Cast Iron

Chapter thirty-seven

Sophie had spent nearly an hour scraping the handle end of the spoon on the concrete floor to wear it thin enough to slip beneath the domed head of the bolt. Even then, it had not been easy. The bolt was rusted solid, and who knew how many years it might have been since these bars had last been un-padlocked and swung open on their hinges?

At first she had been afraid they might hear the scrape, scrape of metal on concrete, but the door was thick, and she could hear very distantly the sound of their television. They would never hear her above it.

Later she had watched with apprehension as one of them came to take away the tray from which she had removed the spoon. But it elicited no comment. And when the man returned several hours later with her next meal, there was another spoon in her coffee mug. She could only imagine that there must be several, and that one missing had gone, mercifully, unnoticed.

Now she stood on tiptoe, working assiduously at the head of the bolt, scouring away the rust which had almost welded it to the hoop of the top hinge. Intermittently she used the lip of the spoon end to try to lever it up, but only succeeded in bending the spoon. Several times she very nearly gave up. But the thought of sitting doing nothing while meekly awaiting her fate was worse than the frustration of making no apparent progress with the bolt. At least that gave her a focus, and concentration relieved her fear.

It had been some time before it dawned on her that the small rectangle of pre-packed butter that they provided with each tray of food could be used as a lubricant.

With trembling fingers she had unwrapped the first of them and smeared it all over both hinges, around the tops of the bolts and the inset holes at the foot of each. Then she worked the spoon furiously into every tight space before squeezing in more butter.

The next tray had brought another pat of butter, and as she rubbed that into the hinges she began to fear that they would see how it was staining them dark. They seemed to scream out at her from the wall, Look, look, look at me! Look what she’s doing! But when the short man with the gravelly voice came a little while later to take her down to the toilet, his eyes did not even wander in that direction.

She had lost track of how long she had been working on the top hinge when she got the first hint of movement from the bolt. With the spoon handle inserted between the top of the bolt and the hinge itself, she finally got it to turn a little. And that tiny movement was enough to set her off on a frenzy of activity, working the spoon in and out, getting the head of the bolt to turn a little more each time.

The bolt was about three inches long, as thick as her little finger, and frustratingly stubborn. She twisted and turned the spoon, buckling it completely out of shape, until suddenly the bolt head lifted a quarter of an inch. She almost gasped in surprise, and stood back staring at it in disbelief. Before throwing herself at it feverishly once more, grasping the head between thumb and crooked forefinger. Turning and pulling until she drew blood, and her wrist and arm began to ache from the effort of trying to pull it out.

Then suddenly it came. In three short turns. And she stood breathing hard and holding the bolt in her hand. She slathered it in butter and started working it in and out of the hinge until she could slide it in and retrieve it easily again. God only knew how long she’d been working on it, but she understood that if she could achieve the same result with the lower hinge, she could swing the bars in their iron frame away from the window to hang from the padlock at the other side. Which would give her access to the window itself. Breaking the glass would be simple enough, but they would be sure to hear the noise, and she would have only a very short time to squeeze herself through it.

But then what? It was a twenty-foot drop to the lane below. She shook her head. She couldn’t let herself think about that. One step at a time. If she got out of the window, that would be the time to start worrying about how to deal with the drop.

It was only at this point that she noticed a white SUV parked almost immediately below the window, tight in against the wall. She hadn’t heard it arrive, and was certain it hadn’t been there before. But she had no time to think about it. Footsteps in the hall forced her hurriedly to reinsert the bolt and slide her back down the wall to sit on the floor. She tried to control her breathing, but was sure that her cheeks must be burning pink. She dragged a forearm across her face to wipe away the sweat.

The footsteps came to a halt outside her door. And then silence. A silence that seemed to extend itself for a very long time. Before whoever was there turned and headed back the way they had come. Had they been able to see in? The thought set panic beating in Sophie’s breast again.

She held her breath and listened intently. From the offices at the far end of the corridor, where her captors spent their time, she could hear very faintly the sound of men’s voices raised in argument. Then a woman’s voice, sharp and commanding. Sophie strained to hear, but there were no words taking shape. And then silence.

For a long time she heard nothing. Then a car door slamming. And she stood up quickly to press her face to the bars and peer down into the lane below. The SUV started up and drove away, but she could not get even a passing glimpse of the driver.

Now she stood breathing hard, the sense of time running out sending chills of apprehension through her body. And she set to work on the lower hinge with a ferocity driven by fear.