Post on 06-Apr-2018
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The London Vault
a short horror story by
Jan Bee Landman
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The London Vault
2010 Jan Bee Landman
All Rights Reserved
Published 2010
Published by Jan Bee Landman, Veenhof 9, 9461 TG
Gieten, The Netherlands 2010 Jan Bee Landman. All
rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in
any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,recording or otherwise, without the prior written
permission of Jan Bee Landman http://www.jlandman.nl
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From afar the carmine glow of her coat was easy to spot
among the dreary grays, blues and browns of her fellow
travelers. There she was. A little grin tightened his lips as
he sauntered forward through the waiting throng.
When she caught sight of him she instantly dropped her
suitcases and came running, as fast as her high heels and
tight skirt would allow, falling into his arms laughing and
breathless.
"Oh, darling," she crooned.
And in the middle of Heathrow's crowded arrival lounge
she kissed him fervently, lost to the jostling crowds
around them and oblivious of the surprised, amused and
sometimes envious glances.
But even without this behavior they would have made a
striking couple. He barely thirty, a handsome young man,
tall and slim, with short dark curls, smooth features, big
brown eyes, and a swift charmer's smile, dressed in a tight
coat of white leather.She was at least fifteen years older, a lady, chic and
sophisticated. The few ornaments she wore sparkled with
diamonds, her jetblack hair bulged in a carefully coiffured
dome about her head and her red coat betrayed an
exclusive design. Their embrace lasted several minutes before he gently
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detached himself and strutted back to where she had
dropped her baggage. A passing KLM flight attendant shot
him an inquisitive glance, which he held with his eyes
until he saw the beginning of a smile on her lips. Then he
turned brusquely and walked back to the woman who
stood waiting for him like a beaming bride.
"Oh, Martin, I can scarcely believe it. Ten days! No
secrecy, no masquerades, no hypocrisy, no hurry. It's
simply too wonderful. How shall we spend all that
freedom?"
"Any way you want," he said, smiling, as they walked
towards the exit. "You name it: all the corny things that
sightseers do, as if we've been married for years."
"Divine."
"Queuing up for hours in the rain in front of the Victoria
& Albert, shuffling like members of a chain gang along the
Crown Jewels, getting our pictures taken among those
shabby pigeons on Trafalgar Square.""Theatre?"
"Of course. Every night if you like. Opera. Concerts."
"Shopping?"
"What's Harrods for?"
"Dancing?""Till daybreak."
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She stopped in her tracks, beamed at him.
"Oh Martin. You've no idea how happy you are making
me."
He laughed and kissed her severely wrinkled forehead,
which she crumpled even further by knitting her brows.
"But... er... will there be any time left for... er... well, you
know."
"Not much, I fear, but then, that's not why we are here,
is it?"
She hugged him feverishly.
"You're the greatest darling in the world. You know that,
don't you?"
He smiled modestly and protested that not he but she
was the greatest darling in the world. And while they
quarreled about this problem, in the back of a London
cab, Martin Longstreet, junior partner of Vanderveen,
Torquay and Blunt (Attorneys at Law) and Mrs Sylvie
Vanderveen began their fall vacation.
Four days later, Saturday afternoon, Martin was alone in
their hotel room, lazing on the bed, cushions in his back, a
small cheroot in one hand and a big glass of sherry in the
other, while he watched a herd of racehorses gallopingacross the TV screen. When they passed the finishing post
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he swore, fifty pounds poorer.
Although he had made a bundle in a previous race (on
an outsider with the impossible name of "Alpenstock") he
was in a foul mood.
Sylvie had gone shopping somewhere in the
neighborhood. That evening they would be going to an
opera. The prospect alone was enough to make him sick.
He sighed. Sometimes this kind of life bordered on
martyrdom. How infinitely better would it not be to spend
the evening in the company of one of those young and
juicy hookers he saw wandering so discreetly through the
hotel corridors. Yep, no matter what others might think:
sacrifice and self-denial were the lot of the destitute lover
with expensive tastes.
