Harrowing (29 page)

“Maybe we could hang on long enough and once enough wood has burnt we could break through?” I suggested hopefully. It was the dumbest idea I’d ever had.

“Hugh!” Lindsay made another attempt. But we heard his footsteps shuffling away, and within a minute there was nothing left except for the crackling of the flames.

We both lay there, quashed and defeated.

“I don’t believe this. Man, I don’t believe this,” Lindsay began mumbling, hysterical. “Tell me I’m dreaming. Tell me this is just a nightmare. Pinch me.”

I pinched her.

“Ow!” she yelled.

Then I thought of something else.

“Help me, Linds,” I said.

“What? What brilliant thing you gonna do now?”

I started thumping against the side of the crate furthest away from the flames.

“Maybe we could roll away. Maybe we can make the crate roll.”

Lindsay scowled.

“Yeah. Shit idea.”

But she shifted herself and tried to help me.

“Push,” she said.

We both started pushing against the side of the crate furthest from the bonfire.

At first it didn’t seem to make any difference. We scrabbled and shoved harder.

“Even supposing this works, what do you think Hughie will do once he realizes we’re far away? He’ll just drag us into the fire again. It would only take him a split second to do it.” Lindsay grumbled. But she didn’t stop pushing.

Slowly, as if grinding through molasses, the box started shifting. Then with a sudden, unexpected crunch, it tottered over the edge of the corner and hunkered down onto the side we’d been pushing on. Now I was pinned underneath Lindsay. And I had to admit, this was one hundred times worse.

“Do it again,” I gasped out. I could hardly get any air into my lungs with Lindsay’s dead weight against me.

We shoved against the side of the box again. Then, as my eyes adjusted to the dimmer light here, further away from the fire, I noticed something.

I realized that the side of the box, which had originally been the bottom, was rotten through.

The box had probably been sitting on the beach during all this time. Who knew how long it had been there, cuddling up against the damp sand. Getting buried under the snows in the winter. Sucking up rain the rest of the year.

And now it was soft and mildewy.

If only I could move my legs...

“Linds. Think you could lift up your legs and kick against this side?” I said.

Lindsay stopped pushing for a minute to glance my way. I gestured at the rotten wood.

She looked at me, then raised her legs and began battering her bare heels against the wood.

“It’s not doing anything,” she said, panting. Then she glanced down at my feet.

“Hey. You’ve got shoes on. How ‘bout you give it a hand? Or, well, a foot.”

I grimaced.

“I would if I could move.”

Lindsay curled her legs up and held them to one side.

“There. Now I’m giving you some leg room.”

I shifted my legs the few centimetres the space would allow me to, then batted my stilettos against the wood. One of the heels punched a hole and slid through. Encouraged, I pulled my heel back and beat against the wood some more.

After a while I managed to kick off a whole slab of wood. There wasn’t enough space for us to squeeze through yet. I pounded my feet against the remaining wood.

“What if Hughie notices?” Lindsay whispered.

“Why don’t we deal with things one at a time?”

Another slab of wood began peeling away. My heel caught in the fibrous mass, refused to come out. I shook my leg harder. The slab of wood crashed out, taking my shoe with it. Lindsay and I tumbled out of the box. I was too stunned to believe we’d actually made it.

We glanced about warily, searching for Hugh. We couldn’t see him anywhere.

“Run!” Lindsay ordered.

I started to run, but it was impossible with one shoe on and one shoe off.

“Lose that shoe,” Lindsay hissed.

I kicked off my remaining shoe and we pelted barefooted across the sand. Laboured breathing behind us near our backs betrayed that Hugh was onto us.

“Faster,” Lindsay panted.

We picked up our pace. So did Hugh.

“Towards the street,” Lindsay gasped out to me.

I’d never realized that a stretch of sand could be so immense.

Hugh caught up to me, slipped an arm about me from behind in a stranglehold and slid a foot underneath my heels, tripping me. I crashed onto my back on the cold, silky sand. Straight in front of Hugh’s baleful glare.

I didn’t quite lose consciousness. Or perhaps I did. But I was in a daze. I wondered what Hugh had done to me, to render me into such a helpless state. Or maybe I’d just knocked my brain against the ground. Vaguely I was aware of Hugh dragging me somewhere. Movement, as if someone were transporting me someplace. Someone tying me up. But it felt like a dream. A night terror in which I couldn’t move. Couldn’t open my eyes or wake up or scream.

After a while he left me. Or at least, I had that vague, hollow sensation that you have when you’re all alone someplace. As I lay there, still in a daze, a slight sound started niggling its way into my awareness. A sharp, metallic
zing
in the air, as if a butcher were sharpening carving knives on a stone. A rhythmic slashing, the sound of something swaying to and fro in the air above me. A faint whoosh.

