––––––––
The injection Sneijder administered caused me to sleep for a little over six hours, according to my pocket watch. When I came to, I once more felt groggy and disorientated, not sure where I was or why everything was so dark. As I pulled myself slowly into a sitting position, my back against a stone wall, I took stock of my physical and mental condition.
Whilst further exposure to the damp and the cold did nothing to make me feel any better, the long, uninterrupted sleep had at least given my body time to recover somewhat from the blows it had taken during my fight with Selkman. For one thing, the side of my face throbbed a little less, though it was still somewhat sore. It seemed any other knocks and blows I had suffered were of no real concern; certainly not enough to interfere in any renewed escape attempt I might choose to undertake.
My mental state, on the other hand, was less certain. Indeed, I would even go so far as to say that, without some attention and improvement, there was every possibility it would put an end to any further initiatives on my part, even before they had begun. I was in a poor way. For one thing, the effects of the sleeping drug that Sneijder had given me were slow to wear off and I was finding it hard to concentrate and bring my thoughts together, which was less than ideal given my situation. At least it seemed likely, given a little more time, those effects would subside. There again, just how much time remained for me I could not say and there was also the possibility Sneijder would return to inject me a second time. That was an unpleasant thought.
I realised too that my self-esteem and confidence had taken a considerable knock. Whilst I would never have described myself as the heroic type, nor recognised in me a man with the build and skills to see off all comers in a fist fight, I had considered myself a fit and healthy specimen of manhood, with a sharp brain that stood me in good stead in whatever difficult situation I might face.
Recent events, however, had shown all this to be nothing more than fancy on my own part. I had been found to possess neither the physical prowess to fight off my oppressors, with the exception of the housekeeper I had shamelessly smashed over the head with a washing bowl, nor the mental dexterity and clarity of purpose to outwit them. In fact, I had made a stupid mistake in choosing to search for Miss Fitzsimon rather than escaping the house when the opportunity was there to be taken. It was that shortcoming that had resulted in my being locked in the cellar. What good was I as a rescuer of the Doctor’s victims when I lay there, incarcerated and with little opportunity of escape?
I felt such a fool and chastised myself accordingly, angry at my stupidity and frustrated at the prospect of not being able to put things right. It was, in conclusion, tempting to consider my overall position a hopeless one. Everything seemed against me and the options available for effecting an escape appeared practically non-existent. My spirits were low indeed.
I did, however, eventually manage to persuade myself that I should take full stock of my situation by carrying out a survey of my prison cell and, with that in mind, I climbed gingerly to my feet, one hand pressed against the wall for support. It took me a moment or two to acclimatise to being upright, my head feeling woozy at first as the flow of blood adjusted.
There was still no more light than what little squeezed through between the door and its frame at the top of the stairs, which made it extremely difficult to see. As a result, I found it necessary to cover practically every inch of the floor, bringing myself close to those few objects I did find before I was able to identify them.
Much to my frustration, what little I did discover stored in the cellar was of no real practical benefit to me. In fact, stored was hardly the word to use, since what was there seemed rather to have been abandoned and long since forgotten about, it’s days of use judged to be at an end. In one corner there was an old wardrobe, tilted at an alarming angle, due to one of the four corner feet having been knocked off. When I pulled open the door, I found the wardrobe was empty. There was a pair of wicker chairs stacked next to the wardrobe. My nose and fingers suggested these were covered in mould.
My spirits were, for a moment, quite lifted when, on the other side of the room, I stumbled upon an erratically-coiled length of rope, which I immediately considered might afford me some means of setting a trap for my captors. But I cursed my luck when I found the rope so old and weakened by its time in the cellar that strands of it came away in my hands when I inspected it. I doubted it could take even the slightest of weights.
Most disappointing of all, however, was my failure to find anything that might be used as a tool to either pick or break the lock on the door. Of all the things I might have hoped to find, that would have been the most desired.
