I’ve always been too trusting, that’s my trouble, always looked for the good in people, even when it wasn’t there.
They had set me up. Maya and Osborne had arranged the packing case, had fabricated her story, had scratched the screws around the grill to make that story sound real. However, documents detailing Osborne’s skulduggery did not exist, or if they did, they were not hidden away in this bathhouse.
I rattled the lock again, to no avail. I kicked the door and only succeeded in bruising my toes. I had to escape, but how?
Despite the cracks in the walls, the masonry was solid; there was no way I could lean against the walls and push them down. The floor was solid concrete while the ceiling, though leaky, was structurally sound and beyond my reach. Likewise, the windows were too high and narrow, and anyway, all were covered in rusty wire mesh. I had nothing about my person, nothing that could loosen the screws and free the mesh. If only I could reach my shoulder bag...
I peered through the mesh on the door panel. My bag was lying on the coal, soaking up the rain. An arm’s length away, my bag tormented me, yet even if I could place my fingers on it, its bulk would not slide under the door. My car keys, my gun, my mobile phone sat in my bag, waiting, offering the prospect of salvation, of release from this nightmare.
Think, Samantha, think...you are good at that...stop fretting and start thinking...the door was loose, maybe I could remove it from its hinges. However, the hinges were rusty; I required some lubricant, a can of oil, margarine, butter...anything greasy. I scanned the showers for remnants, for discarded items from the colliery’s past, from the market and car boot sales. Despite an extensive search, I found only junkies’ needles amongst the litter and corroded cans. No oil. No salvation. Then I spied a crowbar...
I weighed the crowbar in my hands; it was heavy. Great; I needed its weight; it would suit me well. I raised the crowbar above my head and hammered it against the door. Criticize the coal mining industry all you like, but they knew how to build firm structures. Despite repeated bashings, the door wouldn’t budge. Time for a little subtlety; I placed the end of the crowbar between the door and door frame, then pushed against it. The door frame splintered, so I pushed again. I kept pushing and working the crowbar into the gap, into the narrow crevice between the door and its frame, until a loud crack signified a wide fissure. The door was loose, but still it wouldn’t open. I mopped the sweat from my blackened brow and paused for breath.
Once more, I inserted the crowbar. The lower hinge moved away from the wall then a number of screws fell on to the floor. I worked the crowbar between hinge and wall. The hinge bent and buckled, but the final screws refused to budge. So I turned my attention to the upper hinge, loosened the screws, created a gap between wall and hinge, glimpsed the prospect of freedom.
The door was hanging by the shiny new lock and by a handful of rusty screws. The screws were the weakest link; with a bit more effort, they had to fall. And they did. In the end the door frame splintered, the hinges fell away and I dragged open the door. I ran out of the bathhouse into the rain, only to encounter a grinning Grant Osborne.
“I warned you,” he said. “Now I’m going to teach you a lesson.”
I raised the crowbar above my head. If Osborne grabbed hold of the crowbar and used it on me, he would kill me. But not if I used it on him first.
“You take pleasure from inflicting pain, don’t you?” I scowled.
He continued to grin. “I like to see people beg, for their lives, for their money. People should know their place. People like you should know their place. Women are scum; they’re trash; they deserve nothing better.”
Osborne extended an arm; he reached for the crowbar. The grin on his face spoke of immense pleasure. Furthermore, his slow, lumbering stride revealed that he was savouring every moment. Meanwhile, the rain poured down and turned his mop of blond hair muddy brown.
In desperation, I swung the crowbar towards his head, but he deflected the blow and grabbed hold of my weapon. The wound on his upper arm, the gunshot graze, offered him no discomfort so we wrestled with the crowbar, fought for control until, with my feet slipping on the coal, I had to concede; he was too strong, too powerful for me; I released the crowbar and ran.
