The Sons Of Cleito (The Abductions of Langley Garret Book 1) Read Online Free PDF Page A

coloured bracelet, which had tightened quite painfully around my ankle. I stayed seated on the cold bathroom floor, half dressed, with my back against the wall and waited for the bracelet to forgive my intrusion, and for the pain to subside. After a few minutes the red colour slowly changed to lilac then light blue as it took its time in releasing the pressure around my ankle. When it finally returned to being transparent again, I understood its message. It was only a mild warning of what it could possibly do to me if I upset it again.
    With fake bravado, and drugs, I had somehow managed to stay relatively calm and controlled since the whistling deliveryman began the process of my abduction and journey to hell knows where. As I sat with my bare arse on the cold bathroom floor, absorbing the reality of my situation, my bravado suddenly collapsed and melted into the grout between the blue tiles, leaving me unprotected from the reality that fell from the heavens and hit me hard. I fought for a moment but it was in vain, as tears formed in my eyes and started flowing freely down my cheeks. I was helpless, imprisoned and shit scared.
    After my shower there was little to do other than rest, and I didn't surprise myself when I woke feeling very groggy after a long sleep. My watch told me it was probably around three in the afternoon, but I had no way of knowing if it was afternoon at all. About the only thing I was sure of was that I needed coffee. Luckily this was one wish I had that could be fulfilled. The other hundred or so had no chance whatsoever, which included wishing I could call Helen and telling her I hadn't left her but had been abducted and was being held captive somewhere deep below an island, somewhere in the middle of nowhere – and hoping that she was enjoying her champagne. It hit me then that even if I could call her, she probably wouldn't believe the first part of what I wanted to tell her and definitely wouldn't believe the second, but would perhaps accept my wishing her cheers for her first sip of celebratory champagne. I made a coffee and tried to stop myself from wishing.
    I looked around my room and wondered if there was anything to read. After searching every door and drawer I could find, in vain, it was clear that reading wasn't being offered as part of my room package. Noting that my writing desk was void of any paper, pens or pencils, writing too was off the menu so it was a very inaptly named writing desk. I could only contemplate, or think about finding something sharp to carve my name into a wall as Lord Byron had done on a pillar in the dungeons of Château de Chillon to commemorate his 'The Prisoner of Chillon' ode. This was great for Byron, as he hadn't been imprisoned there; he was only visiting to show off. It was François de Bonivard, a Genevois monk and politician, who did all the suffering by actually being imprisoned, yet Byron got all the glory for writing a poem about the suffering of the poor forgotten monk. I doubted anyone was going to write about my imprisonment, and with my lack of anything at all to write with; it certainly wasn't going to be me.
    Finally deciding that none of this helped me at all, I cleared my head and opened the refrigerator and started thinking about having dinner. Or lunch or breakfast or what ever mealtime it was – I was hungry and finding tinned salmon, an onion, dried dill and some cheese changed my mood entirely. When I found a packet of crisp bread, my menu was complete. It was a pity there was no wine, only a limited choice of soft drink and orange juice. I settled on a bottle of mineral water.
    Once I had finished my dinner, I started hoping for a knock on my door rather soon. If only to relieve what was becoming abject boredom, but knowing that it could also possibly, or even probably, lead to something unpleasant. My bowels agreed, as they twisted and shot a sharp pain down towards my anus. With only my thoughts for company, I took them to bed with me