Out in the fens we pay little heed to the passing of the seasons and for us older residents we have some difficulty even with the passing of the days. Knowing where we are in the week is a task often fraught with difficulty, a calendar is a useful tool.
Early in the new year before Father Christmas had settled down for a good sleep. Whittlesey Wordsmiths resumed work on two Christmas collections.
Jingle Bells and Tinsel Tales for younger readers or listeners and Windy Christmas for the grown-ups.
The books are authored by the talented bunch of writers known as Whittlesey Wordsmiths.
The children’s book is illustrated by Jane Pobgee, both books were edited by our resident wizardess Cathy Cade.
The covers are a joint effort with contributions from Stephen Oliver, Cathy Cade, Val Chapman, Jane Pobgee, Wendy Fletcher and Philip Cumberland
The covers are complete and these excellent books should be rolling off the presses within the next few weeks.
Whittlesey Wordsmiths are having a very productive year, two individual members, Tessa Thomson and Valerie Fish have published their own books. Tessa’s book is of poetry and Valerie’s a collection of limericks. Stephen Oliver has had a number of his short stories accepted for publication, nine at the last count. The Wordsmiths are in the process of completing their two Christmas collections carefully gathered together by Cathy Cade. Cathy is not only an ace editor and proof reader but also a prolific writer too, having published three of her own books. She has had great competition success with her short stories and poetry.Whittlesey Wordsmiths have also benefitted from the artistic talent of Jane Pobgee, not only for illustrations in our upcoming collection of children’s Christmas stories but also in Valerie’s and Tessa’s books.
These are a few of Jane’s drawings.
Jane’s drawings have a beautiful simplicity and capture the essence of the poem, limerick or story they accompany perfectly.
Here is just one, from the upcoming children’s Christmas stories.
This is chapter five, the concluding chapter in the second outstanding Round Robin story from Whittlesey Wordsmiths. Its authors are Gwen Bunting, Val Chapman, Wendy Fletcher and Jane Pobgee. Enjoy.
As much as she longed to show the letter to Stan’s Ma, she resisted. It would complicate matters. Who was she going to speak to regarding this accusation?
Life continued at the office. No one suspected anything different in the relationship between Ada and Mr. Giles. It was natural to keep it quiet until they had got to know each other better.
During the second week after Ada was given Stan’s letter she received a letter from the Ministry of Defence. Could this be confirmation that Stan had really died? She opened it cautiously, not wanting to learn that Stan’s body had been identified. It read:
‘Dear Mrs. Coleman,
‘I understand that you have recently acquired a letter from your husband, Lance/cpl 2500673 Stanley Coleman. We would like to interview you and ascertain that this letter is genuine.
‘Come to the Dry Cleaners on Drake Street, bringing with you a coat you would like dry cleaned, and ask to see the manager.
‘It is vital you come to the shop on Saturday 18th at twelve-thirty. Please keep this information to yourself.
‘Col. A. G. Marshland.’
Ada sat down suddenly, shocked by what she was reading. She made herself tea and re-read the Ministry letter. She must go for the appointment, but why a Dry Cleaners shop?
She felt very weary and went to bed early, which did not bring sleep. She kept going over in her mind all the intrigue from the Colonel’s letter.
Finally rising from her bed after such a fractious night, Ada once again read both letters. It was hard to believe that after two years she would have what should have been Stan’s last letter. She was sure it was from Stan, as he made a remark in his letter that only Ada would understand. It was a little secret code they had derived. She readied herself for work and left the precious letters safely at home.
She arrived quite early. Not many of the typing pool staff were there; only Phyllis.
‘My word, Ada, you look rough. Bad night?’
“Ye…yes.” She stuttered. “I think I have a cold coming.”
“Here, gal, have a Beechams. That will make you feel better.” She handed Phyllis a packet of powder.
“Thanks, Phyll; kind of you. Will take it into the canteen for a glass of water,” replied Ada, discreetly dropping the powder in her handbag.
Back at her seat in the typing pool she started to look into her folder that contained her day’s work. Suddenly Mr. Giles called her into his office. Picking up her shorthand book and pencil she headed to his office.
‘Ada, how are you getting on since you received the letter from Stan? You seem very quiet.’
‘I am fine, Mr. Giles, thank you. Just a cold starting, I fear. Have taken something for it. Will try not to pass the germs on,’ she ended.
She was not going to enlighten anyone about her forthcoming meeting.