While he waited for the next race to start he walked to
the window and looked out. A hoary fog hid the buildings
across the street and limited his view to the tarmac square
in front of Charing Cross Station, which lay below underhim, with taxis and pedestrians mingling like black-
backed beetles and ants.
Gazing down in a dark muse, he noticed a familiar red-
coated figure getting out of a cab. Sylvie. Strange. Why the
cab? She had said she was only going to shop in thenearby streets. He shrugged his shoulders. What the hell
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did he care anyway? In a week she'd be off his back again,
tucked safely away in Washington, while his expense
account would have been comfortably padded.
On TV a nasal voice with a sleepy Oxfordian accent was
announcing the runners for the next race. Martin turned
away from the window, poured himself another bumper of
sherry and lay down again.
Ten minutes later, the race over and won by a favorite
he had backed, Sylvie fluttered into the room. She threw
her black wig into a corner, and joined him on the bed,
cuddling up affectionately, a languishing look in her gray,
hooded eyes.
"Winning?" she asked, in between kisses that tasted of
crme de menthe.
"Yeah."
"Clever little you,"
His toes curled but he smiled, even if it took such an
effort that it almost ached."By the way," she said. "What about tomorrow? Any
plans?"
"No, nothing in particular. Sunday, that's always a
rotten day here. Desolation and gangs of tourists."
"Oh, but then I've got an idea. Look at this."She took her handbag and drew out a small black card,
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bearing a death's head in golden print and reading "The
London Vault" in shivery blood-red lettering.
"Good grief, that's some kind of waxworks. I never knew
you liked that sort of thing."
"I don't, but this really seems to be good. The models
move, see. They're robots. It says here that people with
weak nerves are urgently advised not to visit the Vault."
"What tommyrot. That's just a sales pitch."
"No, I don't think so. It also says here that children
under sixteen and people over 70 are not admitted. That
doesn't seem such a clever pitch to me. Oh, let's go,
Martin."
"Well, I don't know."
"Please? Pretty please?"
"Oh, all right then. Have it your way."
"Good!"
The next day brought raw October weather, a sky crammed with clouds piling white and lumpy to dazzling
heights but broadbased and gloomy underneath, letting
through only occasional splashes of milky sunlight. There
was a rasping breeze that chilled to the bone, especially on
draughty corners. Still, after a long lie-in, they set out forthe London Vault by mid-afternoon. Sylvie had insisted,
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quite her unusual easy-going self, because she expected so
much of it.
"You're such a child, sometimes," said Martin
sarcastically, as they turned into the street of the Vault
and Sylvie hurried ahead impatiently.
"Who cares?" she said, blushing with the cold and
excitement.
The street was on the south bank of the Thames, some
hundred meters from London Bridge and offered a
desolate aspect, sloping down rather steeply, bordered on
one side by condemned buildings, alternating with derelict
plots of land, while the other side was skirted by a low,
seemingly endless facade of brickwork, like a prison wall.
It had once possessed windows, apparently, but these had
been bricked up, long ago, judging from the soot that was
ingrained in the stones.
"This must be it," Sylvie said.
"Doesn't look very inviting.""No, not really."
They came to a large door, painted glossy black, without
any handle. Exit 5, it read. They walked on and reached
another similar door. Exit 4 this time.
"What a lot of exits," said Sylvie. "Isn't that weird?"When they were nearly abreast Exit 3 the door was
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flung open. Sylvie gave a start and drew back just in time
to avoid a young girl in denim who dashed past her, bent
over at the curb and vomited noisily on the yellow line on
the road.
Shock-eyed, Sylvie looked at Martin, who just shrugged
his shoulders. The door opened again and a young man,
also in denim, came hurrying out. His face had a sallow
hue, like that of a sick child. A bit awkwardly he went to
stand beside the girl, who was still retching, and now
sobbing as well.
Sylvie went up to the young man.
"Is it that bad?" she asked.
The boy nodded.
"She only just beat me to it, I think," he said, shakily,
with a sonorous Scottish accent. "I wouldna go in, if I were
you."
