He turned onto his side. The ropes were tight, but it was only his right leg and right hand that were immobilised, and that gave him space to move. He slipped his left hand into his jeans, and took out the knife he’d hidden there during the meal. It only measured five inches, with a black plastic handle, but it had a good sharp steel blade on it. It would do, Porter reckoned. Hassad must have decided that one arm and one leg was enough. A man couldn’t untie a knot with one hand: certainly not when the hand in question was short of a couple of fingers. But he could cut one.

Porter glanced towards the door. It was shut tight, and he reckoned they were leaving him alone for the rest of the night. It would be five, he judged, before the place came back to life. That gave him a couple of hours to play with. What was it Clayton had said to him? Play the bloody hero if you have to.

Gripping the knife in his left hand, he moved his body around until he was level with a piece of clean rock. Turning the blade flat, he started to slowly sharpen the blade by grinding it into the stone. The ropes binding him were thick, made from a plastic cord: the blade right now was nowhere near strong enough to cut through it, but with enough work he might be able to get it into shape for the job.

It was slow, painful work. A couple of times the blade sprung from his grasp, spinning across the rock, and once he was afraid it might be out of reach. The rock was certainly no grinding stone – just ragged, blunt ore – but if you drove it hard, the blade gradually sharpened. The work was dull and repetitive, but Porter was grateful for it. It took his mind off what was likely to happened next.

Within half an hour, the blade was sharpened. It wasn’t a razor, but the steel was thin, and pointed, and it would do the job. Twisting himself around, he positioned the blade in his left hand. Porter had never been naturally dexterous with that hand, and after he lost his fingers he’d found it wasn’t good for much more than holding the second bottle of vodka if he was ever lucky enough to get his hands on two at the same time. Still, he got a good enough grip between his thumb and his palm and, leaning forward, slashed it into the rope binding his right foot. The knot was strong, and so was the artificial fibre the rope was made from, but the knife was now sharp enough to saw its way through. In just a few seconds, it had been severed. With a kick of the knee, Porter shook his leg free of the stake. Still squatting on the ground, Porter kept the blade wedged tight into the palm of his left hand. A rope was still tied tight around his chest, strapping his right hand to him, but he quickly cut it open. Free, he told himself with satisfaction.