After being away for almost two hours Martins returned to the house riding a horse-drawn flat wagon along with another man. On the wagon were two wooden crates, each as tall as Martins himself but barely two-feet in width. Between them, he and the wagon driver unloaded the crates and placed them on Martins’ front porch, where he paid the man for his assistance before watching him leave.
Once alone Martins conveyed the crates into the house and down into the basement. There he found Lucy curled up on the thin sheet sleeping.
Martins carefully placed the first wooden crate onto the floor, but not because he didn’t want to wake her, it was because the crate contained a precision instrument. He did the same with the second crate before returning upstairs to the house.
In his kitchen he made a plate of sandwiches and half filled a glass with milk. On returning to his basement and waking Lucy he passed the plate of sandwiches through an eight-inch slot in the door, and the glass of milk he passed through the bars. Lucy took them both and Martins watched as she began devouring the sandwiches.
‘Don’t rush your food, if you get indigestion my test results may suffer.’
Lucy’s jaw abruptly stopped moving and she swallowed hard lowering her brow. ‘What test results?’
Martins glared coldly at her. ‘You have just broken two of my rules; this will be the one and only time I will allow that to happen.’
Lucy said nothing to this; the pain in her little finger was still a strong enough reminder for her to realise the error she had just made. Although anxiety knotted her stomach she knew she would have to eat in order to keep her strength up. If she wanted to come out of this alive. She ate slowly and forced down the small mouthfuls with the aid of the milk. When she’d finished she raised a hand.
Martins had just begun to unpack his wooden crates when he looked up. ‘No questions,’ he said pointing.
‘I need the toilet.’
Stopping his unpacking Martins went to the waist high bench beside the exit that led to the rear garden; he took from it a silver weighing tray that sat atop a small set of scales and passed it to Lucy through the slot in the door. ‘When you’re done, pass it back to me.’ He said.
Lucy frowned at the man; she wanted him to know that squatting in front of him was something she would never dream of doing, unless forced to do so in this way. Grudgingly she took the silver tray and placed it on the floor, then un-popping the studs and stepping out of the bottom half of the overalls she proceeded to position herself over it.
When she’d done she pulled the overalls back up fastening them again. She passed her tray of urine back to the man through the same slot. After he took it from her she watched him place the tray back on the scales and enter even more notes into that green book of his. After emptying the tray into the sink the man passed it back to her through the bars.
Martins finished the opening of his wooden crates and before long he’d assembled the new apparatus. Opening the cell door he instructed Lucy to remove the overalls once more, which she duly did. Assisting her from the cell he placed her on a small platform and after moving one or two sliding weights, he wrote once again in his journal. “135lbs 4 oz.”
‘Now, I want you to lie face down on the gurney.’
Again Lucy lowered her brow. ‘What are you—?’
This time Martins struck her viciously with the back of his right hand. ‘Do it now!’ He demanded spraying her with saliva.
Lucy climbed onto the gurney and lay with her head turned to the left, Martins instructed her to put her forehead flat onto it as he commenced fastening her down. He reached underneath pulling a leather strap from either side and buckled the two straps together at the back of her head. By now Lucy had started crying again, and her sobs were moving her head very slightly.
‘Be still woman.’ He said.
Lucy began to plead. ‘Please stop. Whatever it is you’
‘Silence,’ he yelled this time, parting with even more bodily fluids. ‘Before this day is out, you will thank me for what I have given you.’
Before long she’d composed herself enough for Martins to continue. He opened a small refrigerating unit that sat atop the bench and retrieved from it a shallow silver tray. On the tray were three readily prepared syringes, each of them half filled with a crimson coloured liquid.
Lifting one of them from the tray and holding it up he pushed out any air that might be trapped inside. Turning back to Lucy he brushed aside her dark hair feeling for the correct spot, then very carefully and very precisely he pushed in the needle.
Lucy let out a quiet whimper as she felt the point of the needle pierce her skin. Then Martins slowly pushed on the plunger with his thumb until it could go no further. Withdrawing the needle again he watched as a small drop of blood oozed from the point of entry, and even though the stale still air of the basement was cool, Martins wiped a drop of sweat from the end of his nose.
He duly disposed of the used syringe in a small basket under the bench. Looking at his watch he instructed Lucy to lie still for a minute. The time was 3pm. And reaching again for his journal he once more entered the details of his actions into it.
After a couple of minutes he unfastened the buckles and removed the straps that were holding Lucy down. ‘Put these back on, and return to your cell.’ He said passing her the overalls.
As she commenced pulling them on Lucy watched as the man picked up a silver tray containing two syringes, then put them into the small white box at the end of the bench. Lucy slowly stepped backward into the cell, all the time observing everything the man was doing.
Once she was inside Martins locked the door and sat back on the chair by the gurney, he began to question her once again. ‘Tell me, how do you feel now?’
‘Very scared,’ she replied honestly.
‘Physically, not emotionally woman.’ He screamed standing from his seat.
‘I feel like I wanna throw-up!’ She yelled back at him.
‘If you do vomit, make sure you catch it all in that tray. What else do you feel?’
Lucy looked up at Martins, he noticed a swelling around her right eye and a small cut just below it.
‘Tired,’ she said.
Again Martins wrote these notes into his journal. ‘If you are tired then you must sleep, it is now just after three. I will be back at midnight to check on you.’
He put the chair back into the kneehole of his desk and his journal atop it, and instructed Lucy to pass the plate and the empty glass to him which she did. Taking them with him he promptly left and locked up the basement.