Sylvie cast Martin a questioning look. He realized that this
was his chance of getting out of this silly venture. But nowthat he had seen its violent effect, he was curious. He
wanted to find out whether a few moving dolls could scare
him too.
They walked on, looking back a few times at the young
couple that moved off, quarrelling.Overhead the clouds were bunching up, growing darker
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and making the surroundings even more dismal and
unattractive than they already were. Suddenly the heavy
roar of an engine filled the air. Martin looked back. At the
top of the street a green double-deck bus had appeared
and came roaring down, empty, splattered with grayish
mud, monstrously large and threatening like a tank. When
it had thundered past, Martin could not recall having seen
a driver. He shivered. Without the sun it was chilling.
As they walked on, ever more slowly, the last door also
opened. An elderly couple emerged, less obviously shaken
than the youngsters but very pale and with rigid stares in
their eyes.
"I'm not so sure I want to go in anymore, Martin," Sylvie
said.
Martin chuckled.
"I bet you don't but you asked for this and now you're
going to get it."
They reached the entrance: a recessed doorway plastered with gaudy posters screaming warnings and
threats. At its inner end a massive black door loomed in
the twilight. There was no bell, but an old-fashioned
knocker in the shape of a brass lion's claw.
Martin lifted the thing and dropped it: the thud seemedto resound through a vast emptiness within.
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"It surely sounds creepy," Martin said, grinning.
Sylvie moved closer to him.
It took a while for someone to answer the door. Just as
Martin reached for the knocker again, a small hatch in the
door was opened. A shadowy face appeared.
"What do you want?" it asked.
"In."
"Are you sure?"
"Positive."
"All right then."
The hatch was closed and keys could be heard rattling.
"They don't miss a trick, do they?" Martin said.
"I think it's scary, Martin, I really do."
Heavy bolts were drawn aside and the door swung open,
strangely without a sound. Martin meant to step smartly
inside but something about the doorman held him back.
Not that there was anything special about the fellow. On
the contrary, he was quite common: short and skinny,dressed in an outsized duster: one of those typical, dried-
out Englishmen who could only be pictured under the
thumb of a big woman in flowery dresses reeking of
lavender. Entirely in keeping with this image, a cold
cigarette dangled from his lower lip.His own hesitation surprised Martin. Premonitions were
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not things he believed in. Slightly annoyed he bought two
tickets and suffered himself and Sylvie to be led to an oak-
paneled door.
"Through here, down the stairs, through another door
and then straight ahead. If you want out, there's always
an exit on the right."
Without another word the man withdrew, limping
slightly.
Martin took Sylvie's arm and opened the door. Behind it
lay a dark staircase that led down to a similar door. A
smoking flambeau was the only source of light. Martin felt
tense and therefore ridiculous. But he could not help
himself. His breathing was labored, probably on account of
the smoke emitted by the flambeau, pungent and reeking
of sulphur, like a match freshly struck.
When they reached the lower door, Martin heard
lugubrious sounds behind it: moans, chains rattling,
strange rumbles, and even an occasional frantic scream.He smiled. This was the first mistake. These sounds were
also heard on fair grounds in the silly plywood shacks that
were presented as haunted houses. With a disdainful grin
he cast open the door, but his grin slowly ebbed away as
he looked into the space before him. Under a lowbrickwork vault lay a sinister, barely illuminated chamber
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that gave way to utter darkness a few meters ahead. On
both sides it was flanked by barred doorways, leading to
side-chambers, also steeped in blackness.
The air was cold and damp. Moisture oozed from the
filthy walls whispering wetly and dropping to the floor with
faint plops. The atmosphere was tainted by the sickly
smells of mold, rottenness and long-standing water. There
were no other visitors in sight, but moans of pain and
suffering could be heard on all sides.
Slowly they moved ahead. Behind them the door swung
back, creaking, into its lock.