‘Well, if you are sure you are all right… I feel guilty for giving you the letter but felt now I had found you it was most important that the letter reached you,’ Arthur concluded.
“Is that all you require at the moment Mr. Giles?” Ada enquired.
“Yes, thank you Mrs. Coleman.” With that he turned to answer the ringing telephone.
Ada left the office a little uncertain as to whether Arthur Giles had read Stan’s letter before he had found Ada. After all, to have something in your possession for two years might make you wonder what was in it, considering his involvement with the other side.
Saturday came, and Ada found an appropriate coat for dry cleaning. It was a luxury she rarely afforded herself, but that was her instruction. Walking into the shop, the bell over the door clanged to announce a customer. A lady appeared from the back room.
‘Good afternoon, may I help you?’
‘I have an appointment with your manager. I am Mrs. Coleman.’
‘Is that coat for dry cleaning?’ enquired the lady.
‘Oh, yes. Yes, it is.”
‘I will take it. Would you like to walk through and I will show you the manager’s office,’ the woman lifted the counter flap.
Ada followed as instructed. It all seemed so natural: the woman leading the way and knocking on a door. A deep voice called, ‘Come in.’
Ada proceeded to enter to be confronted by a tall gentleman, older than she had expected.
‘Good afternoon Mrs. Coleman. I am Colonel Marshland. I wrote to you.’
‘Ye-yes.’ Ada’s nervousness took over again.
‘Please sit down, Mrs. Coleman and I will explain why I wanted to see you.’
The Colonel explained further.
Yes, Stan was alive but at present Ada would not be allowed to see him. Stan’s work had just one more phase to go through then his duty to King and Country would be done for good.
Ada was overwhelmed by the knowledge that her Stan was alive and one day very soon they would meet up. She really must concentrate on what the Colonel was asking her to do. A knock on the door heralded the lady with a tray of tea and biscuits. The interlude was welcome as Ada’s head was whirling.
Again, she was told not to repeat this conversation to anyone. Stan’s life depended on his ‘missing in action’ cover.
She tried to explain to the Colonel about Stan’s mother. He was sympathetic but insisted that she told no one. He would be in touch with her by letter when it was safe.
Ada thanked him and promised she would keep everything to herself. It would be hard for her, though, not telling Stan’s ma the good news.
Ada made a point of visiting Stan’s ma at the weekends; these were lonely times for widows. Leaving the Dry Cleaners shop with a receipt for her coat, she made her way to see her, but there was a crowd of neighbours outside the terraced house.
‘What’s happened, is Ma alright?’ Ada asked. A neighbour Ada recognised appeared from inside the house, beckoning her in. There on the floor lay dear Ma Coleman clutching Stan’s photograph. The glass had been broken as Ma fell, suffering a heart attack and dying instantly.
Ada was heartbroken; Ma had been a mother figure to her since her own parents died in a direct hit on her home while Ada was in an Air Raid Shelter. The air raid had begun as she came home from work. Now she did not have to worry about not sharing her news. Ma was dead.
The funeral went ahead, and Ada once again had the job of house clearing. At least this time it was not bomb damaged like her own parents’ home. Ada kept a few little items that she knew Stan may want to keep. The rest was left for the new tenants. Many people had lost everything in the raids.
Four weeks later, Ada was typing with the rest of the girls, when several policemen burst into the office asking where they could find Mr. Giles. Shocked and alarmed, they pointed to the office where Mr. Giles had jumped up in surprise. The moment had come; he had been found.
‘Are you Arthur Giles of Bonifield Road?’ asked the senior officer. ‘We are arresting you in accordance with the official Secrets Act.’
Arthur started to protest, but the officers handcuffed him and he was bundled out of the office. He cast a pleading glance to Ada for help. She ignored it and turned away.
Some weeks later Ada and Stan were reunited in a quiet Yorkshire hotel. This was to be the beginning of a new life for them both, getting to know each other again. Seven years had elapsed since they were married. It would be difficult at times, but they hoped they would succeed. They did not return to their little home but were rehoused in another district where they were unknown.
In view of the work Stan had undertaken, it was suggested that they may wish to resettle far away in New Zealand with new identities so that their previous lives were untraceable. They both agreed it would be a great start for their forthcoming family.
This is chapter four in the second outstanding Round Robin story from Whittlesey Wordsmiths. Its authors are Gwen Bunting, Val Chapman, Wendy Fletcher and Jane Pobgee. Enjoy.
