And so it was that Lipscombe found himself lashed to slimy tombstone, and again sighed, wondering what possible chance there could be of ever escaping this.
In all his wild intuitions, he had never thought of this, that the Tower of London could be up and running; that while groups of gangley limbed back pack clutching tourists were being led around, that in other, unexplored parts of the building all this was going on.
He heard dreadful screams echoing round the corner. ‘Am I to be tortured?’ He thought.
He was becoming increasingly nervous, and was beginning to wish he had never have got involved in the affair. If he had perhaps chosen subtler means, though the effect might have been slower, perhaps gentler, at least it would have had some effect, rather than his life being brought to an abrupt, and gruesome end, in this God-forsaken dungeon.
He felt significantly ill-at-ease, and loosened his collar.
How could he be so stupid, he reflected to himself, to imagine that Corbyn was anything other than a paid up member of the Conservative party, employed to act as a foil to them, in order ultimately to ensure their longevity and presence.
He felt like vomiting with rage, but only a little bit came out, dribbling a little down his face and sorely paining the back of his throat.
He cursed his luck and gazed into the soft focus mandalas of the archetraving, upon which he could not properly focus, being unable to discern its distance, ascending endlessly above him.
The remains of his dreadful fate shall be left to the reader’s imagination. But suffice it to say, that Lipscombe himself subsequently found himself unable to bring himself to fully relive those – literally – rock bottom moments, so much so that words, for the first, and one and only, time, failed him.