Two hours later Paul unlocked his door with a hairpin for the last time, he hoped. He was determined to escape. He had blankets and all his tablets in his lap. Sidewinder was downhill from here and, even if he had to slide all the way in the rain, he intended to try. Why hadn't he tried to escape before? Writing the book had become an excuse. It was true that it kept him alive, because it gave Annie a reason to want him alive; he was her pet writer, producing a book just for her. But it was also true that he was enjoying writing the book and didn't want to leave it. But now he didn't care. Annie could destroy the book if she wanted. He rolled himself into the sitting-room. It had been tidy before, but now it was a mess. There were dirty dishes piled up on all the surfaces. Empty containers of sweet things of all kinds - jam, ice-cream, cake, biscuits, Pepsi-Cola - were everywhere. There was no sign of any spoons or forks; Annie used her hands when she was in this condition. There were splashes of icecream on the floor and the sofa. The figure of the flying bird was still on the table, but most of the other figures had been thrown into a corner, where they had broken into sharp little pieces. In the middle of the floor was an overturned vase of dead flowers. Underneath a small table lay a photograph album. Don't you know it's a bad idea to think about the past when you're feeling depressed, Annie? 39 He rolled across the room. Straight ahead was the kitchen; on the right was the hall leading to the front door. He knew there was a door in the kitchen and he hoped he might get out of the house that way. But first he wanted to check the front door; he might get a surprise. He didn't. There were three locks on the door. Two of them were Kreigs - the best locks in the world. A thousand hairpins would be useless. And Annie of course had the keys with her. He reversed down the hall and went into the kitchen. The room was not as much of a mess as the sitting-room, although there was the smell of rotten food. Here it was the same story: the door had the same system of locks. Roydmans, stay out; Paul, stay in. He imagined her laughing. The windows were too high. Even if he did manage to break one and pull himself through he would probably break his back falling on to the ground. Then he'd have to pull himself through deep mud and crawl up to the road in the hope of being found. It was not a good idea. Another door in the kitchen had no locks. Paul opened it and saw that it led down some steep stairs to the cellar. He heard the squeaking of rats and smelled the foul smell of rotten vegetables. He quickly closed the door. Paul felt desperate. There was no way out. For a moment he thought about killing himself. He had found plenty of food in cans on the kitchen shelves, and also some boxes of matches. Perhaps he should just burn the whole house down in revenge, and kill himself at the same timer Maybe I will have to kill myself eventually, but I'll kill her first. That is my promise, I will never give up.