A hard day in the word mines, seeing a weekly publication, Environmental Health News, to press in a sweltering heat, although a small rheumatic fan blew tepid air over us. I read page proofs made some corrections on-screen and passed pages for press. We launched the good ship EHN (sent the pdf files to the printer) at 5.45 pm. They were received by sweaty men in their shirt-sleeves who had just embarked reluctantly, in the ancient traditions of printing, on their night shift. Pub time. It is what we call “wine Wednesday” today. There is a glass of Merlot with my name on it waiting for me at the Slug and Lettuce. I have been tinkering with chapter eight of my novel, Dragon Rampant, over the last couple of days and here is an extract from it. The context is that I have been locked in a wardrobe by the bad guys in the bedroom of my muse. I am cruising through the Red Sea in ship called the SS Oronsay. The year is 1953.
Chapter Eight – Flying (extract)
I heard a rasping sound, like air passing in out of a bellows. There was a savage pressure in my head, like white light pressing against my eyeballs. The pain pulsed to the rhythm of the dry rasping – it was my own breathing. I had not just been tied up; I had been trussed up like a chicken, my wrists bound in front of my shins, and left in a stifling confined space. At least I was still on the ship. I could feel its reassuring pulse through my back, the gentle low-intensity vibration that trembled through its molecules, from the engine room to its squat yellow funnel. My windpipe was tight and cracked. I was desperate for a drink. I knew that I must move my arms and legs as much as I could, if they were not to become knotted. I flexed them, in the hours that followed, to a rhythm of my own devising. I have no idea how much time passed – hours of tormenting thirst, of searing pain and of drifting in and out of consciousness.
I felt a dry scratching on my wrists. It had teased me from sleep. What was it? The sensation felt like an insect’s proboscis or the flickering tongue of an animal. It was not unpleasant, like being tickled. The movement had a rhythmical, purposeful quality and was accompanied by a sucking noise. It was focused one a small area, between my hands. I pushed them apart, experimentally. The binding creaked. The scratching continued. I applied more tension. The binding loosened a little more. Oh joy. The creature, whatever it was, was trying to release me. Presently, I could separate my wrists easily. One more jerk should do it. The binding gave way. My hands flopped against a hard surface on both sides.
Chapter Eight – Flying (extract)
I heard a rasping sound, like air passing in out of a bellows. There was a savage pressure in my head, like white light pressing against my eyeballs. The pain pulsed to the rhythm of the dry rasping – it was my own breathing. I had not just been tied up; I had been trussed up like a chicken, my wrists bound in front of my shins, and left in a stifling confined space. At least I was still on the ship. I could feel its reassuring pulse through my back, the gentle low-intensity vibration that trembled through its molecules, from the engine room to its squat yellow funnel. My windpipe was tight and cracked. I was desperate for a drink. I knew that I must move my arms and legs as much as I could, if they were not to become knotted. I flexed them, in the hours that followed, to a rhythm of my own devising. I have no idea how much time passed – hours of tormenting thirst, of searing pain and of drifting in and out of consciousness.
I felt a dry scratching on my wrists. It had teased me from sleep. What was it? The sensation felt like an insect’s proboscis or the flickering tongue of an animal. It was not unpleasant, like being tickled. The movement had a rhythmical, purposeful quality and was accompanied by a sucking noise. It was focused one a small area, between my hands. I pushed them apart, experimentally. The binding creaked. The scratching continued. I applied more tension. The binding loosened a little more. Oh joy. The creature, whatever it was, was trying to release me. Presently, I could separate my wrists easily. One more jerk should do it. The binding gave way. My hands flopped against a hard surface on both sides.
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