.)Watertight
“Nice try, Houdini, but stop right there.”
Stu cursed inwardly, his moment of triumph all too brief. Determined struggling had loosened the bindings around his wrists enough to tug a hand free. He’d managed to reach the tiny Swiss Army knife he kept in the hidden ticket pocket of his jeans and, from there, it was a simple matter of cutting the ropes holding his feet to the chair. He was almost free when his near-escape was discovered and the alarm raised.
Now, half a dozen burly men stood around him in the dripping brick vault, sinister in their waders and dark waterproofs, hoods pulled forward to shade their faces. One held him at gunpoint.
“Put your hands up.”
Stu complied. The knife was twisted out of his hand and the gunman kept him covered while the others conversed in a huddle.
For months, he had researched the area’s baffling string of house burglaries – baffling because there was never any sign of forced entry – before realising the thieves came and went via the subterranean network of drainage tunnels. A stroke of luck had led him to the gang’s well-concealed hideout, deep in the city’s sewers, where he’d been captured, bound hand and foot and stowed in this dank cellar while they discussed moving their base of operations. He’d been lucky enough to wriggle free – almost free – but now his luck had run out.
The gang members frowned as they examined his pocket-knife and the cut pieces of rope. Although their leader’s mention of Houdini was in jest, the men seemed genuinely concerned that he might have other tricks – literally – up his sleeve. After a few minutes’ muttered debate, they hit on a novel solution.
“Strip,” Stu was ordered, “down to underwear”.
“B-but I’ll freeze!” he protested.
“You’ll be warm enough,” said the leader, with a grin Stu didn’t entirely like, “and dry.”
Soon, he was shivering in pants and socks, his clothes and shoes gathered up and spirited away. In their place, a large black bundle was dumped on the stone floor and, looking closer, Stu could see it was of the same glistening oilskin worn by the gang members. For a moment, he was confused. Were they recruiting him into their gang?
The leader unfolded a one-piece garment and handed it to him.
“It’s like a diving drysuit. Put it on.”
Stu did so, settling his feet in attached wellington boots, dragging the glossy fabric up his legs and body and forcing his arms down the sleeves. His head popped through the neck opening into a sort of cylindrical hood, which he pushed back. The suit closed with a heavy zip at the back of his shoulders and he needed help to pull it shut.
It was loose but not baggy; it felt a little cumbersome but was certainly better than being naked.
“Gloves,” said the leader, handing him a pair of what looked like mittens made of the same waterproof fabric, “put them on and do up the straps”.
None of the men wore gloves. Stu frowned a little as he pulled them on. The long gauntlets extended past his elbows. His fingers felt clumsier inside the mitts and it took all his concentration to fasten the straps as instructed.
Finally, he looked up from his task and his heart sank. One of the gang members held a roll of what looked like black duct tape and the other was uncoiling several lengths of rope.
“Look,” he began in what he hoped was a reasonable tone, “You’ve got the ID badge from my wallet: you know who I am but I can’t identify any of you. I promise I’ll drop this investigation. You don’t need to tie me up again.”
“Oh, but we do,” replied the leader, “and this time, we need to tie you up so you stay tied.”
Still covered by the gun, resistance was not an option. The men advanced upon him, the one with the roll of tape moving in front and, one arm at a time, applying rounds of the wide black adhesive so Stu’s mittens were effectively taped to the sleeves of his suit. More tape was wrapped around his wrists, over the fastenings of the gloves and, finally, his fingers were folded over his thumbs and taped into fists.
Stu was so engrossed in the taping process that he was only dimly aware of the second man wrapping rope around him from behind. The man charged with tying clearly knew what he was doing: after making a small loop in the middle of the rope, he placed it at the nape of Stu’s neck, passing both ends forward over the shoulders, and back under his captive’s arms, tying them firmly between the shoulder blades. The remainder of the rope went around Stu’s chest and over his shoulders, finally fastening at the front.
The result was a sort of snug rope harness around his upper torso, secured across his shoulders and the top of his chest. It didn’t seem to restrict his movement much but Stu wondered whether he could undo the harness with his hands folded into blunt, featureless stumps. He flexed his fingers experimentally inside their mitts.
One man steadied him while a second began winding rope around his thighs and legs. A third took time to fashion a tight rope cuff around each of Stu’s wrists, positioning the knots away from his fingers (even though those fingers were gloved and taped) and leaving several metres dangling.
Working as a team, the men crossed Stu’s arms behind him and pulled the ropes forward and slightly upward, securing them to the front of his chest harness. Each rope was then passed around a bicep and yanked tight, pulling Stu’s upper arms forward. Finally, the rope ends were tied off in the middle of his sternum.
