Sentence The Onehundredandfiftyninth
And that, she discovered, was the easy bit; for she was in a small room, with no furniture, a tiny skylight too high for her to reach, and two solid wooden doors, one of which was locked and the other let her out onto a kind of balcony, with a stone balustrade on three sides and a wall to the roof
of the room on the fourth; below her was a drop of – oh, she wasn't good at this, had no head for heights and felt weak still, after her ordeal so far – maybe fifty or sixty feet; she had a sudden flashback to kissing the Blarney Stone when she was very young and Tabby had taken her on a holiday to Ireland – probably a mission for MI5 she now thought – and she had ridden a shambling horse (named Rosinante, no less) through McGillicuddy's Reeks, while Tabby had a fine chestnut beast which she, incongruously, rode side-saddle; she figured from the stonework that it was similar to one of the old Border Towers, like the one she'd visited years ago in Darnick – smack in the middle of the village and still inhabited – but not this one – there was no other sign of habitation; no village, no nearby buildings of any kind; down below, down the sheer drop, there was a kind of gravelled area around the tower, as far as she could see, but any entrance driveway must be on the side she couldn't; there was grass extending for about fifty feet on all sides and then trees – some taller than the tower, which limited her view, and precluded her being seen from any roads that might be nearby; the place was hidden; she was no longer handcuffed, but she was still a prisoner, her hopes of escape scuppered almost before she'd begun; so she went back inside; there were no sounds within the building, beyond her own breathing – she examined the other door, the locked one; it was old and hard and sounded pretty thick when she banged on it with her fists – the sound echoed as though there was a stairwell beyond; her mind – trained to be methodical and orderly was checking off a list of her possible moves: nothing to wedge the door shut, nor to force it open; no way down from the ledge outside, for she was no mountain climber and knew her arms would never support her in any attempted descent, for which there were no obvious hand or finger holds – no windows either, on the three sides she could see; so probably the only way would be up and over the roof, to reach the other side – the windows must be on that further wall, so that might, no, would, be her only chance – even if it came to using her clothes, tied together, as a rope for the first stage of the descent; she went back outside – okay, I'm scared at the prospect, but it's my only hope of getting away from The Man who brought me here, and I believe he was the one who tried to kill Bernie, so I can only expect him to be prepared to kill me; it's a 'no brainer, - up and over, it's what I have to do!!
And that, she discovered, was the easy bit; for she was in a small room, with no furniture, a tiny skylight too high for her to reach, and two solid wooden doors, one of which was locked and the other let her out onto a kind of balcony, with a stone balustrade on three sides and a wall to the roof
of the room on the fourth; below her was a drop of – oh, she wasn't good at this, had no head for heights and felt weak still, after her ordeal so far – maybe fifty or sixty feet; she had a sudden flashback to kissing the Blarney Stone when she was very young and Tabby had taken her on a holiday to Ireland – probably a mission for MI5 she now thought – and she had ridden a shambling horse (named Rosinante, no less) through McGillicuddy's Reeks, while Tabby had a fine chestnut beast which she, incongruously, rode side-saddle; she figured from the stonework that it was similar to one of the old Border Towers, like the one she'd visited years ago in Darnick – smack in the middle of the village and still inhabited – but not this one – there was no other sign of habitation; no village, no nearby buildings of any kind; down below, down the sheer drop, there was a kind of gravelled area around the tower, as far as she could see, but any entrance driveway must be on the side she couldn't; there was grass extending for about fifty feet on all sides and then trees – some taller than the tower, which limited her view, and precluded her being seen from any roads that might be nearby; the place was hidden; she was no longer handcuffed, but she was still a prisoner, her hopes of escape scuppered almost before she'd begun; so she went back inside; there were no sounds within the building, beyond her own breathing – she examined the other door, the locked one; it was old and hard and sounded pretty thick when she banged on it with her fists – the sound echoed as though there was a stairwell beyond; her mind – trained to be methodical and orderly was checking off a list of her possible moves: nothing to wedge the door shut, nor to force it open; no way down from the ledge outside, for she was no mountain climber and knew her arms would never support her in any attempted descent, for which there were no obvious hand or finger holds – no windows either, on the three sides she could see; so probably the only way would be up and over the roof, to reach the other side – the windows must be on that further wall, so that might, no, would, be her only chance – even if it came to using her clothes, tied together, as a rope for the first stage of the descent; she went back outside – okay, I'm scared at the prospect, but it's my only hope of getting away from The Man who brought me here, and I believe he was the one who tried to kill Bernie, so I can only expect him to be prepared to kill me; it's a 'no brainer, - up and over, it's what I have to do!!
Comments
Post a Comment