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. H............