dextrous right hand. It was not so easy with a tingling mouth and when my life depended on it. Eventually I positioned the battery at the correct angle under the lugs and used my nose and forehead to push the other end in. It snapped into place. Hallelujah!
Now I had to get my bruised and bloody stump back into the fibreglass shell before it swelled up too much to fit. I stood up and eased it in. Normally I used talcum powder to help as the fit was tight even at the best of times, and a little moisture can cause the real me to stick to the plastic, making things impossible. This time I had no available talcum powder and there was masses of moisture, both blood and sweat.
I managed it after a fashion although the elbow seal was far from perfect. I sent the impulses but the thumb refused to budge. Bugger. Maybe there was blood between my skin and the electrodes. I tried again and then again.
The thumb moved a fraction but still refused to swing open fully.
I kept sending the necessary signals and slowly, little by little, the thumb moved enough to allow my hand to unclasp the towel rail.
But I was still firmly attached on my right-hand side.
My normally strong mechanical left hand was letting me down. The hand that this morning could have crushed not only eggs and fingers, but also apples and tennis balls, would have had trouble now with a soap bubble. Nevertheless, I used it to attack the handcuffs. But I had no success. I wished I had a cutting tool on the hand like that character in the James Bond movie. I would have cut myself out of trouble in no time.
Peter coughed. Perhaps he was indeed choking on his vomit.
I wondered if I should shout for help. But wouldn’t it rouse Peter? And would anyone else hear me anyway? My building was predominantly occupied by businessmen. Would anyone be in their flats to hear me at one thirty on a Tuesday afternoon? The porters/security were safely behind their desk, four floors down. They may as well have been on the moon.
I looked closely at the handcuffs. The cuff around my wrist was annoyingly tight. Too tight for me to slip my hand through, I’d tried that. The other cuff around the rail bracket was not so tight. I put the thumb of my false hand through the ring and tried to use the arm as a lever to break the lock.
I couldn’t move it far enough so I eased my forearm once more out of the shell and used my left elbow to push the prosthetic arm down. I am sure that the boffins at the Roehampton artificial limb centre would have loved to know that I was using their highly expensive pride and joy as a crowbar.
But it worked. The thumb on the hand was stronger than the lock that resisted for a while but finally gave way with a crack. My false arm fell to the floor but it had done its job. I was free from the towel rail although I still had the handcuffs dangling around my right wrist.
I wasted no time. I leaned over Peter in the bath and took his gun. I held it in my right hand and pointed it at him. Should I shoot him? I asked myself. Indeed, could I shoot him? I had never been one to shy away from a bit of violence if it were necessary, but shooting someone seemed a bit extreme, even terminal. Especially someone who was unconscious.
I wasn’t sure that I could bring myself to shoot Peter even if he woke up. Perhaps I would threaten to do so but then not have the resolve to carry it out. If I wasn’t going to use the gun, then no one else was either. I removed the bullets from the cylinder and put them in my pocket.
I left Peter where he was and went into the sitting room to call for reinforcements from the police. I put the gun down on the table and dialled 999.
‘Emergency, what service?’ asked a female voice.
‘Police,’ I said.
I could hear the voice give my telephone number to the police operator who then came on the line.
‘Police emergency,’ he said.
‘I need help and fast,’ I said. ‘I have a gunman in my flat.’
He asked for the address. I gave it. He asked if I was in danger. Yes, I said, I was.
They were on their way.
‘Tell Superintendent Aldridge that the gunman is Peter Enstone.’
‘Right,’ said the police operator, but I wondered if he would.
I walked into the hallway and used the internal telephone to call down to the reception desk.
‘Yes, Mr Halley?’ said a voice. It wasn’t Derek. It was one of the new staff.
‘Some policemen will be arriving soon. Please send them straight up.’
‘Certainly, sir,’ he said somewhat uncertainly. ‘Is everything all right?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Everything’s fine.’
I went back to check on my unwanted guest in the bathroom, but the bath was empty.
Oh my God! Everything was far from fine.
I should have shot him while I’d had the chance.
I spun round but he wasn’t behind me.
Now what should I do? Should I go and get the gun? Should I reload it?
And where was he? There weren’t many places to hide in this flat. I went back to the kitchen door, picked up the internal telephone to push the buzzer to summon help from Security downstairs.
I never got the chance.
Peter came charging out of one of the bedrooms straight at me. His lips were drawn back, revealing his teeth in some evil grin, and there was murder in his eyes. This wasn’t to be the cold-blooded, almost sanitized killing he had planned, this was going to be uncontrolled and furious. He was in a frenzy and a rage. That made two of us.
He dived at me as I tried to side-step into the kitchen and he used my own false arm as a club to aim a swing at my head.
That’s a bit cheeky, I thought. That was usually my game plan.
I dodged and he caught me only a glancing blow on my shoulder. I shoved him and sent him spinning across the hall on his knees. He was quickly back up on his feet and bunching for a fresh attack. I dropped the internal telephone and retreated into the kitchen and tried to close the door.
He stuck his foot in the gap and pushed hard. I leaned on the door to keep him out but he had the strength of the demented, as well as two good hands.
I looked around for a weapon. I had a pocket full of bullets but no gun. Too late to discover that I could have gladly shot him dead.
There was a pine block full of kitchen knives on the work-top on the far side of the room near the cooker but it would have meant leaving the door to reach them. Did I have a choice, I asked myself. I was slowly losing the battle to keep him out anyway.
Again, I asked myself the question. Even if I reached a knife, would I use it? I had once known a particularly nasty villain who had told me that killing with a knife was an experience not to be missed. He had described with relish how he liked to feel the warmth of his victim’s blood on his hand as it spurted out from the wound. It was an image I had often tried to remove from my consciousness without much success. Could I stab Peter and feel the warmth of his blood?
He heaved at the door and sent me sprawling across the floor.
I jumped up and went for the knife block.
He tore at my collar and tossed me away from it. He stretched for it himself. I grabbed at him and put my right arm round his neck and pulled him backwards.
But I was losing this fight. Hand-to-hand combat is somewhat tricky when your opponent has twice as many hands and no scruples about using his nails and teeth as well.
He dug his nails into my already sore wrist and used the still-dangling handcuffs to pull my hand up to his mouth where he bit it. But I refused to let go and went on hauling him away from the knives. He bit me again, this time using all his might to sink his teeth into my thumb. I thought he would bite it off completely.
I gave up my neck-lock, and tore my hand free of him.
He went for the knives.
I picked up the only thing I could see. My trusted one-handed cork remover. The spike sat ready for action on a shelf next to the wine glasses.
I tried to stab it into his back but I couldn’t get it through his coat.
