Chapter 90

Chapter 90

She paced back and forth in her cramped cell, her chain clanking noisily. Naomi was dizzy with fear, but she couldn't keep still, her nervous energy demanding that she scream, shout, jump about, anything rather than lapse into despair. She knew if she did so, stuck down here with her friend's rigid corpse, that she would go mad, stark staring mad.

From the minute Naomi had found herself down here, she'd longed to escape. But now it was a necessity, her sanity, her health, hanging by a knife edge. Her mind was whirring, full of the direst scenarios. Come what may, she had to get out of here. But how could she even contemplate such a thing when she was so firmly attached to the wall?

She had to try again. Putting one foot on the wall, she bent her leg forwards, then suddenly straightened it, pulling against the chain with all her might. Nothing. She tried again, screaming out in agony as she heaved with all her might. But the plate on the wall remained secure, the chain links intact, and Naomi slumped to the floor, disappointed. She sat there for a moment, gathering herself as she caught her breath, then scurried over to the wall. Fear and desperation were driving her now and if brute force wasn't going to work, she would have to try and find another way. Crawling over to the wall, she examined her bond. The chain was secured to a hoop on the wall plate. In theory, the hoop should have been the weakest link, but as hard as Naomi yanked at it, it refused to budge, so instead she turned her attention to the wall plate itself. This was secured to the wall with four heavy-duty screws, which had been painted over some time ago and which had not budged an inch in all the days Naomi had been down here trying to loosen it. But it remained her only option, so digging her thumbnail into the groove on the head of the screw, she started to rub away at the flaky paintwork. It was old and dry, quickly coming away to reveal the screwhead proper. If only she had a screwdriver, Naomi felt sure she could have freed herself in seconds, however hard the screws had been tightened. But obviously they'd been left with nothing but their clothes, a couple of dusty water bottles and their empty food bowls …

Now Naomi paused, before scrambling over to her bowl. Was it a camping accessory or a dog's bowl? Either way, it was solid, with a firm metal lip at the top to avoid spillage. Snatching the bowl up, Naomi hurried back to the wall plate. With a shaking hand she attempted to jam the thin lip of the bowl into the groove of the nearest screwhead. For a moment, she thought it was going to slide in cleanly, but at the last second, it caught on something.

‘Shit …'

Removing the bowl, Naomi re-examined the groove, spotting that a small amount of paint remained at the very bottom. Digging her nail in once more, Naomi began to work away at the remaining obstacle. Her nail cracked almost immediately and she could tell by the increasing stickiness of her finger that she was bleeding, but still she didn't relent, working away as if her life depended upon it, which in truth it probably did.

Withdrawing her finger, she peered at the groove once more. It appeared to be free of paint now, so she picked up the bowl once more. This time the lip slid into the groove smoothly and, turning it slightly, Naomi felt it bite. Sweating, excited, she increased the pressure, only to feel the bowl start to bend and warp, as the aged screw resisted. Panicking, she paused, rotating the bowl in her hand to ensure a hard, straight lip nestled in the groove once more. Now she proceeded with more caution, pressing her fingers close to the lip of the bowl to stop it bending, rocking it back and forth to see if she could fashion any movement.

And now, to her delight, Naomi felt the screw shift. Only a millimetre, but it was movement nevertheless. Resisting the urge to yank the bowl round with all her might, she continued with her patient back-and-forth motion, the screw slowly loosening all the while. She counted to ten then, confident that the screw was starting to give, started to turn the bowl in a steady anti-clockwise direction. Slowly, reluctantly, the screw gave up the fight, turning, turning, turning, until eventually half the screw was visible, sticking out proud from the wall plate. Now Naomi dropped the bowl with a clatter, seizing the screw and rotating it as fast as her brittle fingers could turn. Less than a minute later the screw was in her hand, her emotions in riot as she looked down at her prize.

Naomi could scarcely credit it. This was the first – the only – good thing that had happened since her captor had brought her here. Gripped by hope, Naomi now set to work in earnest, cracking nearly all her nails as she drove the flaky paint from the grooves of the remaining screwheads. Once they were clear, she set to work with the bowl once more, teasing first one, then two, then the final screw from its mooring. As she did so, the metal plate fell to the floor, a dull thud reverberating around the walls. Elated, Naomi seized the chain, lifting the plate from the floor, free now to roam the constraints of her tiny cell. This was not how she'd imagined finally liberating herself and she would dearly have loved to free her ankle from the clasp that pinched her skin every time she moved, but at least she could move around at leisure. Moreover, she now had a weapon.

Swinging the chain, the plate – heavy, bulky with nasty pointed corners – began to rotate in the air. If she could secure one proper hit, she felt sure she could do her captor some serious damage. Suddenly she was seized with the idea of hurting him, of raining all her rage, vitriol and bile down on him, crushing him, destroying him. But in her heart, she knew that she would have to be sensible, cautious, precise if she was going to make her advantage count, if she was going to secure her freedom. The important thing now was to ambush him effectively, lay him out cold, then put as much distance between herself and this awful place as possible.

Timing was everything now, preparation key. So, slowing the swirling plate, she began to pace back and forth, considering her options. If and when her captor returned, she would need to be ready. Taking up a position to the right side of the door, she disappeared into the gloom. Here she would wait, listening carefully for his descending footsteps, primed and ready to strike.