Weevils, when under the skin, have a tendency to cause extreme discomfort. The type of discomfort that makes you chew large chunks of flesh from your lips and has you clenching your little fists so the knuckles press up against your skin like marbles. The main concern at the moment was that his feet were going to get infected, so he had taken off his argyle sweater and wrapped it round those tattered stumps. Looking at himself now, his legs looked just like crispy duck. He was the worse for wear and hadn't been given his rations in four days. He removed his black-rimmed spectacles and wiped them with his finger, all the while feeling those nasty little beasties burrowing under his flesh. The place stunk stale and acrid, like old crusty bacon rind. There were no guards; it would have been an unnecessary expense. He hadn't wanted to pay for guards. In fact, he thought, looking down at the straw and the shit covering his cell, he could escape, if only he wanted to. The boys would be missing him by now and the offices would be in uproar without him. The weevils were laying their eggs and making his flesh ripple with visceral excitement. He kicked his legs down onto the floor and flailed his arms, weeping and moaning. Maybe he would leave tonight and return to his offices; his wife would be wondering where he had got to.
     He could get up. He could walk; he flailed an arm, to prove he could still move. The process was painful but functioning. He had his credit card (platinum, naturally); he could find somewhere to recover, somewhere where they wouldn't ask questions. Then walk back into life, solid, presentable; no one would ever know anything different.
     This possibility seemed remote. He felt melded to the stone of the wall, his bones felt settled there, curled together. Fossilised. It was so much easier, not to move, so much simpler. And the pain wasn't so bad; searing, unbearable. He couldn't imagine being without it. The tears were running in channels down his cheeks, caking his dry skin in salt. Occasionally he would be unable to prevent himself from screaming. These creatures, crawling inside him; he could feel their every movement, so much sharper than his own. They were a thousand times more alive.
      He'd planned this for years. He didn't know how long the idea had been there, nestled in the corner of his mind. He could picture it, a little dark, crouching demon, there in every smooth grey conference, nudging him through each immaculate dinner party. He'd toyed with it, made a game of it, found this place and set it up. He'd never analysed or acknowledged the idea, but allowed himself to be carried along by it. Once he began, it was so easy not to stop.
      They'd be shocked, when he was found. Back at the office, there'd be incredulous looks, sneering mockery. They'd call him a madman, a freak; but secretly, he knew, every fucking one of them would be in awe of him. They'd envy him, they'd wish they had his courage. They'd never dare to imitate him. This news, it would shatter their lives along every fault line. Now he'd be the shadow at the edge of their minds, the truth they'd skirt around but which would keep on, and on, returning. In this dank and narrow cell, shivering in his own shit and piss, with parasites under his skin, he was becoming a legend, a myth, a bogeyman. He wouldn't be forgotten.
      There was no artifical light, here. Somewhere beyond the open trapdoor, the sun was sinking, darkness rising, and it was like drowning in shadow. His vision seemed blurred, his breath echoed hollow against the walls; the noise seemed loud, much too loud, and it irritated him. He wondered how much longer this would take. Eventually, surely, he'd pass out from pain, or fatigue, or hunger. It felt as if he'd been in this place his whole life. But he could remember childhood, vivid and recent, rivers, trees, plum crumble, that kind of thing; he couldn't remember his wife's face, only the bottle-bright brown of her hair. Her name was Anne. The boys, Christian and Mark. He squeezed the bones in his wrist, pushed at them, wanted to hear them crackle. They didn't, but still, the sensation was pleasing.
      He tried to picture her, to remember her voice, her scent. The only smell he could imagine was his own stench, fetid; he breathed it in deep and it felt like freedom. It felt like victory.
      He could get up, he could walk away. But he knew that above the trapdoor, there was nothing; that this dark, crawling, smothering place was the whole of the universe, all the reality there'd ever been, he'd found it, and he didn't want to escape.