Chapter 47
XLVII
Natasha stood as far away from her anchor as the chain would allow, looking out through the crumbling window hole.
The air in her prison was like a giant fist, wrapped around her chest, squeezing every breath as merciless sunlight battered down on the world.
Those bastard flies had multiplied, droning through the sweaty, sticky air. And yeah, she used to shake them off, but what was the point? They just landed again. Feeding on the white tidemarks of salt that crusted her dirty, naked skin.
Mind you, it was hard to tell what was dirt and what was bruising. Everything ached as her battered flesh darkened – fresh blossoms of red and purple spreading out where DS Davis tried to break her ribs last night.
And speaking of the bastard . . .
Those fat buzzzzzzzzzzzzzing bluebottles weren’t the only sound; a diesel growl came from behind the barn, joined by a rattling crack, clank, scrape, and rumble.
And there, just visible through the gap between the barn’s concrete wall and the other crappy outbuilding, was a sliver of rusty yellow digger.
The excavator arm swung back for another go, gouging a huge clod of earth from the weed-choked field.
Lifting it high, then swinging it around to dump onto a growing pile.
You’d think the sonofabitch would be out in his patrol car, beating up suspects and soliciting bribes, or arresting people for telling the truth on social media, but here he was: digging a hole.
Or, more likely, a not-so-shallow grave.
And no prizes for guessing who that was for.
Natasha opened her water and took a small sip. Just enough to wet the inside of her mouth. There was still about a third of it left, but there was only so long you could nurse one tiny little bottle.
She struggled the top back on and placed it on the ground at her bare feet – not easy with both wrists cuffed to this stupid bloody collar – then hauled in a deep breath.
Took hold of the chain.
Braced herself.
And pulled.
And pulled.
And pulled . . .
But the galvanised bucket was stuck firm, wedged up against that bloody line of buried stone.
She gave it one last haul, legs trembling with the effort, jaw clenched, snarling out a strangled scream as black-and-yellow spots flickered across her prison’s bare stone walls. ‘BASTARD, WANKING . . . FUCK!’
Natasha let go of the chain and staggered, folding over with the effort, blood whump-whump-whumping in her ears.
God, how great it would be to take a sledgehammer and smash the living crap out of the thing, till the concrete shattered and the chain came free and the bin was covered in dents. Then go hunting for DS Bloody Davis.
Instead, all she could do was bare her teeth, stick her heel against the bucket’s lip and shove.
‘Fucking thing!’
Another shove, harder this time.
‘AAAAAAAAAAARGGH!’
It rocked back on its base.
Not far, maybe only an inch, before slamming down again with a heavy whump and a puff of dust. But it moved.
That was something, right?
Oh, that was more than something.
Right now, that was everything.
She peered through the window hole again.
The digger arm swung and gouged. Which meant Davis was probably going to be busy for a while.
Natasha dropped down on her bum, scooting forward till she could place one foot onto the bucket’s rim, then tipping over onto her back to get the other foot in place. Like she was lying on a doctor’s table, waiting for a smear test.
Another deep breath.
Then she shoved. And strained. And swore . . .
And the bucket bloody moved – slowly tipping backwards as her legs trembled with the effort. Then it was past its tipping point and the thing thumped over onto its side.
Yes!
She rolled over and clambered upright again. Breathing hard as she stood over the felled bucket. Then put her heel against the warm metal and pushed.
It was still bloody heavy, but it rolled.
A couple more and she’d even managed to get it over the buried rock.
By shoving at different points along her anchor, it was easy enough to make the bucket go left or right.
And yeah, it’d be way easier if she could push the thing about with her hands, but there was no chance of that while her wrists were attached to this bloody collar round her neck.
It was still a gigantic step forward, compared to ten minutes ago.
Now all she needed was for DS Davis to go walkabout for a few hours, so she could make use of her newfound freedom. Bastard had to go to work sometime, right?
Maybe she’d find a hacksaw, or a file, or a pair of bolt-cutters lying about the place? Anything that would break this bloody chain and set her free.
Assuming he wasn’t planning to finish digging that grave, then drag her straight out there and bury her alive. Screaming and scratching away inside her coffin. Hidden – deep in the cold dark ground – where no one would ever find her . . .