CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
The hazy ceiling above Bond gradually became more
distinct and finally stopped going round and round. Feeling decidedly groggy, his head throbbing, a large lump on his
crown where BloJob had brought the sand-filled stocking down on it, he looked around to try to find his bearings.
He finally recognised Goldnojaws’ office and vaguely remembered his visit to Façade. He took a little more time to
recover, then looked down at himself and saw that he was lying on the dwarf’s desk, bound tightly by two strong
leather straps that encircled his chest and hips. His arms were secured by ropes tied to each wrist, the other
end of the rope tied to the legs of the desk.His own legs weren’t tied, but that was unnecessary as his trousers
and underpants, especially made for him by Big Boy of Birmingham, had been
pulled down around his ankles, making the need of any further restraints
unnecessary. Above and to the left of him the large photographs of the crane
fly and the locust looked down at him, as if to mock him. He now realised, too
late, that they weren’t blown-up photographs at all, as he had previously
thought, but life-sized, and with this knowledge all the events prior to his
losing consciousness came flooding back into his aching head.
No sooner had Bond come to his senses than the door
opened and Goldnojaws stepped in, BloJob in close attendance. Bond
automatically steeled himself, expecting the worst. He had been in scrapes like this before,
defenceless and at the mercy of a Bond villain. If he knew anything at all it
was that it was now torture time. He conjectured as to what form the torture might
take. His trousers and underpants being round his ankles didn’t augur
well; the last time he had been similarly exposed, in the Casino Royale case,
the villain Le Chiffre had beaten his genitals with a cane carpet-beater, an
act of violence that had put him in hospital for weeks.
