“This is it.” James opens the door ahead of us.
Michael, supporting Finchby at the shoulders, says, “You sure about this, James?”
“I’m sure. Can you think of a better place?”
“No…” He exhales. “But f**k’s sake, don’t ever tell Charlotte.”
“I won’t. I don’t want her knowing about any of this.”
“Suits me.”
Between us, Michael and I heft the unconscious Finchby through the door and into…
Fuck me…
Don’t show surprise…
Michael meets my eye. So does James. His mouth quirks and he drops me a wink.
It’s a torture chamber.
At least at first sight.
Of course it isn’t…
The first impression is a blur of manacles, racks, whips and chains; stone walls, a vaulted roof, a cold flag floor.
The second impression takes in a hearth, the ashes cold; a glass-fronted cooler containing wine and beer