They stopped in the center of the vault, shoulder to
shoulder. Long seconds passed before they had gathered
enough courage to approach the first side chamber. When
they were quite close, suddenly and horribly, a screaming
figure leapt from the deep dark against the bars. Bony
hands clawed at them.
They recoiled in fright."Lord almighty," said Martin.
"Isn't it super?" Sylvie cried.
The figure, a deformed hag, remained pressed against
the bars, still screaming and groping.
They turned to the opposite chamber, where a faint glowhad come on, revealing a scaffold with a young man, who
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whimpered softly while a hooded executioner prepared a
noose before his eyes.
With his body tensing to the point of pain Martin looked
on. Sylvie kept very close to him.
As the rope was placed around the victim's neck, the
wretch began to tremble and whine. Martin could hardly
believe he was watching dolls; life seemed to be radiating
from them. The executioner stepped back, started to wind
a pulley and the man was drawn up. Never had Martin
seen such a ghastly sight. Kicking and retching the man
was lifted from the ground. His eyes bulged from their
sockets, his tongue ballooned between his teeth and, in
violent spasms, he hung dying for a very long time.
Martin had wanted to move on but Sylvie had held him
back. She stood watching like one entranced.
When the body finally went limp, Martin felt a great
sense of relief, no matter how he kept reminding himself
that he was only watching the death of a doll. The light in the side chamber went out.
"Now everything returns automatically to its original
position and starts all over again," said Sylvie.
"How do you know that?"
"Er... I read it," she said quickly, after a slighthesitation.
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They went on to another door and entered a second
vault. The hanging had left Martin with a cold hard lump
in his stomach.
In the next side-chamber a number of plague victims
were wallowing about in a filthy medieval hovel. In straw
that crawled with vermin the wasted frame of a man was
squirming in agony, with swellings big and blue as plums
all over his body, some cracked open and leaking bloody
pus. Even the stench of the wounds was there, sharp and
rancid.
In an opposite chamber a young girl was being whipped.
Another triumph of realism. The hiss of the whip, the
sharp whack as the cords cut into the mangled flesh and
tore strips of skin away, the shivered yelps of pain,
everything was so lifelike that it made Martin weak in the
knees.
He did not understand how Sylvie managed to keep so
cool. Normally she was ready to faint at the meresuggestion of blood. Yet now she stood looking at the
worst kinds of torture with apparent relish.
They came to a beheading. Martin watched Sylvie from
the corners of his eyes. In the reflection of the pale light
that fell upon the tableau before her she looked almostmalignant. Her lips bore a strange smile that he did not
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recognize. What had gotten into her? Could it be that the
ungodly sights brought out some evil inside her? Dregs of
cruelty stirred up by the horrors?
He draw slightly away from her. She cast him a fleeting
glance, without altering her horrid little smile, as if she
had not seen him. Cold spots of light shone in her eyes.
She went ahead to the next vault. Martin followed in
growing wonder. He felt sick enough to get out but he
would rather die than suggest it. Her triumph would be
impossible to live down.
Reluctantly he followed her along the chambers,
ignoring the scenes as much as possible and feigning
interest in the cellar walls that were furred with molds,
mosses, crystalline deposits and sometimes draped with
cobweb.
One of the last exhibits was The Wheel.
"This is really something special, Martin," said Sylvie
with a husky voice.He looked at her in amazement but could not make out
her expression in the dark. What in heaven's name
possessed her? He turned to the chamber. A half-naked
man was tied to a large, upright cartwheel, spread-eagled,
bound by the wrists and ankles but loosely, so that hisbody inclined forwards, with the legs in unnaturally
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crooked positions, as if they had extra joints. The wheel
revolved very slowly. For a short moment Martin did not
understand, but when an executioner emerged from the
shadows with a heavy cudgel, he understood all too well.
The cudgel was raised and came down on the man's ribs
with raw, bone-splintering force. In a wild convulsion the
victim threw back his head, cracking it against the wheel
rim, and screamed, as blood slithered form the corners of
his mouth like scarlet worms. The place where his chest
had been dented, was rapidly turning purple, while the
executioner withdrew into the shadows.
