So he just worked, ate and slept. He kept well clear of alcohol, realising where that could lead in his present state of mind. He knew what was happening to him, but was unable to do anything about it.On Friday there was a phone call from home.“Aidan,” his mother urged him, “come for dinner on Sunday. We haven’t seen you for months.”“Oh, Mum,” he sighed, “I don’t feel that sociable at the moment.”“Kevin says you had a new girlfriend, but she’s gone home – to America, I think he said. You helped her out or something like that.”“Yes, Mum, that’s roughly it.”“Is that why you’re miserable? Come home, darling.”“Is Kevin going to be there?”“No, do you want him to be?”“No! The very reverse. I don’t want to see him or Caroline, and especially not Julie!”“Just you Aidan. Just you.”“Oh all right,” he said with a bad grace, “I’ll see you Sunday morning.”He knew before he went there would be an inquisition, and he knew also that he would not be able to dodge or sugar coat it. He was right, but. The focal point of this 'chair' was a blunt, vertical spike. Also iron, fifteen inches tall and five inches diameter at its base. A toothed iron rail formed the 'back' of the chair, mounted on which was a narrow carriage, fitted with manacles for wrists and elbows and a leather strap for the torso, with a hand-crank so the torturer may raise or lower it a fraction of an inch at a time."As you can see, this magnificent device is basically an impaling machine," explained Kirsten. Impaling. The most dreaded word of my life. When I was a schoolboy I read a book about medieval executions. I always thought that impaling was the worst of all. And now I gazed at the dire spike in total terror."My assistants will now secure the boy to the chair."Steve and Austin stepped forward, grabbed my arms, and pushed me in front of the chair, facing the crowd. As I realized what would come next, I tried to got free and started to beg harrowingly. "Please, for all the saints, nooo..." I couldn't finish.
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