Donna’s eyes were wide, a grin on her face as if they’d shared a secret. ‘That was something.’
Surtsey looked at her wrists. ‘You have to untie me, it’s not safe.’
Donna patted the concrete wall. ‘You’re OK, this thing will stand up to more than that.’
‘What if it doesn’t, what if there are more quakes? Stronger ones?’
Donna shook her head. ‘I can’t let you go.’
She looked around the room, assessing it, checking for anything out of order.
‘Now, I have to get the rest of our provisions,’ she said, reaching for the door handle. ‘I won’t be long. Are you sure you don’t want anything to eat?’
Surtsey stared at her for a long time then shook her head.
Donna opened the door and stepped into the doorway. ‘I’ll be back in a jiffy.’
The door closed behind her and Surtsey heard the key turn in the lock.
42
She looked around for something to help her. Flexed her wrists in turn, hoping the ropes had loosened, but she couldn’t feel any difference. She did the same with her legs, nothing. She craned her neck to survey the room. The stove was still going, the water pan on the side cooling. The rucksack and the holdall on the floor. She wondered if Donna had unpacked everything, there must be something she could use. She looked at the table again. Two mugs, the open cheese packet, the remains of a sandwich.
The knife. Just a butter knife, but a knife all the same. It had bumped off the plate in the tremor and was sitting near the edge of the table about three feet away from her. It might as well have been a million miles.
Surtsey looked at the door. She wondered what Donna meant by getting the rest of the provisions. Was she only away for a few minutes to the boat to bring more bags, or did she have to leave the island and head back to Portobello? The difference between ten minutes and two hours.
Surtsey put her head back on the pillow and thought. She summoned all her energy and threw her body up and to the left. The bed scraped an inch to the left with her. Holy shit, this could work. She tried to calm her breath, get her energy back, then made the same manoeuvre again. The bed jumped again, landing another fraction closer to the table and the knife. The table was low, only an inch or two higher than the bed frame. The knife was sitting on the edge, almost hanging over. If she managed to position the bed in the right place, she might be able to scoop it with her fingers into her grasp.
She heaved again and the bed rattled and shifted. It was noisy, the metal legs against the concrete floor, and Surtsey waited a moment afterwards, listening for anything from outside. But all she could hear were gulls and crows.
She repeated the movement again and again. She had to presume Donna would be back sooner rather than later, so she worked as fast as possible. Each exertion was taking its toll, decreasing her energy levels, the ropes digging into her wrists and ankles with every tiny jump. She found it easier to swing the bottom half of the bed with one heave then the top half of the bed in the next, easing the strain on her a little and effectively walking the bed over to the table.
Heave after heave, Surtsey arched then thrashed her back against the covers, the bed creeping towards the table with each effort until finally she was almost there. She stretched her left hand out as far as it could go, brushed at the end of the knife handle with her fingertips, but couldn’t get any purchase.
Two more bumps, her arms and legs drained, the skin on her wrists cut by the ropes, the abrasions showing small bubbles of blood along them.
She stretched again, touched the knife, but it slipped under her finger and spun away from her. She heaved again, lower half of the bed then the upper half, another two inches closer, then she spread her fingers as wide and long as she could. Her middle finger touched the handle, pushed it down against the wooden slat of the table. She managed to get her index finger to hold the handle there as she did a desperate flick back with her middle finger, and the knife budged a couple of inches towards her. It was enough to get a grasp with both fingers. She lifted it and precariously bent her fingers until she could use her thumb to balance her grip from the other side.
She had it. She fucking had it.
She looked at the door. Maybe she had hours. Maybe she had two minutes. Maybe she had no time at all.
She flicked the knife upside down in her hand and felt under the mattress. The frame seemed solid underneath and she carefully placed the knife under the mattress then lowered the mattress back down.
She thrashed again, this time in the other direction, trying to get the bed back in place. Again, it was easier doing the top half then the bottom. She had cramp in her shoulder blades and calves, her biceps and forearms burning with the exertion every time she moved. She launched herself away from the bed again, the legs scraping against the floor but moving, an inch at a time. Despite the pain surging through her she felt energised. This was a way out, this was a possibility of escape. She had to take it.
She stopped for a second and listened. No noise outside. The air felt electric with silence after the constant grate of the bed legs on the floor. She heaved again and again, top then bottom. She was getting closer to her original position with every