"The best is yet to come," Sylvie whispered in a lustful
tone. "Now the wheel is going to turn all the way."
Although he was beginning to feel sick Martin looked
on. The wheel did indeed pick up some speed and the
broken body began to slump aside, with the cracking of
the splintered bones only just audible above the bestial
howls of the victim. At several points sharp fragments of bone cut through the skin, dripping with blood.
Martin closed his eyes and inhaled deeply a few times.
Anger shot up inside him. This was no amusement
anymore. This was sickening. The maker of this place
ought to be put away.For a moment he was so absorbed in his thoughts that
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he forgot all about Sylvie. When he looked up she had
gone. His shock was immense. How on earth ...? Looking
around through the low shadowy spaces he felt his
loathing turn into fear. Anything could lurk in those
shadows. Behind him he heard another dull thud of the
cudgel with the resultant scream but he refused to look.
Where the hell had Sylvie gotten to? Undecidedly he paced
a few steps to and fro. Perhaps the horror had gotten the
better of her after all and forced her to run outside. Or it
might be a joke of hers. If so, he was not going to play
along. He had had it. He was leaving. He did not care a
damn whether it was childish or not. He hurried to a big
door on his right and reached Exit 5 by a similar staircase
as the one at the entrance. With a sigh of relief he stepped
into the light of day, somber though it might be.
The street lay deserted. No Sylvie. The clouds had
blended into a slab of cement-like gray. A fitful wind
brushed the pavement. Martin started to pace up anddown in front of the exits, softly cursing Sylvie for her
stupid pranks, even more so when it began to rain, with
cold hard drops that stung his face.
Time went by. Still no Sylvie. After a quarter of an hour
he went to inquire at the entrance. The doorman had notseen her but was just about to close up so he was bound
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to come across her if she were still inside.
Cold and exasperated Martin waited in the doorway,
peeking out occasionally for any sign of Sylvie. But she did
not appear, while dusk slowly set in and deepened.
After more than twenty minutes the doorman returned.
He had not seen anyone. So there was not much for
Martin to do but leave. In a state of bewilderment he took
a cab back to the hotel in a vague hope that she would be
there. Anything seemed possible now. But she was not at
the hotel. Now he was really getting worried. He
contemplated going to the police, but shrank from the idea
because Sylvie was in London incognito , as one Mrs Cortez,
on a false passport that he had arranged for her. If he
went to the police, her husband was likely to find out and
then he, Martin, would be in very serious trouble indeed,
because old Vanderveen was not a man to be trifled with.
At his wits' end he decided to take another look at the
Vault. What possible good that could do, he did not knowbut at any rate it was better than hanging about the hotel
waiting for his nerves to break down.
About half an hour later he was back in the street with
the somber brickwork building. Darkness had fallen and
Martin felt very uncomfortable. During the day thisneighborhood had possessed little charm but now it
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looked uncommonly sinister, with hardly a street light
burning and not one lighted window in sight. Everything
dark, windswept and wet.
He was still wondering what the hell he intended to do
anyway when he saw, to his gleeful surprise, that the door
of Exit 5 was ajar. Without a moment's thought he stepped
inside. There, in total darkness, he hesitated briefly, but
decided to push on. After all, such an opportunity was not
likely to occur twice.
He felt his way down the stairs. He had taken a pocket
torch along but he was not sure about its batteries and
wanted to save them as much as possible. When he
bumped into the lower door he stopped to listen. He heard
something. Holding his breath he placed his ear against
the woodwork: the same sounds as this afternoon. He
opened the door, which gave a little squeak and disclosed
the familiar gloom of the vault, only illuminated by the
faint glows coming from the side-chambers.In one of them a crucifixion was just being enacted with
lots of noise. Everything seemed to be working. Wasn't
that peculiar? But more important: where might Sylvie be?