A light breeze started fanning my face, keeping time with the swinging sound above. I screwed my eyes open. My lids were still heavy and I felt oppressed, as if I were drugged. I could barely see anything. Only a few cracks of brightness, as in a closed-in space where only the barest, faintest light could pass through to me from the outside.

As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I started to make things out more clearly. The pale light from outside seemed to grow, as from the sun coming out, shining more clarity on all things. I tried to stretch my arms and wiggle my toes but as I suspected, I was firmly bound up. I thought to call for help, but there was a gag in my mouth. I pushed against it with my tongue and lips. It held as fast as the rest of my bindings.

As I squinted about me, I could vaguely make out the strangest images on the walls. Figures illuminated in gold leaf, like medieval paintings. A queer old man with a snow white beard trailing to the ground, sustaining an hourglass in his hand. Angels with halos, chanting in a choir. A skeletal figure brandishing a scythe, the death masque grinning grotesquely while sapphires glittered in its sunken eyes.

And then, the most terrible object of all: a pendulum.

Swaying from the centre of the ceiling, flaunting a curved half-moon blade of stainless steel, without a smidgeon of rust or neglect anywhere along its vast length. Dropping lower and lower with every beat.

A perfectly polished scythe, directed straight towards my heart.

Only the gag prevented me from screaming out loud when I realized what it was.

In growing horror and desperation, I cast around about myself, glanced over myself for any weakness in the ties that bound me. Any fraying in the cord. Any loose place I could press against.

I tried to calm my mind down, take measure of the situation and what I had going for me. I slid my sight downwards, tried to count how many times the rope was bound around me. I counted three turns about my chest and upper arms. Perhaps a couple more about my wrists and several loops around my legs.

Now I recalled all those complicated electronic devices Hugh had designed and displayed so proudly at the temp agency. His brightly painted wooden windmill that spun with the charge from a small nine-volt battery. The much more elaborate elevator. Hugh was a whiz at this. I knew, without a doubt, that he himself had armed this contraption up with his own hands.

Set it up and hidden it away. Just for me.

But why?

Now I remembered
The Pit and the Pendulum.
But I didn’t think Hugh would have had the generosity to leave a few rats lying about and some meat for me to smear on my bindings.

I struggled harder against the ropes, strained with all my might. They barely stirred, half an inch at the most, perhaps.

I observed the arc of the scythe, fatally mesmerized, unable to tear my gaze away from it. At last I came to and set to work trying to calculate where the leading edge of the blade would cut through, when it reached me. As I expected, Hugh’s calculations appeared to be perfect. It seemed the blade would arch right through the centre of my breast.

I glanced towards my breast. It hardly surprised me in the least to discover a round of cord smack dab in the centre of my chest, perpendicular to the path of the pendulum. This was the cord the scimitar would have to slice through in one, or perhaps two, passes, before, in its next round, ripping through flesh and possibly bone not long afterwards.

I nearly fainted at that thought.

I started battling against my bindings again, to no avail. My gaze scurried in terror about the reduced space as my brain hammered frenetically for some solution.

The only idea that occurred to me would require me to allow the scythe to slash through my skin as it cut my bindings. Then I would need to be on my toes and lightning quick to squirm out from the broken cord before the pendulum struck again.

I didn’t know if I could do it.

I would only have one chance.

If I failed, the next stroke would be the stroke of death.

My mind refused to accept that idea. I started thrashing about hysterically. In spite of the force I was using, the ropes refused to yield even one iota.

At last I realized I was wasting precious energy battling futilely. The best thing I could do was to accept that this was the only solution, then prepare myself in every way to do what I had to do when the moment arrived.

My eyes rolled about like those of a crazy person. I wanted to escape this place like I’d never wanted anything in my whole entire life. I would do just about anything not to be here at this moment. I wanted to flee into daydreams and fantasy, pretend this was all a bad dream and I would wake up safe and sound in my bed in a minute.

But this wasn’t a dream. This was real, and if I didn’t pull my act together in about two seconds, I was going to die.

My chest heaved. I started panting and gasping wildly, raising my chest closer to the scimitar. I realized I would have to stay calm and breathe more evenly if I was to even stand a chance.

I glanced about myself once again. If only I could stick something in between my breast and the place where the pendulum would pass. Something thick. A piece of wood. A wad of cloth. I was ranting, delirious. There wasn’t any loose piece of wood within two miles of me and even if there were, how was I supposed to get a hold of it?

