"How?" she squeaked.
"Tell you, it's not going to be easy, all right? At the moment, we're already dead, so a bit of damage now isn't going to make a whole load of difference. Handcuffs are a bureaucrat's fallacy to the condemned. Especially the condemned fitted with cortical nodes."
"Oh." Gabriel's eyes widened in comprehension.
"Yeah," he said, suddenly disquieted. "Besides, you should've thought of this too; you went to the same tactics courses as me."
"Tactics courses! Christ, Greg, I was a flaming nurse before Mindstar dragooned me."
Greg's scrabbling fingertips found the top of the handkerchief sticking out of his breast pocket, and he tugged the square of white silk out into the air. It wasn't as big as he'd have liked, but it would have to do. "Listen, this is going to look bad, OK? But self-mutilation is a damn sight better than dying. If you've got a different solution, now's the time."
She shook her head silently. Very pale now.
Greg outlined what he wanted her to do and stretched out to give her the handkerchief. Her hands were shaking when she took it.
She leant forwards to press her face into a gap between the stair rails and bit into the handkerchief, chewing it into her mouth. Her cheeks bulged out.
"Bite hard," he instructed.
She ducked her head in acknowledgement.
"OK. Now let's get into position."
They faced the tower's curving wall, as though they were praying at an altar, Greg thought. He held Gabriel's eyes as she knelt on the floorboards, willing her on. She pulled the cuffs right up to the railing and rested her hands on the ten-centimetre lip of solid oak planking. Her fingers stuck out over the edge, but her knuckles remained on the wood.
Greg went the other way, sliding his arms right up to the banister and standing on his left foot. He pushed his right leg through the gap in the railings above Gabriel's left hand.
"Fist your right hand," he told her. "Then disengage all the nerves below the left elbow."
She looked up at him, her shoulders quivering, dry weeping. The sight nearly broke his determination.
Slowly her right hand clenched into a fist, leaving the left open.
"Can you feel your left hand?" he asked.
She shook her head.
"Are you sure?" He was worried about the stunshot charge they'd both been hit with; if there was any damage to the cortical node there'd be no chance of pulling this off.
She glared at him.
"Look away," Greg said.
Her head turned.
"Right away," he said, deliberately harsh. He couldn't risk her flinching.
She jerked her head forcibly aside.
He concentrated on the leg he'd stuck through the railings. He had to get it perfect first time. If he didn't, he doubted she would ever allow him a second go.
He was wearing sturdy leather shoes. Grubby and scuffed now, but with a hard, flat sole.
Lining the heel up in the funereal glimmer of light.
Greg pushed up with his hands, as though he was trying to lift the banister off the top of the railings. Bunched muscles tightened the jacket fabric across his shoulders. His left foot was pressed hard on to the floor. He could even hear a feeble groan from the oak as it adjusted to the new stress pattern. Praying the strength he'd built filling up the chalet's water tank would be sufficient.
Ready.
He stamped down.
The heel smashed down on to the top of Gabriel's knuckles, giving. Bone snapped, a liquid-dulled crack.
She convulsed, slumping forward into the railings, her puling muted by the ball of silk.
Greg tugged his leg back out of the railings, and hooked the back of his calf inside Gabriel's left elbow. Her head twisted round, there was a small tail of cloth sticking out of her mouth. Shock-wide eyes screamed up at him in pure terror. He jerked his leg back savagely.
Her arm moved with sickening slowness. Then suddenly there was no more resistance, and Greg was swinging wildly, left foot slipping, backside coming down fast. The cuffs made an excruciatingly loud racket scraping down the railing. He sat heavily, his coccyx trying to punch its way up into his throat.
But Gabriel was free. She lay facedown on the floor, right hand still through the railing, left arm curled limply at her side, its pulped hand brushing her hair. Her whole body was quaking softly. The handkerchief had begun to emerge out of her mouth like some vile glistening imago escaping from its chrysalis.
She rolled over, gulping, a half-choke. A trail of thin vomit ran down her chin. She wore the expression of the torturer's victim, an utter incomprehension of how one person could do this to another. Frightened eyes found her left hand. She drew it up to her face, mesmerised, and began to cry.
"Gabriel?"
She was curling up into a foetal ball, sucking down air in shallow gulps.
"Gabriel, did the cortical node work?"
"Yes."
"Gabriel, you have to get up."
A shiver ran down her spine. "I want to go home," she whispered through clenched teeth.
"We are going home. Now get up."
Gabriel rocked back on to her knees, cradling her left hand. Tears streaked her cheeks. "Oh, Christ, Greg."
"I know," he said. "Now look round and find something you can use as a club."
"No. No, I can't do that. Don't make me do that. Please, Greg. Please."
"You can't leave me here." Greg deliberately let a note of desperation filter into his voice. Bullying her with guilt. "There's only about thirty minutes left before the tower blows."
She clambered to her feet in slow-motion stages, never allowing her arm to leave her side. He could see the film of sweat on her forehead, and felt clammy apprehension rise. The grisly snap of cracking bone seemed to be echoing around the room.
She tottered off behind him, rummaging through the stacks of food crates. He didn't look, keeping still, eyes on the ancient worn brickwork on the other side of the stairs.
"Will this do?" she asked. She couldn't think for herself. Shock numbness had set in.
The length of wood she'd found was a metre long, four or five centimetres wide. Three rusty screws jutted out of the middle. It ought to be heavy enough, he thought.
"It'll do." With grim horror he realised that after she'd smashed his hand, he'd have to yank it free through the handcuff himself. She could never manage that.
"Gabriel, you must be hard. Swing the club real hard, no messing. Imagine it's Armstrong's hand, or something. Don't do it to me twice. Promise?"
"Right."
He put his left hand on the ledge of wood, then instructed his cortical node to disengage the nerves of his left arm. From the elbow down he could feel nothing, not even the dead-meat coldness of anaesthetic, the buoyant release of morphine. His forearm and hand had ceased to exist.
"OK," he said, finding out just how much it'd cost Gabriel to say that.
Gabriel pushed the handkerchief into his mouth. It was disgusting. Soggy, tasting of sour acidic stomach juices. Good. Focus on the revulsion. Shutting out the sight of Gabriel steadying herself on the second step. Knuckles whitening as she clenched the makeshift club. Her face mimicking the intense concentration he'd once seen on a golf pro's face as he lined up his putter for an albatross.
Greg heard the swish of air.
Shock was worse than pain in its own way. His brain seemed to expand time, letting him see the full horror of his flesh being triturated, every detail slamming into his mind. The sight flushing away the intention to pull with all his strength. It took the animal fear of impending death to twist his mind back, overriding reluctance. Greg pulled.
He felt the scream rising inside him as he watched his ruined hand squeezing through a metal circle that was two centimetres too small. It was obscenely malleable, damp cracking sounds marking its progress.