“So you think you’re strong, do you?” he whispered. “Okay, baby, let’s see how strong you are.”
He began to bend my arm. I resisted, but it was like pushing against a steam-roller. He was much, much too strong: unbelievably strong, and my arm slowly twisted behind me, creaking in every muscle. Cold sweat ran down my back, and my breath whistled out of me as I fought him.
I braced myself and regained a couple of inches. Bland was beginning to breathe heavily himself. Maybe if I could have added my weight to the struggle I might have held him. But sitting up in a bed with one arm pinned and my legs hampered I hadn’t a chance against his strength and weight.
He bent me forward inch by inch, and I fought him inch by inch. Slowly my arm went up behind me, was wedged into my shoulder-blades. I wasn’t aware of any pain. I could have killed him. Then I felt the sharp prick of the needle, and he stepped back, releasing my arm. There was sweat on his face, too, and his breath was laboured. He hadn’t had it all his own way.
“There you are, baby,” he gasped. “You asked for it and you got it. If I wasn’t such a soft chicken I’d have busted your arm.”
I tried to take a swing at him, but my arm didn’t respond. I don’t know what he had pushed into me, but it worked fast. The red, freckled, hateful face began to recede. The walls of the room fell apart. Beyond the face and the walls was a long, black tunnel.
III
I opened my eyes.
Pale sunshine came through the barred windows, carrying the shadows of the bars to the opposite white wall: six sharp-etched lines to remind me I was a prisoner.
Bland was moving silently about the room, a duster in his broad thick hand, a look of concentration on his freckled face. He dusted everywhere; nothing escaped his attention.