“How can I ever reach those knots?” wondered Stu, but the men weren’t finished. More rope snaked around his wrists – already held crossed behind him – lashing and cinching them firmly together. The ends of that rope were fed through the loop at the nape of his neck and anchored there, pulling his tied arms upwards. Apparently keen to leave no final knots within reach, his captors threaded the ends forwards through his armpits and secured them to the front of his chest-harness.
Stu’s torso was starting to feel very constricted but the centre of yet another rope was tightening around his already-bound hands, the ends pushed (with difficulty) between his oilskin-clad thighs and jerked sharply, giving his wrists a new downward tension. The roper maintained that tension while looping and tying the rest of the rope around Stu’s waist in a sort of belt-cum-crotch-harness.
The captive’s legs were also almost fully secured, bands of rope around thighs, above and below knees and ankles, each binding cinched tight and all anchored upwards to the torso-bindings. Stu noted with dismay that both men took care to position their knots at the front of his body, well beyond his reach.
When the gang members finally stood back, Stu felt almost dizzy. If he hadn’t been held upright, he might have fallen. Everything felt impossibly tight and his hands, especially, felt melded to the small of his back: solid lashing and counter-lashing fixed them in place, stopping any movement apart, upwards, downwards or from side to side.
“Okay, I give in,” he acknowledged, “There’s no way I can escape from this.”
“A good job,” agreed the leader, “but only half a job. We can do better.”
He held up a long piece of oilskin, the same as the suits they wore. Strings dangled from either side. Some sort of… apron?
It was pulled over his head and Stu realised the garment was almost as long as he was tall, falling to his ankles. He didn’t understand until the men drew the expanse of oilskin behind him and started fastening the apron up back-to-front.
Clearly designed for protection, the garment was wide enough to wrap around his bound legs. Like spiders cocooning a fly, the men worked together, passing cords around his waist, lacing and knotting until he felt like a column wrapped in tarpaulin. A layer of glossy oilskin hid all the rope and pressed his tape-mitted hands even more tightly to his back. Wiggling his fingers was difficult and Stu wondered if the fabric would even allow him to bend at the knees or waist.
More hanks of rope were uncoiled and knotted in neat bands over his oilskin-swathed legs and around his waist. Stu was starting to feel less like a roll of tarpaulin and more like a dementedly well-wrapped Christmas present.
The leader unfolded the final bundle of oilskin.
“Like I promised, warm and dry.”
A few moments of oilskin-pungent darkness, some tugging and Stu’s face emerged, hot and breathless, from folds of waterproof fabric. He was in a sort of armless raincape that extended almost to his booted toes. It had a hood, which Stu shook off his face. He was starting to prickle with sweat under the impermeable layers.
He couldn’t believe it when the binding process began again. From their seemingly inexhaustible supply, his captors unspooled more rope and went to work on a third round of bindings. This time, they seemed to focus particularly on his waist, winding, bracing and knotting loop upon loop into a veritable corset of rope around his mid-section. The corset stopped just below the level of his bound hands and this, Stu realised, trapped his already thoroughly-imprisoned arms behind another layer of oilskin.
From the tight, wide band around his waist, additional ropes were criss-crossed upwards over chest and across shoulders and downwards to connect to those lashed around his thighs, knees and ankles.
He was being mummified in a network of rope and oilskin!
A sturdy, metal-framed chair was produced – the one he’d been tied to previously – and Stu was manhandled into it, his body bending only with difficulty at waist and knees, layers of oilskin resisting and every rope and wrapping seeming to pull even tighter around him.
“This really isn’t necessary,” he complained as two men hauled him as far back in the chair as his bound arms would allow.
“Nothing but the best for our Houdini,” smirked the leader, gesturing to the rest of the gang, “get him nice and comfortable”.
The gang set about securing their oilskinned captive where he sat. Stu found his rope-corseted waist anchored firmly to the slatted chair-back, horizontal bands of rope weaving through the slats and around his caped upper body. Diagonal roping pulled his shoulders back, seat-belt style, pressing his bound arms against the chair. Ropes ran below, fixing his thighs down and his knees to the front of the seat. One roper concentrated on his booted feet, reinforcing the already copious ankle-bindings and knotting more rope around his insoles.
When he thought he was tied as tightly as anyone could be tied, the rope attached to his boots was passed beneath him from front to back and one gang member hauled hard until Stu’s oilskin-wrapped knees were bent under the seat, his toes barely touching the ground. With a final yank, the rope was secured at the back of the chair.
The men stood back to inspect their handiwork.