I arched backwards, wondering if perhaps I could escape by somehow wiggling myself downwards, instead of thrashing against the ropes. But I was about as able to move backwards as I was in any other direction. There was some piece of stiff board or the floor wedged soundly and immovably against my back.

I studied myself, tried to make a run down of what the scythe would have to cut through exactly before it reached my flesh. There was the rope, of course. Then beneath that my burgundy velvet dress, which wasn’t all that thick. After that my bra. When I raised my eyes, I saw the scimitar almost graze my eyeballs. When had it dropped down so close? For one instant I froze and my heart started racing.

My eyes rolled about some more. I had to move fast. Well, I couldn’t move. But I had to make up my mind fast.

My gaze lighted upon the thick lapel of my blazer. It was close to my breast. Perhaps if I moved just a hint... I began nudging the lapel towards the centre of my breast. It would be better than nothing. I nudged a little harder. It started to move. I shifted my shoulder. Pushed with the top of my arm. The rough fibres of the braided cord binding my chest caught on the fabric of my jacket, snagged it closer to my breast. Encouraged, I lifted my shoulder as far as I could and pushed harder.

The lapel slipped through the cleft between my breasts, wedged itself underneath the cord, as if guided by invisible hands. I tried to bunch a bit more cloth in there as well, anything would help. I prayed it would hold and stay there. I could feel the collar of my jacket pressing into my neck, dragging at the lapel, pulling it back.

The scimitar swung down, almost grazed my nose. I suddenly became aware I’d been straining my head upwards and now my face lay almost in the path of the pendulum. I would have to drop my head back for this to work. Then I’d only be able to watch what was happening by turning my gaze downwards.

My stomach fluttered so hard I felt as though rocks were dancing a jig in there. My heartrate sped up like that of a marathon runner. I clenched my fists to give myself strength.

Closer and closer it hung now. The
zing
sounded as if it were right in my ear. I started shivering at the sight of the blade so close to my eyeballs. I made every effort to control my breathing, clamping down with my stomach muscles so my breast wouldn’t rise so much. I was bathed in cold sweat, my heavy dress clinging to me. My palms felt clammy and slippery.

The scythe drove down towards my breast, the scimitar hung near me. The next pass saw it graze the top of the rough hemp cord. I caught my breath, nearly fainted from cold shock as the glinting blade cut past barely a hair’s breadth away from my skin.

At the next swing, the blade cut through half the cord. I began to struggle, but the cord still refused to give. I would have to wait till the next round. My breath caught in my throat. My heart skipped a beat, then another.

My eyes watched the pendulum trace its mortal half-circle without respite. I couldn’t peel my gaze away. The weapon drew closer. The leading edge sliced through the cord completely as well as part of my lapel. Adrenaline surged through me. I battled with my arms, flaying against the rope with everything I had in me.

The ropes burst free. Hooking my feet around the bindings that still held them in place, I slid myself out from the path of the scimitar, propelling myself with my elbows and forearms in order not to lift myself up. I had to get away before the blade crashed down again.

I slithered to one side. Now I only needed to untie my ankles and feet. Curling myself out of the pendulum’s arc, I reached down and grappled with the knots holding my feet in place. Within seconds I was able to glide my feet out and pull myself away from the whole contraption.

The pendulum crashed to the floor, grinding itself into the dirt with an agonizing metallic screech. The mechanism groaned. Invisible springs in the ceiling shuddered and scraped to a halt.

I snatched the gag off my mouth and hurled it to the ground with rage.

“There, you fucking, evil son of a bitch. I beat your fucking helluva machine,” I couldn’t help screaming into the air, defiant.

I slunk along the ground. Now I needed to find a way out of here. I groped along the floor with my hands, trying to figure out where it would be safe to walk. I didn’t dare to stand up yet. For all I knew, maybe I wasn’t even on firm footing. Perhaps I was on a table, or a ledge. In this almost non-existent light it was impossible to tell.

I slid my way around the massive pendulum half-buried in the dirt. It still made me shudder. I felt almost as if it were about to rise up again, like a phoenix from the ashes, and start swinging towards me all over again.

I made it to the other side of that dreadful weapon, near the walls of my prison. I thought I would feel my way along the walls, see if I could find some sort of door or another way out.

I began crawling on hands and knees, too scared to get to my feet. I felt what seemed to be a smooth edging of concrete, as if the dirt floor had turned to cement. I glided closer. I reached forward with my hand – and my hand slipped into nothing. Into emptiness and open space, throwing me off balance.

The next thing I knew, I was plummeting forward into some bottomless pit, propelled by momentum, unable to stop myself.