Natale

Klempner

Klempner

Half an hour later, my fingers are aching, the skin reddened and sore. And my back aches from the awkward stooped position. But I have a noticeable groove in the cement; a shallow furrow circling the shank of the bolt.

Another small annoyance is that I keep losing my trousers, such as they are. Bending and twisting as I am, the damn things keep sliding down. Still, cannibalising a bit of rope, I can at least improvise a belt.

Coffee…

Enjoy it while it’s hot…

Trying to drink mindfully, I savour the coffee, all the while eyeing my handiwork, quickly coming down from my caffeine and adrenaline drunk…

It’s not going to be fast work…

How long?

How deep in is that bolt shank?

There’s no point worrying. It’s as deep as it is. Peering into the flask, I leave enough coffee to give myself something to look forward to, rescrewing the cap.

Then taking up the boot heel, my pants secured and once more comfortable, once more, I set to work.

*****

Regretfully shaking the cup over my mouth to catch the last drop, I drain the coffee flask.

Pity…

On the positive side, however, I now can add a cup and what is effectively a bottle to my list of possessions.

All the while I been imprisoned here, I’ve had to catch water in my hands, cupping a bare, leaking trickle from palm to mouth. A cup might seem a small thing on the list of creature comforts, but it all adds up.

In other areas, comfort is more doubtful. One spot of skin in particular, between thumb and forefinger, where the metal rubs, is blistered, the skin loose and heated. One of Juliana’s sticking plasters helps, but it won’t hold up for long and, for such a small injury, it’s surprisingly painful and distracting.

My weakened condition?

Feeling the pain more?

How long will the food last?

*****

I can only measure my work rate by periods of sleep. I’m making good progress, and my ‘tools’ are holding up well, but my wrists and fingers ache abominably. My spine too, from being constantly stooped into the unnatural position.

Breaking off to stand and straighten up, I limber up tight muscles, stretch out limbs and joints, flex fingers tight from gripping. Shaking my hands to set the blood circulating, I measure my progress by eye, comparing it to my meagre supply of food. I’ve imposed a strict self-rationing: only eating when I feel myself flagging. But with the best will in the world, I can’t stretch out my food by more than another sleep or two. After that, I’m on water rations only.

I’ve made good progress, with an ever-deepening well surrounded the bolt shank, but it’s narrow, and I’m having to waste precious time and energy on widening it enough to accommodate my hand before I can deepen it any further. An experimental tug or two to see if the shaft shifts at all, produces nothing. It’s still well buried in the cement.

But hope is a flame: it glitters and burns, warming me with its promise.

Fingers flexing once more, I settle once more to my task.

*****