Lies Sleeping (Peter Grant, #7)(76)

I felt strong fingers break the ties on my feet and then my wrists.

‘Not particularly,’ he said. ‘I know your type, Peter. You believe in law and order, and soon there will be a new order.’

‘And I’ll just knuckle under, is that it?’

I yelped as Lesley gave me a final shock before disconnecting the crocodile clips. I turned to find Foxglove blocking any attack on Chorley. Beside him Lesley was methodically wrapping the control cable around the button box.

‘Knuckle under?’ he said. ‘I expect you to be my champion – a paladin for justice. We’ll get you a suit of armour and you can wear Lesley’s favour on your lance.’

‘It’s all a lie,’ I said. ‘There never was a King Arthur or a Camelot – Geoffrey of Monmouth made him up out of old stories.’

I reckoned a dive to the side to get away from the hole and then I’d worry about what happened next.

‘We shall see,’ said Chorley, and Foxglove pushed me into the hole.





26

Of the Captivity of Peter

Five metres is a leg-breaking drop. And that’s the good option. You’re supposed to relax and roll on impact – which is easier said than done when you’re screaming for your mum. Not that I was screaming for my mum – didn’t have time. My landing was fast and surprisingly soft, followed by a bounce that almost pitched me on my head and killed me that way. I managed to get my hands out in front of my face and ended up lying across a low padded wall like something from a children’s playground. I rolled over, spotted Chorley’s face staring down at me and threw a fireball at it.

Nothing happened.

I gave it another couple of goes, but for some reason I couldn’t get a grasp on the formae – they kept slipping away like a common word you know you know but can’t remember.

‘As I said,’ said Chorley with a grin, ‘especially made for you.’

I tried once more – just for luck – and Chorley shook his head sadly and withdrew.

I got up and looked around. I was in a circular underground cell eight metres wide at the base, with walls that went straight up for two metres before narrowing to form a dome with the entrance at its centre. Because of my misspent youth playing role-playing games I recognised it instantly as an oubliette – a place where you left people who you wanted to forget.

Though it was a very clean example of the type. With whitewashed walls, two futon beds, one on each side, a toilet, a shower and a sink.

The bedding on one futon bed was neatly folded up at the end while the other was loosely made up, the duvet clean but rumpled in the traditional manner of someone in too much of a hurry to make their own bed.

I wondered who that might be and whether they would be pleased to have a cellmate.

I noticed there were no tables, chairs, fridges or televisions.

No light fittings either – all the light came in through the entrance above.

I checked the shower but it consisted of an old-fashioned Psycho-style head cemented at an angle into the wall. Likewise, the sink and the toilet had all been designed with the minimum exposed piping. I flushed and twisted taps and found it all worked. There was a single shelf of white laminated chipboard above the sink with two lidless plastic takeaway trays, each with a toothbrush, toothpaste and a squeeze tube stolen from a hotel with The Best Shower Gel You Will Ever Steal printed on the side. I assumed that the box with the toothbrush still in its packaging was mine.

No moisturising cream, I noticed – not even some cocoa butter.

And not much in the way of entertainment.

‘Can’t I at least get Wi-Fi?’ I shouted up.

There was movement above and I jumped back as a hardback book fluttered down from the hole to land in front of me. Cautiously, just in case something heavy was about to join it, I grabbed the book and retreated back towards the unused futon. When I was sure nothing else was forthcoming I had a look. It was old, but not an antique. A 1977 first edition of Tolkien’s The Silmarillion. And it might have been worth something if still had its dust jacket, and hadn’t been covered with finger marks and coffee rings and had its page corners turned down to mark the reader’s position. According to the stamp on the inside cover it had once belonged to Macclesfield Library.

Which is the closest library to Alderley Edge, where Martin Chorley grew up. Which meant it was likely that he’d half-inched it as a boy. I wondered if there were any useful notes in the margin. I retreated until my back was against the wall, then stood still and listened until I was pretty sure nobody was watching before sitting down and starting to read.

Who I was sharing my oubliette with became clear five pages in when Foxglove jumped down – landing on the drop mat elegantly with a slight bend at the knees. She had a courier’s bag around her shoulders, which she unslung and threw in my direction before loping over to what I now realised was her bed.

I didn’t have a chance to move, but the bag dropped into my lap. Inside was a white towelling bathrobe of the kind regularly stolen from four star hotels, a packet of Marks and Spencer’s boxers and a pair of plain blue cotton T-shirts. I had a good rummage but couldn’t find any receipts or other identification.

I looked up to find Foxglove sitting cross-legged on her bed and glaring at me.

I gave her a friendly smile.

‘So when’s dinner then?’ I asked.