‘Don’t give up now, Guv. Give it a whirl. You gotta give it a go for sake of Lucy. Don’t let the jibblies get to you, Guv.’
‘Gimlet?’ Collingwood called. ‘Gimlet, are you there?’ his words rebounding about the crypt in diminishing echoes. No, of course Gimlet was not there, he was dead, his broken sorely pierced body lying across the other side of the cellar, impaled on cruel spikes. But he had heard something–or was it fevered imagination – the onset of madness and delirium? No matter, it– whatever it had been – awoke him from his self-piteous torpor. He carefully took out the long, blood sleeked spikes and laid them on the floor beside the candlesticks. Also the candles, making sure they did not roll away; he now had some idea that they could lubricate the nails as he worked at the mort
