He was used to pain. He could handle pain. In many ways pain was pleasurable. And in this instance it was necessary. He tugged even harder but forced himself not to wince, despite the fierce sharp electric shock waves that shot up his arm. The flesh was scraping off now. Shredding like thin slices of uncooked beef.
He tugged again and this time, he could not suppress a cry and a curse. But as he cursed, he tugged even harder, the blood welling over the cold metal of the handcuff.
Now he was wracked with pain and wanted to curl up in a ball and sob. But he knew he couldn’t. He had gone this far. He had to go all the way. All the excruciating way. Before making another almighty effort, he gazed down at his damaged hand. It was almost down to the bone by the knuckles and the rest was raw flesh which glistened in the shadowy light.
Taking a deep breath, he bellowed loudly, bellowed until his lungs hurt, hoping the noise and the discomfort would help to mask the pain of one more violent effort. Contracting his fingers as much as he could, he wrenched his damaged hand further through the metal hoop of the handcuff. Without waiting for the full extent of the agony this caused to register in his brain, he did it again. Flames shot up before his eyes, bright red and yellow and his whole body rippled with agony.
But he was free.
He was free.
He looked down at the bloody mess that was his hand and tied to flex his fingers. Reluctantly they obeyed. Ralph Northcote smiled and then fell back on the bed in a dead faint.
When he awoke some twenty minutes later, he first became conscious of the throbbing ache in his right hand. Memory of his actions seem to aid the pain and as he sat up, it grew in intensity. Strangely, he smiled, his dry lips pulling back across his teeth in a feral grin. He could cope. The pain would lessen in time. The main thing was that he had not damaged the function of the hand – and that he was free. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and tried to stand up. He did so for a few moments and then collapsed back down again. He was very weak and a little light headed due to a lack of sustenance. After a few moments, he tried again and remained upright this time. His first tasks were to bandage his hand and obtain some food and water. Then he could prepare to make good his escape.
Haltingly at first, he walked to the cellar door and with his good hand, he managed to pull it open. He sneered. Sexton had been so confident that his prisoner could not escape he hadn’t even bothered to lock the door.
Slowly in a shambling manner he made his way upstairs into the main body of the house and located the kitchen. In the larder he found a pork pie and a few sausages. He devoured them savagely, washed down with water. Then he attended to his hand, running it gently under the tap before using a tea towel as a makeshift bandage. In the sitting room, he found Sexton’s cigarette case on the mantelpiece, the initials F S engraved on the top. Extracting a cigarette, he sat in one of the armchairs and enjoyed a smoke. As he stubbed the tab end out on the arm of the chair, he smiled again. From now on things were going to go his way.
For hours, while he had lain on that filthy bed in the cellar, he had planned in meticulous detail what he would do when he got free and now he set about doing it. Only the strange geography of the house hindered him slightly. Upstairs, in the bathroom, he found a medicine cabinet and he treated his wound, dabbing Dettol onto it, and crying out in pain as he did so, and then dressing it with a crèpe bandage. The cabinet also offered up a treasure: a small neat case containing a set of surgical instruments. He opened the case and admired the bright metal tools of his trade and his hobby. They glistened pleasingly in the natural light.
‘Excellent,’ murmured Northcote, stroking the leather case. ‘That eliminates one of my perceived hurdles.’
This lucky find seemed to increase his energy levels. With enthusiasm, he washed, combed his hair and shaved using Sexton’s razor, an act that gave him great pleasure.
Moving into the main bedroom, he raided the wardrobe, taking a smart brown suit and a cream shirt and tie. Then came the shoes. He chose a nice pair of sturdy brogues. Sexton had small feet, but cramped toes were small inconvenience compared with the throbbing discomfort of his injured hand. Every time he thought of it, he moved his fingers to reassure himself that they were still working. He also found a small stash of notes and coins in the bedside drawer – around fifteen pounds. Northcote scooped it up and slipped it in his pocket.
He selected a smart overcoat, something dark and discreet, and checked himself out in the wardrobe mirror. He looked almost human. The face was ghostly white and haggard, the eyes bloodshot and the posture a little hunched, but he reckoned he would pass unnoticed in a crowd.
He was prepared to face the world once more, but before he did, there was just one more thing he had to do.
He moved back into the sitting room and picked up the cigarette case and slipped it into his pocket.
Now he was ready.
Within minutes, he was walking down the street, away from Sexton’s house and towards freedom and the city of London.