No. 1354: The winners

Charles Seaton reports: Competitors were invited to fill a gap in a passage from a thriller.

In entries beginning 'I turned the handle . . .' and ending '. . . The head came away in my hands' door handles and human heads were plainly going to be much in evidence. But this did not prevent you from introducing an ingenious collection of other props. Handles, for instance, were variously attached to wind-up gra- mophones, loo cisterns, barrel organs, safes, a 'what the butler saw' machine, tramcar controls and even a domestic mangle, while, apart from human speci- mens (with one of them mounted and hung among shooting trophies), the heads in- cluded those of a salmon, a weather cock, the HMV dog, several swordsticks and a collection of tailors' dummies and wax- work figures.

In a very large entry I was surprised to find several regular competitors who put themselves out of the running for prizes by absentmindedly overstepping the word limit. The winners printed below get £8 each and the copy of Robert Stewart's Dictionary of Political Quotations, pre- sented by the publishers, Europa Publica- tions, is awarded to D. A. Prince, whom I suspect of watching Spitting Image.

I turned the handle.

'Prime Minister?'

No answer. Was I too late? Feverishly I switched on the light.

The figure, straight-backed as ever, sat under the single bulb, eyes staring, the mouth twisted into that familiar rictus. The hair's metallic sheen looked as fearsome as in life. Damn clever these Japanese. It was the last place any Englishman would think of looking for the Coke-Hamburger secrets.

What had Carruthers said before the poison- tipped Ruritanian umbrella had nicked his shin? 'It's all in the mind.'

I did what no other man had dared: grasped the Prime Minister's plastic ears and twisted the head far to the right until there was a click, and the head came away in my hands.

(D. A. Prince) I turned the handle vigorously a couple of times. Not a sound. Cursing the streak of purism which had prevented me from fitting a self-starter to the 1927 Esterhazy, I stood up and unstrapped the bonnet. The beautiful eight-in-line engine gave me the same sensuous thrill as always. It was as perfect a work of art as the thirteenth- century madonna I had just stowed in the boot; as perfect, even, as the long-legged beauty who was waiting for me below in Bosendorfer.

It suddenly dawned on me that the handle had turned all too easily. I reached out along the cylinder head to check that nobody had been tampering with the plugs. The head came away in my hand. (Noel Petty)

I turned the handle and entered the library, Sir Henry's dying words echoed in my ears, 'Re- member Monday. . . wisdom . . I'd puzzled myself silly. Why on earth Monday? . . . wis- dom . . . Wisden? . . . what? I was sure this was the right room; the whole place reflected the character of the archaeologist whose murder had involved me in this bizarre search . . . books, statues . . . Statues! A scene flashed from my subconscious, an irritable schoolmaster and a trembling boy.

'So you think the Greeks stupid to represent Athene as springing from the head of Zeus? Idiot, doesn't wisdom come from the mind of God?' Oh, Father Mundy, how I hated you! Mundy! There, facing me, was a statue of Zeus. The head came away in my hands.

(0. Smith) . . . I turned the handle of the potting shed door. It was the only place my long-nosed pliers could possibly be. The door creaked open, like a cicada with hiccups. Before I could make a mental note to oil the hinges. I saw Lady Chatterley and the gamekeeper sprawled on the floor, doing what they could in the interests of modesty. My pliers were there, jutting out from beneath a pile of female clothing. Lady Chatter- ley sprang to her feet, and was about to mouth an explanation when, in a flash, I turned to the workbench and grabbed the axe that lay there. Imagine my dismay when, as I swung it into position above me for the decisive blow, the head came away in my hands . . .

(Rob Hull) I turned the handle. Slowly a section of wall rolled back to reveal a dingy basement: the infamous 'orgarium', I realised. Instruments of punishment lay around. Two cine-cameras stood, like living watchers, in corners. Whips, fetters and a hypodermic syringe were untidily arrayed on a bench at one side, and lolling suggestively in an armchair in the centre was a naked figure. I called out, but got no reply. Finding a small console I slid the rheostats. Bank after bank of spots and floodlights came into play, sharply illumining the figure, which I made out now to be a grotesquely inviting inflatable sex doll. But a closer look showed blood on the torso, and when I tried to lift it, terrifyingly and disgustingly, the head came away in my hands. (Gerard Benson) I turned the handle and we crept into the shed without alerting the farm dogs. So far, so good. If the rain held off, we would be across the river into Switzerland at first light.

Karen began peeling off her drenched clothes and suddenly cried out 'Mark! Help! What is it?'

On her right leg, just above the knee, was something resembling a small purple grape.

'Sheep tick', I said as she began to tremble uncontrollably. 'We must get it all out, or you'll go septic.'

I lit a cigarette. Before she had time to anticipate pain I held the lighted end to the distended, blood-filled bac and the head came