausing only to pick up the remains of Higham
Dry's toy rabbit, sentimentally. I hope that means they're still
alive …
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN :
SLIPPED DISCLOSURE
I don't ask how Carvery
got separated from the rest of his group, and likewise, he doesn't
ask me the same question.
My reason
hungry, poisonous jaws.
God help me … I redouble my efforts to climb, the
latticework metal grille at the top a blur as I ascend.
"Help!" I hear
a shriek, and then recognise it as my own, while I batter my knuckles
and palms of my hands on the underside of the grille. "Let me
out! Help me!"
And then I'm punching
nothing. Something clamps around my wrist, and I'm dragged bodily out
of the vent. I scream again, trying to identify the sensation. Do
monitor lizards drag their prey, or bite first? Am I out of the
frying pan into a fire?
Then I find myself
dangling at eye-level with Carvery Slaughter, and realise that yes –
quite possibly I am…
"Why am I always
catching you hanging around me at the moment?" he demands.
"Wishful thinking?"
I suggest, my voice a mouse's peep.
"Not mine, I think
you'll find," he remarks, and deposits me back on my feet,
before kicking the grid back over the hole in the floor.
It's a stonework tunnel
similar to earlier – I must be back on the level of the secret
passageways inside the house. A glance at Carvery does nothing to
settle my stomach. Even worse, he seems to be alone.
"Where are the
others?" I ask. "And what have you been up to?"
He's covered in blood,
for one thing. My hope that it's his own, is quickly dashed.
"Well, Homer won't
have to worry about returning that blonde wig to Mrs. Frittata now,"
Carvery shrugs, and the next thing I note is that he's now in
possession of a shotgun. I glance at it nervously, as it rests on his
shoulder.
"Why is it that you
always pick on the women, and not the men?" I want to know.
"I think that last
one was debatable," he grins. "You didn't see her.
Nightmare."
He takes a step closer,
eyeing me up and down.
"Anyway," he
continues. "What are you hiding behind your back? Been
collecting a few souvenirs of your own?"
"No!" I cry,
holding out my empty hands to show him.
"You're a terrible
liar, Sarah," he says. The muzzle of the shotgun is suddenly
under my chin. "Turn around and face the wall."
My hands now in the air,
petrified, I do as he orders. I let out a whimper, as I feel his own
hand go up the back of the pyjama top.
There is an ominous rip.
I close my eyes, expecting the worst…
"Hmmm," he says
at last. "I put only one hand up there, so why did two come
out?"
"What?!" I
yell, and try to turn, flinching as the shotgun barrel jabs me in the
ear.
The felt rabbit drops on
the floor with a last regretful squeak, dissected beyond playroom
resuscitation.
Carvery is examining
something shiny in the darkness, glinting with polished gemstones.
"This is that
clockwork hand thing he was going on about earlier, isn't it?"
he says. "What are you doing with it?"
"That was given to
me to look after!" I say indignantly. I'm such a dork. It was
the actual hand that Mr. Dry Senior was entrusting me with!
Not the toy at all. "Give it back!"
Carvery looks at it a
moment longer, then holds it out.
"Sure," he
says, dismissively. "Take it."
Cautiously, I do so.
Then he changes his grip
on the gun, and aims it back at my head.
"Now YOU give it
back, please," he says, and with a sigh of defeat, I hand it
over. "Well done. Remember – never try to negotiate with
an armed man, unless you have something bigger up your sleeve."
I wonder if the
leather-bound diary counts as something bigger. Knowing my luck, he
would find it only mildly less offensive than the contents of my own
diary.
But I'm glad it has
stayed hidden, in my waistband at the front. Maybe Crispin will still
be able to decipher something useful from it.
"Right,"
Carvery says, as I nod my acquiescence. "Let's go and find the
others."
Phew, I think, as I fall
into step beside him, pausing only to pick up the remains of Higham
Dry's toy rabbit, sentimentally. I hope that means they're still
alive …
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN :
SLIPPED DISCLOSURE
I don't ask how Carvery
got separated from the rest of his group, and likewise, he doesn't
ask me the same question.
My reason
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