The pub was not far from the office. As they walked, the conversation became easier. Arthur asked how long Ada had worked for Ledbetters and she told him she had worked in munitions during the war but went back to the print trade afterwards.
They were shown to a quiet table, and he asked her to call him Arthur outside office hours. She agreed, as long as he would call her Ada. Arthur told her how much Stan spoke of his wife Ada, and he felt he knew her already.
He convinced Ada to have an aperitif. She, being unused to drinking, was feeling rather sophisticated though a little out of her depth as the two friends, for they were comfortable enough with each other to consider themselves friends as well as colleagues, waited for their drinks to arrive.
After toasting lost friends and Stan, they took their time looking at the limited menu, neither one knowing how to proceed. Arthur chose a steak and kidney pudding, while Ada decided on a slice of corned beef and potato pie. The next few minutes were spent talking about their respective families, and how they coped, or not, after the war.
Eventually, and perhaps because of the sherry, Ada decided to take the bull by the horns.
“Mr Giles, Arthur. Why did you ask me here tonight? You did say it had something to do with my Stan?”
Arthur Giles loosened the top button of his shirt and coughed. He didn’t know why he felt so awkward about this. It should be a simple matter to tell a man’s widow that he knew how much she had meant to him and that her husband had left her a letter saying just that. He hoped she would gain comfort from his words and subsequently the letter he was about to hand to her. He also hoped that in some way she may find some comfort with him, in due course.
He drew a deep breath and looked at Ada, quickly glancing away again, as though embarrassed. She had beautiful green eyes and he didn’t want to get distracted from the matter in hand. Taking the unopened letter from his jacket pocket he placed it on the table in front of Ada and explained as best as he could how it had been in his possession.
Ada was so shaken by Arthur’s news that he had to take her home and forgo the trifle he had eyed up for dessert. Still, he would have it next time. He was sure there would be a next time.
Arthur had brought her home and made her a cup of hot sweet tea. He had left now and Ada sat alone at the table with the letter still in her hand. She let her tea go cold, she hadn’t wanted it anyway.
She read, and reread Stan’s letter, poring over each word.
It was clear that Stan had loved her with all his heart, as much as she had, still did, love him.
There was however something else Stan had written, which Ada found most upsetting. She could hardly believe it, but her Stan would never lie to her so it must be true.
Stan had asked Ada not to reveal any of the information in the letter to anyone. Something Ada knew she would struggle with, as her first instinct was to run to Stan’s ma’s house to share the letter. For the umpteenth time, she read her darling Stan’s letter.
In it, Stan told her that the man who had given her the letter, Arthur Giles was a spy. According to the letter, Stan was stationed with Arthur to get close to him and discover how and what he was telling the enemy. Stan in turn was to relay this information to his commanding officer. It became clear that Arthur Giles was becoming suspicious and so Stan and the officer in charge came up with a plan. They were to fake Stan’s death, and Stan would continue to work behind the scenes to stop Arthur.
In his letter, Stan explained to Ada that the Ministry’s plan was for him to go ‘undercover’ to trap Arthur, who they suspected was a ‘sleeper spy’, someone who blended into society until they were called into action, perhaps many years later. He would find a way to get back to Ada, but he hoped that she would understand, know that he loved her and that of course ‘missing in action’ meant that his body hadn’t been found.
How could it, when he was still alive?
Trying to understand, Ada began to wonder, if Arthur had anything to do with the death of the officer in charge all those years ago? Did he get suspicious?
Her mind in turmoil, Ada went to bed, but rest would not come.
This is chapter three in the second outstanding Round Robin story from Whittlesey Wordsmiths. Its authors are, Gwen Bunting, Val Chapman, Wendy Fletcher and Jane Pobgee. Enjoy.
‘Sit down Mrs. Coleman; I have a question to ask? Would you kindly come out to dinner with me one evening after work, I have something serious to discuss with you about your late husband Stan.’
Arthur managed to get the sentence out in one breath. Ada went all hot and she felt her cheeks burning.
‘Why on earth would you want to see me out of work, Mr. Giles?’
‘Because, Mrs. Coleman I knew your husband, Stan. We were in the same unit; I have a letter for you.’
Shock struck Ada; tears started flowing and she searched for her handkerchief. Pushing the chair back as she desperately tried to make her escape to the ladies toilet, caused a screeching sound from her chair. The girls in the typing pool turned and stared through the glass partition as they watched Ada come dashing through the door.
