I blame Andrew Gallix's slow writing movement. David Hockney, too. Sparked by his concerns about our non-visual age I've taken a leaf out of his book and taken to gazing out of the window a great deal recently. But all these fantastic clouds in the sky are a huge distraction. So, we're late, we're late in putting up this post. But here, at last, is the winner of our Hay relay competition. Well done to falstaff1 - a bottle of champagne is rightfully yours:

Chapter 11 In reply, Maria kicked him in the face.

It was a beautiful kick. It spun Fatso around in the air and sent him crashing into the wall behind him. It should, in George's somewhat dazed professional opinion, have killed him instantly or at least knocked him out cold, but Fatso just bounced off the wall as though he were made of rubber, and landed snarling on his feet. Behind him, George sensed the other man reaching for something in his suit. Even the dogs, now that they had retreated to safety, were starting to growl again.

From her handbag Maria whipped out what looked like a long, pointed stake. George had had no idea that she carried something like that on her, but then the contents of her handbag had always been a mystery to him. He realised she was saying something to him now. "I'll hold them", she yelled, "you take the girl and get away". Something clicked in George's head. He knew what he had to do.

Rushing down the corridor, stopping in his own room just long enough to grab his iPhone, he ran up to the door that the crying was coming from, knocked on it urgently. "Open up", he said, "it's me, the doctor from the elevator earlier. I have to get you out of here. There isn't much time." Silence. "Please. It's your only chance." The door opened a crack. Two eyes peered out. George looked straight into them. "Don't you trust me?" he said.

Five seconds later they were running towards the elevator. Behind them the sounds of the fight were growing more violent. There was the crash of breaking glass and the walls were shaking. George wondered why no one else seemed to notice what was going on. He supposed this sort of thing happened all the time in Holiday Inns.

Dragging the girl into the elevator with him, he pressed the down button, then, with a certain smugness, opened his cell phone and dialed those three familiar digits. When the voice on the other side answered he said, "I've got her. I've got the girl. She's right here with me. I thought perhaps now we could discuss the little matter of my soul. The one you're holding on to."

"No deal," said the voice on the other line, with a finality that left no room for negotiation.

With a sinking feeling, George realised that the elevator had been going down for a long time, and the walls were starting to glow a dull red.