Chapter 36
XXXVI
The world was full of flies. Fat and greasy, glittering blue-and-green. Circling in the air above her. Landing to feed on the darkening bruises and scraped flesh.
The sun still burned, high in the sky, but it was hidden behind the grey corrugated roof now – baking down, making every breath thick and stifling through the leather mask. Blood whump-whump-whumping in her ears.
And Natasha lay on her back, chained to her bloody anchor, blinking up at the flies and the cobwebs.
Nothing to eat. Nothing to drink.
How long could a human being live without water? Prisoners on hunger strike could last for weeks and weeks, but water was different.
Some special-forces bloke on the idiot box claimed it takes about three days to die from dehydration. Especially if it’s hot. First your kidneys shut down, then your liver, then your brain shrivels, and finally your heart can’t cope any more.
Bang: that’s you.
Now every breath grated its way down her outback throat, stirring the dust.
At least the smell had faded. Or she’d got used to it.
Taking a crap on the floor wasn’t exactly dignified . . .
Especially with both wrists manacled to the metal collar around her throat.
Limping around to the opposite side of her anchor – moving as far away as the chain would allow.
Scrabbling about on the hard-packed dirt to get her pants down round her ankles, so she wouldn’t get them covered in it, then another complicated humiliating fight to get the things back up again.
Then retreating from the stench, to the end of her tether. Lying on the floor trying not to cry as what she left back there . . . baked in the never-ending heat.
Attracting even more flies.
A juddering squeal made the bastards leap into the air, to buzz and drone with their shitty mates.
The rust-streaked wooden door rattled back on its metal runner, letting a harsh slab of sunlight crash into Natasha’s prison. Scalding her legs.
Could barely move them out the way.
So she just lay there and groaned instead.
Detective Sergeant Davis took one step inside and recoiled back again, one hand wafting the foetid air from his face. ‘Fuck’s sake . . .’
And he was gone again, leaving the door wide open.
As if that did her any good.
He was back – maybe five minutes later? – with a bucket of water, soap suds spilling out over the side. Heaving it over her like he was rinsing a car. Startling the flies.
It was so dry in here that the liquid didn’t soak straight into the parched earth, it sat on top of the dusty surface in sparkling droplets.
She tried to scoop some up, even if it was full of soap, but it just turned to gritty mud in her fingers.
DS Davis’s lip curled. ‘God, you’re disgusting.’
‘Water . . .’ The word barely more than a croak. ‘Please . . . Please . . .’
He stared at her. Then squatted down. ‘You want mercy? After what you’ve done?’
‘Please . . .’
‘Did those migrants get any mercy? The ones you burned?’ He snorted. ‘Oh, maybe you didn’t strike the match yourself, but you fanned the flames. Threw petrol on it. All that hate and bile. You spoon-fed it to whatever slack-jawed Neanderthal did the actual dirty work.’
Natasha reached her muddy fingers towards him. ‘Water . . .’
‘Publishing story after story, whipping up the racist wankers till they went out and torched a hotel.’ Davis stood. ‘THEY BURNED CHILDREN!’
Children? How on earth was that her—
‘BITCH!’ He lurched forwards – a booted foot slammed into her ribs hard enough to flip her onto her side. A jagged pop inside her chest, stabbing carpet tacks into the flesh with every Sahara breath.
She curled up on the gritty floor and the boot hammered into her back. Then again. And again. Sharp explosions slicing through her lungs, crackling out like bloody fireworks as a dry scream howled free.
Then nothing.
No more kicks.
Nothing but the ache and tear of her tortured back.
Davis spat a glob of white onto the earth by her head, breathing hard. ‘You’ve been getting away with it for far too long. Maybe it’s your turn to burn?’
There was a metallic clang-and-clatter as he picked up the bucket again, then the scuff of boots on the parched floor.
The door squealed and rattled shut.
The flies began to settle again.
And only then did Natasha allow herself to cry.