Later, oh, much, much later, when she was able to tell pretty WPC Isa Urquhart what had happened,
Tammy really didn't feel that she was making much sense: she remembered coming out of the room, wondering where the Police Guard had gone, probably with Bernie to radiology, and in the lift with the kind Doctor, for that was how she thought of him, she had noticed only that his feet were very big – well, his boots anyway – and his fingernails were bitten and grubby – quite the obverse of what she would have expected for a Consultant, which she assumed he was, as he was a good bit older than most of the staff she had seen; but, she admitted, she hadn't seen which button the Doctor had pressed and it was only when they stepped out into what looked like a basement, full of stores and equipment that she had turned to the Doctor and that was when he clamped one hand over her moth and she felt a needle go into her neck, and she remembered wondering if she would end up with a necklace of stitches like Bernie's and then nothing, just blackness and the sense of floating, unsupported, and feeling very peaceful and at one with herself; for how long? Well, how long is a piece of string? She had no idea, until she began to wake, feeling extremely groggy and nauseous, as tired and worn-out as Don Quixote's poor old nag, Rosinante, presumably from the drug, and became aware that she was sitting on a floor, handcuffed to a radiator – which was cold, she noted, though what good that was she didn't know, though she felt she had to try to remember everything that happened which might be useful for the Police – if, that is, she survived, which, she realised, wasn't at all a foregone conclusion, aware, as she was, that, being in the hands of, quite probably, the person, that Doctor, who she supposed, simply because, as she now remembered it, he had something, though she could net, in all honesty, be certain, it was just a likelihood, at which, not unnaturally, a dark veil seemed to descend over her as, she realised, she had used, or permitted to be used, far too many, gosh, loads more than, even she, being a frequent user of them, had ever employed, commas, in this one, but a long one, sub-section, of a single, yes, it was still only one, sentence, by far the greatest, so far, in her writing career, that she had ever, thus, employed, and she laughed, a bitter laugh, full of remorse and regrets, yes, but also of, which she supposed, betokened her humanity, that essence of humility which, so she said, Bernie, her darling, her sweetheart, the one true love of her life with whom she felt none of the rivalrous competition she had often felt in previous relationships, had said, more than once, indeed many times, that she adored about her, Tammy Shanter, Spy's daughter, oh, correction, Spies' daughter, and she winced as the cuffs, tightened by her subconscious struggles, had bitten, rather deeply, into her slim wrists, and she broke down, wondering what her Mother, Tabby, would do if she were here, instead of Tammy; which was when she remembered Uncle Tavish, he could never be thought of as Dad, once teaching her how to escape from handcuffs, through a dexterous manipulation of her thumbs and, as she was so very petite, he said, it would be a Doddle, and he was right, it was, it went quite swimmingly and, With One Bound, She Was Free!!!