Stu felt dizzy with the speed and efficiency with which he had been rendered helpless. He tried to squirm and wrestle in his bonds but everything felt expertly-placed and solid. Below his neck, every joint was fixed and limited, held firm by rope that felt like iron, every movement frustrated. He felt hemmed in by walls of oilskin.
“You look well-packaged,” said the leader, thoughtfully, “do you think this’ll keep you out of trouble?
Stu wrenched as hard as he could. All his bindings held. Only his feet moved, boot-toes scuffing beneath the chair.
“I can’t move a muscle,” he hissed in exasperation, “are you satisfied?”
“Almost,” smiled the leader. He opened a bottle of water and took a swig before offering it to the seated prisoner. Stu was about to refuse but, suddenly realising he was thirsty, accepted a long cool draught, the bottle held to his mouth. When it was finally removed, a few stray droplets fell on his oilskinned torso.
He was jolted back to attention by the sound of ripping tape.
“Oh, come on, you don’t need to ga…” he began, only to be interrupted by a large wad of what felt like sponge, thrust into his mouth from behind.
Stu tried to spit it out but strong fingers packed the stuffing further in and clamped his jaw shut. The sponge expanded, filling his cheeks.
“We even found you a first aid kit,” said the leader, his words seeming distant over the wide elastic bandage stretched over Stu’s mouth and, before he could resist, wound swiftly and efficiently around and around. In less than a minute, a dozen wraps circled his head, pulled tight with every turn. The bandage smelled faintly antiseptic and pushed the sponge packing further back, Stu struggling to accommodate it.
The briefest of pauses while the gang members swapped position, a second man stepping in to secure the bandage with multiple rounds of duct tape until the white fabric could no longer be seen, everything below Stu’s nose coated in tough black plastic. The taper then changed direction, running six or seven rounds under the captive’s chin and up over the top of his scalp.
“Mmmpphh!”, Stu tried to remonstrate but the combination of tape, bandage and mouth-stuffing rendered his protests entirely unintelligible.
His head was released and Stu tested the gag. His jaw felt as if it had been cemented closed. He pushed hard with his tongue but the sponge was there to stay. Stu shook his head from side to side and tried to rub his taped mouth against his shoulder, hoping he might somehow catch an end and work it loose. The gang member with the tape ignored him, focusing on cutting smaller strips.
The taper advanced again and two pairs of hands held Stu’s head in position while single strips were applied with precision, reinforcing his tape muzzle in every direction. When he was finished and all the layers pressed down, Stu’s eyes and nose were the only parts of his face not black and shiny. He focused on his breathing, drawing steady lungfuls of air in and out of his nostrils.
“There now,” said the leader, “peace and quiet.”
Stu could only glare in response.
Four men were around him and he was lifted into the air, chair and all, and carried a short distance across the cellar. He was set down and backed against one of the square brick pillars that supported the low, vaulted ceiling.
Under the leader’s direction, rope was fed through the metal sides and back of the chair; it was systematically lashed to the pillar until the men were satisfied it was immoveable. For good measure, a few loops were passed around Stu’s torso and knotted behind the column.
Now, no matter how hard he thrashed, he couldn’t tip the chair.
The leader was suddenly back in front of him, chuckling at Stu’s displeasure.
“If looks could kill, eh? I’m afraid it’s time to deprive you of that, too.”
He brandished a final strip of tape and all Stu’s head-shaking and muffled protest was in vain: within seconds, his eyes were sealed shut, vision blotted out entirely.
He huffed unhappily through his nose.
Suddenly, Stu’s ears seemed full of the squeak and crackle of oilskin as one then two capacious hoods – attached to suit and cape – were pulled up and forward, over his gagged and blindfolded head. The heavy fabric closed around his scalp and face, two sets of drawstrings jerked as tight as they would go and knotted securely.
Somehow, this simple act compounded his sense of imprisonment: in darkness, Stu felt encapulated, cut off from his surroundings. He twisted his head from side-to-side but the oilskin hoods enclosed him almost entirely, only a small gap left around his nose. Tied firmly in place, no amount of shaking would dislodge them.
“Can’t stay dry down here without a hood,” remarked the leader, “You look like one of us now.”
“MMMPPHH!!” raged his captive.
“And it stops you messing with that tape.”
Struggling to control his temper, Stu grunted in surprise as his oilskin-covered face was grasped again and held firm against the pillar. More ripping of adhesive tape and a constriction around his brow: his hooded head was being taped to the brickwork behind him.
He sensed the men step back and Stu tried, instinctively, to flex his neck, to free his head. Any movement he could make was minimal.