Mr. Giles followed to the door and asked Miss Blanchard to go and see that Mrs. Coleman was all right.
Mr. Giles returned to his office to calm himself down. A knock on the door announced Marion Morgan with another cup of tea for him, awaiting his response before she enter entered.
She asked if there was anything else he required?
‘No. No, thank you, Miss Morgan; the tea will do fine.”
Breathing deeply he decided a trip to the Gents would be the place to calm himself. Eyes stared from above the typewriters as the girls in the office continued their assignments.
It had never occurred to Arthur Giles that this lady, Ada Coleman could be the wife of his friend Stan Coleman. They had served together in Bomb Disposal during the war and had been lucky to escape with only a scratch, until that day when the bomb they were attempting to defuse exploded. The blast knocked Arthur Giles yards away and he was told Stan had been killed.
They had exchanged letters to send to their next of kin if they were killed,. Usually the Officer in-charge would accept them, but he had been killed in action. There was no one else to take on the responsibility of collecting such letters. Arthur Giles had tried in vain to find the address of Stan’s next of kin, but with no luck. He had kept the letter safely for two years and hoped that one day he may be able to forward it to her.
After demobilisation, he had moved to Bolton, finding work at Ledbetters Printers. He had been a proof-reader before he was called up for the War Service.
After his trip to the Gents he continued to work until six o’clock. The typing pool finished at five-thirty so he had the office to himself for half an hour. Hearing a tap on the door, he looked up to find Ada Coleman staring at him through the glass. He beckoned her to enter; she seemed flustered and anxious, but that was to be expected after the way he had, less than tactfully, invited her out for a meal.
Arthur stood as she entered. ‘Mrs. Coleman, I am so pleased to see you. I am sorry I was so tactless in my announcement of my association with your late husband. Please forgive me. The cleaners will soon be in the offices and I would like to take this opportunity to finish what I messed up before. Please would you join me for dinner at a venue of your choice where you will be comfortable?’
‘Yes, I would like that Mr. Giles. I’m sorry I was so silly, but it was such a shock. We have not had any information about Stan’s death from the War Ministry, just, “missing in action”. They did not even give us a country or area. Your news was music to my ears: someone knowing my Stan.’
‘Where would you like to eat Mrs. Coleman?’ Arthur asked.
‘How about the Black Bear on Middleton Street?’ Ada suggested. ‘They have a varied menu even in rationing’.
They left the office together, getting stares from the cleaners coming into work.
The concluding part of the Wordsmiths Round Robin story written collaboratively by Jane Pobgee, Val Chapman, Val Fish and Wendy Fletcher. This chapter was written by Val Fish.
I wake early, my stomach churning even more than usual. I wish he’d just hurry up…
I hear the key in the lock. I take a deep breath and get into position, my right fist wrapped tightly round the nail. He sees me with my hands clutched to my stomach, the chains are back on my wrists and I’m praying he can’t see they are loose and untied. I groan loudly.
He puts the tray down and stares at me. ‘Is this some sort of trick? You really don’t think I’m that stupid, do you?’
Those are the first words he’s said to me in all this time. I make my next move; I collapse to the floor.
‘Help me, please!
As he kneels, I release the chains, reach out and swiftly dig the rusty nail into his right eye. He loses his balance and falls. For good measure I follow it by throwing a cup of hot tea in his face.
As he screams in agony, I bolt for the door.
I can’t believe I’m outside! The daylight blinds me for a moment. I realise he won’t be far behind me. I run, not knowing where I am or where I’m going, just knowing I’m running for my life. The good news is I’m just a few feet from a road, though right now it’s deserted. ‘Please God, please let a car come by…’
My prayers are answered, I shall be forever grateful to the lovely lady that stops for me and drives me to the police station. Mind you, she doesn’t have a lot of choice other than to run me over, as I stand in the middle of the road frantically waving my arms, screaming ‘Stop, stop!’
At the police station it is hard to get the words out. I think I am in shock. Somehow I manage to convey what has happened to me.
I tell the police about the other girl. They have no cases that tie up with my situation – no one, that is. The little information I can give at least means they can investigate, check the missing persons register for any possible link.
It is hard to think she may no longer be alive; it seems I am the lucky one…
Apparently, I’d been taken quite a distance from home, so it is a while before my parents arrive for an extremely emotional reunion.
