Chapter 58
LVIII
The rusty sledgehammer clanged down against Natasha’s chain again, skimming off the metal to chudddd into the concrete.
Christ knew how long she’d been banging away with the bloody thing: twenty minutes? An hour? Seven and a half years? And all she had to show for it were a few flattened dents on a couple of links, and some flakes chipped off the solid grey lump in the bucket.
Didn’t help that she couldn’t get a decent swing on the bastard – having to hold it halfway down the shaft in an awkward hand-over-hand grip and do a rapid bow towards her anchor instead. Which made aiming the pockmarked hammer-head almost impossible.
And now her arms burned, and her legs throbbed, and every muscle in her back ached.
After the blazing light of the great outdoors, the barn was heavy with gloom. At least it was cooler than her prison, being a lot bigger, and only having a couple of filthy skylights in the corrugated-asbestos roof.
Its far end was stacked with triangular trusses and prefab stud walls for some sort of build-your-own-house kit, but going by the cobwebs, dust, and layers of mouse droppings, they’d been here for a long, long time.
The next twenty percent was given over to pallets of bricks and stuff that could probably have lived outside, and bags of cement that definitely couldn’t.
And the final thirty percent had been turned into a workshop, with a table saw and a mitre saw and a bandsaw and a bench press and all that kind of malarkey. But when she tried them, nothing happened. Same with the light switches. So, either everything was knackered, or the power was off.
A bunch of hand tools hung on the wall above a long workbench that looked like it’d been cobbled together from old pallets, but they were furry with rust, and none of them were any good at hacking through bloody chains.
The sledgehammer’s metal head spangggged off the links one last time – making not the slightest bit of difference – and Natasha dropped the useless thing, letting it clatter to the concrete floor.
‘Piece of shit!’ Every single word a mix of sandpaper and broken glass as she collapsed back against the workbench, breathing hard. Sweat stinging her eyes. Head pounding away inside this stupid fucking gimp mask.
She hauled in a big shuddering lungful of dusty air and bellowed it out again . . .
Then sagged all the way down, till her bum rested on the gritty floor.
Slumped sideways.
Keeling over till she was lying on her side at the very end of her chain – mask pressed against the concrete.
Going to die here.
Going to never see her little girl again.
Going to get dragged out and dumped in a shallow grave then buried alive.
Tears mingled with the sweat.
Be better to kill herself and have done with it. Deny the bastard the satisfaction.
Natasha rolled onto her back and blinked up at the metal joists and asbestos roof.
Couldn’t hang herself – no way to get up there, not with this sodding anchor chained around her neck.
Couldn’t poison herself – no drugs, or water to take them with.
Couldn’t drown herself – which was ironic, because if she did find a creek, or a billabong, the anchor would drag her down and keep her there. Quick and easy.
. . .
Could slit her wrists on the rusty bandsaw?
Took a while but eventually her breathing slowed, and the tears stopped. Though that might’ve been dehydration, more than anything.
‘You’re not giving up on me yet.’ Natasha closed her eyes. ‘You’re not!’