Puffing out my cheeks and insisting to myself that I not give up so easily, I turned, finally, to an inspection of the cellar door, climbing the simple wooden stairs with care, lest any of the timbers be rotten. Although I found the lock to be a plain and simple one, of the type normally fitted to such doors, it was quite beyond my abilities to pick it, poorly equipped as I was. Indeed, I doubt I would have been sufficiently skilled even if I had possessed appropriate tools but my efforts with a small length of splintered wood, I pulled away from one of the steps, were hopeless.
It was with regret that I also found both the lock itself and the hinges on the door solid and in good order. Perhaps I might have been able to smash down the door if I had been able to take a good run at it, but that wasn’t possible when charging up stairs.
My situation appeared truly bleak and I feared all I could do was wait for the return of Sneijder or perhaps Selkman and make one last effort at fighting for my freedom, not that my prospects seemed bright if my previous encounter with the giant was anything to go by.
With nothing else seeming to be done, I dropped on to the step by the door and sat with my back to the wall, my head in my hands. Anxiety and a sense of hopelessness washed over me. Try as I might, I could think of no way out of my predicament.
*
I REMAINED SLUMPED by the door for nearly an hour, feeling wretched and sorry for myself. I had spent the time reassessing every possibility in the hope of finding something I had not previously spotted, but the options were few and every scheme I laboured to construct was riddled with flaws and impossibilities. I could hardly expect Sneijder to repeat the mistake of sending the housekeeper along with food and drink, although that soon became my most wished for occurrence. I kicked at the wall in frustration and squeezed my hands into fists in an effort to force out some sort of inspiration, but it made no difference.
On two occasions, I heard footsteps approaching along the hallway and tried to peer through the keyhole, but all that was visible was a thin sliver of wall. I called out for help on both occasions, but the first time whoever was passing either didn’t hear or chose not to, even when I began hammering on the door with all my might. The second time it was Selkman. He walked over to the door and, in a deep, threatening voice, told me in half a dozen words to be quiet or he’d make me suffer.
It occurred to me that Sneijder had probably taken steps to discourage his patients from coming to my aid. I could imagine with ease that he might well have told them I was dangerous, delusional and to be ignored and avoided at all costs, for their own safety. There was irony in that; the very person who might be able to help those at risk from Sneijder’s disgusting activities being accused of having lost his mind.
However, just before six o’clock, I heard footsteps approaching for the third time, once more from the direction of Sneijder’s surgery. This time when they reached the door to the cellar, they stopped. All went quiet and I sat upright, tense and listening intently for some sign as to who it was and what might happen next. There was then some shuffling and the key was inserted into the lock.
Every nerve in my body sparked into life and I was on my feet in a moment. I stepped back as far as I could without risk of tumbling down the stairs and set myself, fists clenched, leg muscles tensed and eyes fixed on the door handle, ready to launch myself forward with all my might. This could very well be my last opportunity to secure freedom and, as seemed likely, my life. I had to give things one, final, almighty effort.
The key turned, so slowly I felt I was being tormented, as if they knew I was there, waiting to pounce. I pictured Selkman, standing alongside Sneijder, his feet set like rocks, ready to swat away my assault. My heart was racing and every sound was amplified.
At last, the lock clicked, the handle turned and the door began to ease open. I was ready. Coiled. Determined. I would rather die there and then, trying to escape, than be pushed back down into the cellar, to linger for who knew how long, until Sneijder decided to put me out of my misery. My lips rolled back from my teeth and I was aware my eyes were wide and staring.
I watched the door open, inch-by-inch. A little more, that was all that was needed. Just a little more, so there would be no chance for them to close the door before I hurled myself forward. I twitched in anticipation, my breathing so shallow it hardly took air to my lungs. A little more. Now was the time. I threw myself forward as the door opened wide enough to give me space to clear the threshold.
There was a startled squeal as we fell to the floor in a tangled heap of arms and legs, but no blows were exchanged, nor oaths uttered. Too late, I had seen that the person standing before me was neither Sneijder nor Selkman, nor even the housekeeper, but the unprepared and startled figure of Elizabeth Fitzsimon.