Straining to hear through the double-hooding, he was suddenly aware of the gang leader at his side, speaking directly into his ear.
“Well, Houdini, you’ve given us a run for our money but I reckon our protective gear might just have you fixed: waterproof and escape-proof.”
He chuckled.
“100% watertight. Emphasis on tight.”
He hooked a finger under one of the many ropes binding his captive.
“Now, here’s what happens next. Me and my boys are packing up, moving on. That gives you a good couple of hours before I come back and check on you. If you’ve got yourself loose, good luck to you, go forth with my blessing. If you haven’t? Well, I guess you’re stuck here until someone unwraps you – and that someone isn’t going to be me.”
Under tape and oilskin, Stu scowled, able to do nothing but grind his teeth – and even that was difficult around the sponge packing his mouth and cheeks.
His captor was fumbling at the drawstrings of his hood – the outer hood – and for a moment Stu thought he was relaxing at least a small element of his captivity… but no, he felt more knots, something added.
“Just to give you a fighting chance, that’s your little knife dangling right there, under your chin.”
He tugged on it gently.
“Freedom, just inches away. All you need to do is reach up and take it.”
Stu wasn’t going to rise to the bait.
Footsteps faded and the captive sensed he was alone. Part of him wanted to throw himself into a frenzied bout of struggle, to scream into his gag that this was unfair! Here he was, trussed up more comprehensively than any escape artist, living or dead, wrapped and roped, gagged, blindfolded, hooded and ducted-taped to within an inch of his life.
He’d always considered himself a logical person, however, and tried to focus himself: it was nonsensical to expect “fairness” from criminals; he was in the tightest of predicaments and he had to think himself out of it, to think logically.
Barely an hour ago, he’d been tied to a chair and he’d managed to escape. How had he escaped? By cutting himself loose. His miniature Swiss Army knife was here, tantalisingly close but tethered to the front of his neck, like a pendant. Even if he could somehow reach it, how could he use it? His hands? His fingers were taped into fists, squeezed against his back and trapped behind three layers of robust waterproof fabric.
Could he somehow flip the knife up and into his mouth? His teeth were effectively glued shut behind bandage and tape. Two thicknesses of oilskin stopped him getting at the tape to even try to dislodge it and his head was held fast to the pillar, no serious movement possible.
No, the knife was just there to tease him: technically within arm’s length but with his arms stuck behind him, it might as well be on the surface of Jupiter.
How else had he escaped from the chair? By loosening the rope around one hand. How had he achieved that? A combination of straining to untie knots and working slack into the wrist-binding.
Could he undo knots again? His fingers felt as if they’d been vacuum-packed and he supposed they were: they’d been sealed inside mittens, taped into fists, flattened behind a taut waterproof apron and heavy cape, sandwiched between his lower back and the slats of the chair. Could he tear or poke through those layers of tape and oilskin with his fingernails? He put all his strength into his fingers but could barely bend them to make purchase on the thick fabric, much less puncture it. That seemed a no-go.
How else had he worked his wrists loose? He remembered rotating them in their bindings – simple rope loops – then shifting his body around in the chair to gain sufficient leverage to prise one hand free.
Could he do that again? This time, a lot more time and planning – and rope – had gone into securing his wrists. They’d been tied separately and together, upward to his chest harness and downward to his crotch harness, around his waist and through his legs, imprisoned both inside and behind oilskin.
He tried to twist one hand and ran into two problems. Firstly, his wrists were too tightly bound to allow any movement, they felt like one solid mass of rope, cinched in every direction. Secondly, he could gain no leverage at all: at every point of possible traction, his arms and torso were secured by a well-placed coil of rope, a sheet of oilskin or his own body weight. Rope around each bicep pulled his upper arms forward and pinioned them to his sides, rope around his waist, chest and over his shoulders fixed him backward and downward in his chair, unable even to shrug, let alone lean forward or rotate an arm. The oilskin of the cape walled him in yet further: he couldn’t tug at a wrist because he was effectively parcelled up in a tight bag with no freedom to move his elbows or his shoulders. Every joint had been neutralised.
Stu seethed. They hadn’t given him a chance!
Okay, he tried to reason. The same tricks might not work a second time but others might. He tried to recall what little he’d read about the techniques of actual escape artists. What would the real Houdini do? Hide a blade somewhere? Use his toes? Stu was fairly sure Houdini had never been bound up an apparently rip-proof one-piece suit complete with gloves and boots. Chew his way out? Not with teeth cemented shut over sponge, bandaged, muzzled and hooded.