I am taken to hospital to be checked out. Apart from having lost a lot of weight and being dehydrated, I am deemed okay and allowed to go home.
Continuing the Wordsmiths Round Robin story written collaboratively by Jane Pobgee, Val Chapman, Val Fish and Wendy Fletcher. This chapter was written by Wendy Fletcher.
Every day the leather cuffs seem to get a little looser. Of course, it is suddenly clear – even to my fuddled brain. Another day or two of the meagre rations and I will be able to slip free. It doesn’t seem to have occurred to the man that this is a possibility. Maybe if I eat even less, I could hurry the process. After all, they do say you could live without food for a few days as long as you have fluid.
As darkness falls outside, I start to implement my plan. He brings more sandwiches – cheese again – and puts them close to me. I almost weaken when I smelled pickle: my favourite. But now is no time for indulging my whims. Plenty of time for that once I am out of this place. I manage to push the sandwiches off the plate and nearer to the corner where shadows hide them from his view when he returns. Just to be sure, I lay out flat on the hard floor and scoop a heap of the dust over the top of them. The soil is gritty, reminding me of sand. I wonder if I might be somewhere on the coast.
Next day I manage to ignore the griping pains in my stomach and stretch across to hide the sandwiches in the corner.
Although I am feeling weaker by the hour, my mind is somehow clearing. Of course, the food has been drugged. Now it is getting out of my system. If I don’t eat, I can work out what to do – if I don’t starve first.
I reach for the spot where the girl had been and stretch my tied hands out to touch the wall. What is it made of?
The surface is cold and very rough.
I move my hands up and there is a crack running across; down, and there is another crack. I edge my way along, almost sure now what I will find. Similar cracks going upwards at regular intervals tell me it is built of blocks.
I push myself into the corner and know I am right. It isn’t a right-angled corner; walls are offset at an angle that means the structure is the shape of a fifty pence piece.
I don’t know where I am, but I know what the building is.
As a child I had played in these war-time pillboxes. They were strategically placed all over East Anglia to defend us from attack. So, whoever my assailant is, he has local knowledge as they are abandoned now and mostly overgrown.
I know there is no chance of slipping out of a window. They were shaped to deflect attack and the inner edges are little more than slits. No chance of breaking down a wall; these monuments are solid concrete. My only hope is the door – perhaps when another tray of food is brought to me.
After a lot of struggling I am finally able to free myself from the chains. I have an idea how I can use the nail; my biggest problem will be how to keep my hands out of his sight until I make my move. It could all go horribly wrong, and then what? But I have to try. I could be free tomorrow!
It is such a relief to have the chains off, but still I have a restless night – so many thoughts going around in my head.
Continuing the Wordsmiths Round Robin story written collaboratively by Jane Pobgee, Val Chapman, Val Fish and Wendy Fletcher. This chapter was written by Jane Pobgee.
I shuffle once again over to where the girl had been. In the half-light I was sure I had seen something. I was right, low down against the wall I can just see a small nail. It has been banged into the brickwork, barely visible. I’m not sure how this could be useful, but it is something.
Crouching low I manage to get my fingers to the nail; it feels tight in its hole. I knew I wouldn’t have the strength in my fingers alone to pull it out; I need something to help prise it out. I hear the man returning with the bucket so scurry over to my ‘place’ again.
Once he has left I go back to the nail. It is dark now; I have to feel for it.
I try putting a link of my chain over it, tugging at it; it immediately slips off. I triy again, this time keeping my finger over the nail to stop the link coming off. I don’t know how long I crouch here, pulling and tugging this way and that for what seems like hours until, eventually, the nail loosens.
I shuffle back, sit, and hid the nail in my bra. I try to get some sleep. It doesn’t come easy; I am too buzzed to settle. This could be my chance, a way out of this prison.
Eventually my eyelids drooped and I slept. Again I don’t know what time it is when I awake, the man comes, bringing another tray of food, not the usual slop. This time it is a sandwich: a cheese sandwich. I know I need to eat more even if it is drugged as I am too weak to think clearly. I eat every crumb, and it tastes so good. He replaces my water bottle, allows me to use the bucket and leaves.
I drink most of the water straight away; I figured that would help clear my head. Thankfully, it tastes clean and cold. I don’t think it is drugged but then what would drugged water taste like? I have no idea.
