Chapter 68
LXVIII
Fuck!
The bastard was back, and she was still shackled to this stupid bloody anchor. If she’d made a run for it, she might’ve reached a nearby farm by now. Called for help . . .
Probably not, though.
The car’s engine growled closer.
Instead, she’d have left a flattened path through the weeds and grass that even a blind corpse could follow. And out in the open like that, in the middle of a field, she’d be shit out of options.
Whereas here, she had four.
Number One: Make a run for it now. Which was stupid. She wouldn’t get more than a few hundred feet before he caught up with her. Then it would be JCB time.
Number Two: Get back to the outbuilding and make like she never left. Wait for the bastard to drink himself to sleep again, like last time, and then leg it. Assuming Davis didn’t just try to kill her, soon as he got home.
Number Three: FIGHT. Kill the bastard.
Yeah, like she could have a fair go, shackled to a galvanised metal bin full of concrete.
And Number Four: Hide.
One and Three were nonstarters.
Number Two was risky. She could hold her wrists up to the collar, so it looked like they were still shackled there, but all he had to do was look at the bloody mess she’d made of the concrete in her bin, and he’d know exactly what she’d been up to.
Which left hiding.
But where? Where was she going to hide, that he couldn’t find her in two minutes flat? In the barn? Under the static caravan?
No chance. The thing was surrounded by weeds, which the anchor would flatten – so exactly the same problem as scarpering across the field . . .
Of course, there was a fifth option: stand here, dithering about like a proper whacker, and wait for him to beat the shit out of her again, then get the JCB fired up for a bit of gravedigging.
‘Shite . . .’ The word barely made it past her dry, cracked lips.
Number Two it was, then.
But make it bloody quick.
Natasha shoved the anchor, rolling the bastard fast as it would go, across the courtyard and in through the door to her stinking manky prison.
Was like running into an oven, after the relative cool of the barn.
Soon as she got the thing over the threshold, she hauled at the door – setting those stupid bloody rollers squealing like a ruptured pig.
Please let the bastard still be parking.
Please let his windows be up.
Please let him be playing his horrible music, full volume, so he couldn’t hear any of that . . .
One last yank and the door clunked into place.
She bowled her anchor back into the middle of the room and heaved it upright again. The concrete inside was ruined – not enough to let go of the bloody chain, but more than enough to get her killed.
So . . .?
. . .
Sit on it.
That was fuckin’ genius!
Her arse would hide the damage.
Natasha clambered onto the bin. Not exactly comfy, but better than the alternative. Then sat there, listening.
Outside, the engine noise died. A car door creaked open, then thunked shut.
Please don’t let him have heard any of that.
Footsteps crunched across the dirt outside.
Please, please, please, please, please . . .
She sat up straight.
Deep breath.
You can do this.
The bluebottles must’ve been disturbed by her charging back in here, because the greasy bloated bodies lumbered into the sticky air again. Circling and buzzzzzzzing.
And now that she was sitting still, the bastards began to settle on her salt-stained arms and legs.
One landed on her cheek.
She brushed it away with a swipe of the hand. A good old-fashioned ‘Australian salute’, as they used to say, back in the—
Oh fuck . . .
She could hold her hands in place and pretend they were still cuffed there all she liked, but Detective Sergeant Davis might just notice SHE WASN’T WEARING HIS PRECIOUS FUCKING GIMP MASK!
Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit . . .
She should’ve run after all.