On instinct, I swooped and gathered up my shoulder bag. Then I scampered through the old car park, past an aluminium shed, barely noticing the red and white boundary tape and the signs that screamed, ‘Warning! Ground Unsafe!’ ‘Danger! Subsidence!’ ‘Do Not Cross!’ ‘Do Not Enter!’ ‘Keep Out!’ I ignored those signs, hurdled the boundary tape then scrambled up a slag heap, unevenly grassed, partially reclaimed by nature.
I was on the flat now, on the grass, racing, running who knows where, but away from Osborne. Then my right foot slipped on the grass. Then my leg disappeared down a hole. Before I could gather my senses, I was waist deep in the hole, my legs dangling in thin air, my fingers gripping the wet grass for dear life.
Bit by bit, I disappeared into the hole. Meanwhile, Osborne approached; like a rain-soaked bear, he trudged down the slag heap. I had fallen into an old mineshaft, or ventilation shaft, one of many in the coalfield. Close inspection and the security tape revealed the danger areas. However, when running for your life, when preoccupied, those danger areas looked fresh and innocent, hidden by a thick growth of grass, by natural contours, by the lush green landscape. I was shoulder deep in the hole, my fingers digging into the dirt, my legs flailing, my feet searching for a ledge or stony projection. I dropped another inch. Then my toes touched a rock. I eased my weight against the rock; it felt firm, secure, locked into the landscape.
Within a second, I made a decision, to drop my full weight on to that rock, to use it as a springboard, to scramble out of the hole, away from Osborne. Or to disappear into the darkness and never be seen again.
I dropped on to the rock. It held. Using my arms, I pushed myself out of the hole, levered myself away, just as Osborne lunged for me. He tore at my clothing, ripped my coat, so I allowed it to fall on to the grass, then turned to confront the monster.
Osborne had dropped the crowbar on the slag heap. With a savage swipe, he reached for my blouse, but I stepped away. While he was off balance, I managed to scratch his face; I pulled the buttons from his shirt to expose a hirsute chest and abdomen. He stood panting, his trousers and jacket covered in mud and dust, his face filthy. He walked forward. I took a step back. He lunged again and missed.
My shoulder bag was in my left hand, held tight. I wrapped my fingers around the strap. My fingernails dug into my palms while my knuckles shone white; I gripped my bag as though holding on to my sanity. Then my right hand disappeared into the depths of my bag and reappeared clutching my gun.
Osborne stared at my gun. He laughed, “You won’t shoot me.”
“One step closer,” I said, “and I will.”
“No you won’t,” he said, his voice firm, confident, assured; “you’re not the type to kill.”
“I shot someone before,” I said, my arm extended, my gun levelled at Osborne, my finger vibrating against the trigger.
“I know,” Osborne grinned. “I checked your record. You shot her because she was going to shoot you. But I’m not going to shoot you; I’m just going to teach you a lesson.”
“One step closer,” I warned.
He continued to grin. This was fun for Osborne. This was pleasure, personified; the man lived for moments like this, for moments when he could make people suffer.
“You’d like to wound me, wouldn’t you,” he said, “but you’re not good enough for that, not a good enough shot. If you fire that gun, it will be to kill, and you couldn’t live with that.” He reached across and ripped my blouse, tore it wide open. “You won’t shoot me.”
I raised my gun, wrapped my finger around its trigger. I stared at his bare flesh and recalled my conversation with Mac, his comment about shooting through bare flesh and living with the nightmares. Could I live with those nightmares?
Osborne took a heavy stride towards me. I took a step back. He continued to grin. The gun wavered in my hand.
He moved forward again. I retreated. I could smell his rancid breath, see the patchwork of red veins in his eyes, taste the metallic tang of fear at the back of my throat.
Osborne reached for the button on my jeans. I levelled my gun. He took another heavy step towards me. He trod on my coat. Then he disappeared from eye level. He’d been standing above a shaft, above a portal to hell. Frantically, he waved his arms and screamed, a blood-curdling yell, then he disappeared into the darkness.
Osborne’s scream went on forever, or so it seemed, though eventually I embraced the silence. Leaning forward, I peered into the shaft, but saw nothing but darkness.
The earth had swallowed up the monster. Grant Osborne would torment people no more.