As he moved to the center of the vault, he heard the door
swinging back behind him, perhaps into its lock. So hedashed back to stop it and had just succeeded in doing so,
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when he felt a needlelike jab in his neck. For a moment he
dared not move, paralyzed by the fear that something
ghastly stood behind him. But when he finally turned,
trembling badly, he was quite alone. He rubbed his neck.
What could that have been? An insect? His heart still
thumped with fear, his breath came in gasps. Perhaps he
had better go to the police after all. Vanderveen's anger
could not be worse than this. He took a few hesitant steps.
Then a lukewarm sensation began to spread through his
abdomen and his field of vision shrank until it was a mere
speck of light that glowed and vanished. Unconsciously he
sagged to the floor.
When he slowly came round, with misted eyes, he
seemed to be hanging by his arms. His mouth was dry as
chalk, his blood pulsed sluggishly through his temples.
Where was he? What had happened? His heavy head
slumped forwards. He raised it again and tried to
distinguish something through the veils before his eyes.Bars. Darkness beyond. A small biting light on the ceiling.
From afar the sound of groaning and whimpering,
somewhere nearby faint fumbling noises.
"Anyone there?" he mumbled.
The fumbling stopped. Someone approached him onhigh heels. A hazy woman appeared before him. Sylvie! He
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smiled. Then stopped smiling. She looked tired but her
eyes glowed with a furious and hostile intensity. Was he
dreaming this?
"Sylvie?"
She said nothing, only showed him a wicked smile that
chilled his blood.
"Sylvie? What's going on? Where am I? What are you
doing?"
Giddiness overcame him. Things went black before his
eyes again. He was about to fall but was held up by his
wrists. From the void her voice reached him.
"What I'm doing Martin, dear? I'm trying to get this
darned contraption going again. But it isn't easy. It's not
supposed to stop, you see."
On ticking heels she moved away again.
"I don't understand," Martin muttered to himself, as he
slowly regained full consciousness and the veils dropped
from his eyes. He looked around and up at his arms. Hewas bound, hanging from his wrists, on a large cartwheel.
He felt the skin tighten all over his body. Oh god.
"SYLVIE!!"
The high heels came ticking back.
She sported a devilish grin. He did not believe what hewas seeing.
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"Sylvie? What kind of madness is this? Untie me, for
chrissakes, have you gone mad?"
"No, not exactly," she said, still grinning. "On the
contrary, I've never felt so sane in my whole life. But take
comfort, darling, what you are about to feel is nothing
compared with the pain you caused me, with that so-
called love of yours."
She walked off. And no matter how he screamed and
wept and begged she did not return again.
Eventually he fell silent, exhausted, his throat raw, his
mind crowded with the haunting recollections of the
afternoon's sights: the cudgel coming down, the bones
breaking, the revolution of the wheel that caused the
shattered body to tumble about like a brittle wood in a
sack. He almost retched with fear as he listened to Sylvie's
fumbling. She took her time, swearing softly now and
then. Perhaps she could not get it going again. That might
be a thought. Then the buzzing started.
"Aha!" he heard Sylvie cry out.
She came to him hastily, stroked his forehead and
scratched his cheek with a long, red fingernail.
"Sorry I can't stay and watch the fun, sweetheart, butI've gotta run. Seora Cortez has a plane to catch. Besides
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it would take too long anyway. I've slowed the thing down.
You're bound to linger for several hours. So there'll be
plenty of time for you to reflect on your sins."
Martin made an effort to speak, but his teeth chattered
so violently that he could not utter a word.
"Adios amigo. I really must go"
Up to the very last he clung to the hope that it was only
a horribly cruel lesson, to cure him of his unfaithfulness
for good. But when the doors had slammed and the wheel
started to move and the executioner stepped from the
shadows, he knew better.
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About the author :
Jan Bee Landman was born in Middelburg, the
Netherlands, on January 13, 1948,
from a French/Scottish mother
and a Dutch father. He studied
English, became a teacher andtranslator, wrote many short
stories and retired from the big city
to the countryside in 1997 to
devote himself mainly to his three horses and to
research and write a historical novel. In 2009 he
resumed writing imaginative fiction.