Chapter LXII
LXII
What sort of bastard didn’t keep a decent set of tools in his barn?
Of course there were no bolt-cutters, because that would be helpful. And no hacksaws. And no bloody anything that would get this bloody anchor from around her bloody neck.
The bench press might’ve done the trick, if there were any drill bits that would cut metal, and the electricity was on. Which it wasn’t.
Could say the same for the table-and-mitre saws, only they’d be a hell of a lot more dangerous. Probably deadly.
Even a crowbar would be an improvement on what Natasha had – which was absolutely fuck all – could stick it through a link in the chain and twist till it broke. Assuming the link would break. Which, knowing the way this bloody life worked, it probably wouldn’t.
Been through this whole bloody barn and all she had to show for it were blisters and scrapes and two-steps closer to taking the Stanley knife to her own wrists.
So now it was the workbench’s turn – going through each of the drawers, emptying them out, and examining every single last thing. Which wasn’t easy with both wrists manacled to her neck.
And if this didn’t work, there were only two options left: figure out a way to get into the caravan, hauling a galvanised bin full of concrete that weighed twice what she did, or try to make a run for it.
A very slow, awkward, painful run, rolling this sodding anchor along with every step.
Cos there’s no way that could end in disaster.
She pulled out the very last drawer and tipped the contents onto the workbench.
Rusty screws, rusty bolts, rusty washers, couple of angle brackets, a rubber mallet the mice had been at, and right at the very back: a screwdriver.
It was one of those cheap-looking piece-of-shit ones: flat head, about six inches long, with a yellow-and-black handle.
The sort of thing you could pick up for a buck fifty in your local supermarket.
Sod-all use for getting rid of her anchor. But maybe . . .
She turned the thing around in her right hand, so the blade and shank pointed at her throat. Then worked them into the ring that her left wrist was cuffed to. The one fixed to her metal collar.
Natasha pushed the screwdriver about halfway in, then pressed the handle downwards.
It rotated – pivoting against the ring – then stopped. So she shoved harder, pulling her chin up and back. Just in case.
Bastard didn’t budge.
She wrenched the thing upwards instead, but it clacked to a halt at much the same angle. Only the other way around.
OK. Time to try something a bit more extreme.
Natasha grabbed what was left of her horrible mask and wrapped a chunk of leather around the screwdriver’s blade. Bent her knees, so the screwdriver’s handle rested on top of the workbench.
Please God, you heartless, vicious, cruel bastard, don’t let me impale myself through the bloody throat.
Natasha took a deep breath.
Closed her eyes.
And dropped.
Thunk. Then a muted squeal . . . and ping: she crashed to the concrete floor, forehead smacking against the workbench’s leg, setting the world ringing like an old-fashioned telephone.
Took a good minute before she could move again, and when she did, the metal cuff was still firmly locked around her wrist . . . but it wasn’t attached to the collar any more.
Her right hand was free!
The arm it was attached to had turned into a flopping riot of numbness laced with pins-and-needles though, the tendons in her elbow screaming after being bent like that for the last two and a half days.
The useless limb dangled at her side, trembling with teeth-grating fizzy pain as she used her still-shackled left hand to feel for a ragged gash in her throat.
Looked like the mask did its job.
Yeah: the screwdriver was a bit bent, but still in one piece. Meaning once her arm came back to life she could have another go, and get the left one free too.
Soon as that happened, she’d finally get a decent grip on the stupid, rusty sledgehammer, batter the chain off her anchor. And get the hell out of there before DS Davis returned . . .