Stu gave vent to another bout of struggling. He wrenched, tore, kicked and strained against the ropes that kept him prisoner, howling his frustration – or, at least, he tried. In reality, his oilskinned form shuffled barely an inch from side to side, the tips of his boots just scuffing the floor; sponge, bandage, tape and oilskin absorbing all but the faintest gurgling. The dangling knife knocked against his chest-ropes as if taunting him.
“Stay calm,” he told himself, “there’s got to be a way out. Try thinking about it from another angle”. Which elements had changed since his earlier escape? The roping was more intense but essentially the same. The gag and hood were new, for sure, but more irritating than seriously hampering: previously, he hadn’t used his teeth to get free. The most significant changes, he decided, were the gloves and the extra layers of oilskin.
The gloves he’d already considered and could do nothing about for now: they were strapped shut, taped to his suit and formed into blind-ended stumps, surrounded by a mass of rope. No-go there.
What about the cape and, beneath it, the apron? Without those layers wrapped around him, he’d have the leverage necessary to work on the ropes. To wriggle out of the apron, he needed to be free of the cape. If he couldn’t tear through it, could he somehow manoeuvre the fabric upwards, under the mass of roping?
His attempt failed almost before it had begun. Even if sliding it free of the web of ropes were theoretically possible, he realised the cape was anchored by the full weight of his body. So long as he was sitting on it, it wouldn’t budge.
He sucked on the sponge, attempting to gather his thoughts.
His predicament felt like a logic puzzle, a circular one with no solution. To stand up from the chair, he needed to free himself of the ropes; to free himself of the ropes, he needed to work a hand loose; to work a hand loose, he needed leverage in his arms; to gain leverage in his arms, he needed to rid himself of the cape; to rid himself of the cape, he needed to stand up from the chair.
Checkmate. He’d be banging his head against a brick wall if it weren’t already taped to one.
Simmering with a mix of frustration and despair, Stu alternated bouts of fruitless struggle with periods where he seemed almost to doze off. Several times, he jolted awake and had to fight momentary panic at finding himself in stifling darkness, unable to move or call out. He lost track of time.
When the leader returned – this time alone – a cursory check showed that, while some of the ropes had settled and the odd lashing could be undone and made tighter (which he duly did), the gang’s neatly-packaged prisoner was essentially as they had left him, resentment palpable but bonds unslipped and unbroken, knots still knotted.
“Well,” he said at last, “I guess Houdini decided to stick around. Can’t say I’m blown away by your escape skills.”
If his hands weren’t already taped into fists, the sullen captive would’ve clenched them.
“How are you doing in there?”
The hooded, immobilised head emitted a sound that was half-sigh half-growl.
“You’ll be warm but maybe not so dry. Me and the boys work up quite a sweat in our gear. Of course, we’re moving around and you’re not doing much of that.”
Roped, booted toes drummed against the stone floor.
“You’re not doing much of anything, really. Dreaming of freedom, maybe. Or revenge. I’ll bet you really want out.”
Stu attempted a pleading noise and his captor smiled.
“No, you had your chance and we’ve beaten you fair and square. You’re staying right where you are, Houdini, wrapped up nice and secure in your ropes and waterproofs. Good to know that gag’s holding up, though.”
The hapless captive mmmpphhed his indignation.
“Look on the bright side. Our hospitality may not be the most comfortable but you’re warm, watered and, most importantly, safely tucked away while we ship off and out. Nothing’s damaged or seriously hurt – except maybe your dignity. Speaking of which…”
Through double-oilskin, Stu detected the unmistakeable click of an iPhone camera, at least a dozen shots from various angles.
“So, here’s the plan. Once we’re well away from here – and that might take us a day, maybe two – the emergency services will get an anonymous tip-off of your location. And, if I’m feeling devilish, the media.”
Stu swallowed uneasily around the sponge.
“You might not make the front page but, on a slow news day, people appreciate a bit of schadenfreude: ‘BUNGLING INVESTIGATOR’, ‘FAILED HOUDINI’, that sort of thing. And you’d look great in the photos.”
He patted the waterproofed head.
“On the plus side, you get to keep the oilskins.”
In the sweating darkness beneath bandage, tape and two impermeable hoods, Stu’s cheeks burned with outrage and imagined humiliation. With a gurgled cry, he threw himself into a renewed bout of tugging, jerking and squirming in his prison of rope and oilskin. As before, his efforts were soaked up by his bonds, the most titanic of struggles reduced to mere fidgeting and grunting: the twitch of muscle made impotent, the squeak of waterproof fabric, the creak of unyielding rope against metal.
The gang leader watched quietly until the tantrum had passed and the trussed, helpless package was silent again, then slipped away, leaving Stu to his thoughts.
The End