For a long time I sit, not doing or even thinking anything. Later the man comes back with another tray containing another cheese sandwich, slightly stale, and some more water. Again, I eat every crumb. Not quite as appetising as the first but still better than the slop they have been giving me.
Once he leaves, I know I have to have a plan. I need to think how to get out of here. He isn’t going to return for a while; I dig out the nail. It isn’t very long, but I wonder if I could somehow use it to free myself of the chains. I spend a long time looking at the leather cuffs that tie my hands, inspecting every bit of them, seeing how they connect to the chains.
By Val Fish, Val Chapman, Jane Pobgee, and Wendy Fletcher
Here is Chapter 2 in the writing group’s excellent Round Robin story, Time. This Chapter was written by Val Chapman.
Chapter 2 – Val Chapman
There used to be two of us here.
I can remember a girl. She was here before me and through my drug fuelled haze, I tried to talk to her, find out who she was, who had imprisoned us here, and why?
I had so many unanswered questions.
I never had a reply, she had just sat on the floor, knees pulled up to her chin and when she did lift her head I could see her tear stained face. Dirty, and with a look that once I imagine was defiance, but now was just defeat.
I could almost smell it on her.
Of course I had no idea how long she had been here, wherever ‘here’ was.
Jesus Christ, I had no idea how long I had been here, but I would make damned sure it won’t be for much longer.
I had discovered something about myself being here.
Fear makes me bloody determined and angry.
I woke up one morning? afternoon? and I was on my own.
The girl had gone.
I had heard nothing and had no idea when, how, or why she had been taken away.
More fear gripped me and I shivered, not just with the cold, as my stomach twisted and churned.
I would be next.
I forced the fog in my head to clear. My life depended on it.
Moving as far as my chains would allow me, I shuffled across towards the spot where the girl had been.
Maybe, hope upon hope, she had left a clue or something which could help me to get out of here.
His footsteps sound on the stone floor on the other side of the door and I quickly scuttle back to ‘my’ place.
The bastard unlocks the door and comes in with another tray. The last thing I want to do is eat it, but I have to keep my strength up if I’m going to get out of here.
And I will.
I try to smile at him.
Maybe I can fool him into letting his guard down if he thinks I am friendly.
I say “try”, but my mouth is so dry my lip sticks to my teeth.
Still, he seems to accept it, and slides the tray in my direction.
He stands, arms folded, and looks at me.
He says nothing, just watches me for an uncomfortable few minutes, then picks up the disgusting bucket and leaves.
Who is he?
I try not to think about what he wants with me. If it is just for a ransom then I hope it gets paid soon.
There is still a small amount of watery light coming through the window and I take my chance to look around for something, anything I could use to get the hell out.
Our writing group, Whittlesey Wordsmiths has been working collaboratively, in teams during the lock down, to produce Round Robin stories. These pieces are group efforts with each team member writing an individual chapter. This is the first chapter of Time, we will post the other chapters during the next few days and weeks. Enjoy!
By Val Fish, Val Chapman, Jane Pobgee, and Wendy Fletcher
Chapter 1 Val F
Time means nothing to me, not the hours, the days, the weeks; I cannot tell you how long I have been here, I cannot tell you where I am, except in hell…
I only know that I wake up every morning, sometimes I wish that I would just go to sleep and never wake again, to free myself from this nightmare.
I have no wall to scratch out the days, and even if I did my hands are tied.
I could not even tell you the time of year, I’m guessing late spring, as, from the little light I do get from the tiny window (it’s too high for me to see out) it does seem to stay light longer each day. Nevertheless, it’s pretty cold down here; I only get a smidgeon of sun each day. I suppose I could work out which direction I’m facing if I thought about it, but what good would that do me?
I try to remember how I got here, in this dungeon; I guess I was drugged. I think he’s possibly putting something in my food, I am constantly feeling dozy and lightheaded, although that could just be the lack of food, or drink. He leaves me water, but I sip as little as possible, for fear of needing the toilet.
He comes in three times a day with my food, unappetising muck; my stomach is crying out for food, but still I can usually only manage a few mouthfuls before I start to feel nauseous.
At least my hands are free for a while. Then the ultimate humiliation, he allows me to relieve myself in a bucket in the corner.
When he’s gone, and the door bangs shut, and I hear a key turning in the lock, back in my chains, only then will I cry.
The world out there must be looking for me, I must have hope.
Will I ever get out of here, or am I destined to die in this shithole?