Page 139 of The Vanishing Place
Her throat tightened and she slunk to the floor, the chain hanging limp over her legs. Minutes crept by, then hours, and Effie slipped in and out of a daze, never quite sleeping but never fully awake. She should move. She should eat some of the remaining food scraps. But then, what was the point? Effie turned onto her side and closed her eyes, more lost than she’d ever been.
Eventually, a soft buzzing stirred her—a bug or an insect—and Effie rubbed at her face. She pulled herself up, her crushed ankle tingling as the nerves fired, and she swatted at the air.
Then she saw it.
One of the boards that was nailed across the window wasn’t flush. There was a slim gap, just a few millimeters. A space for air and light and something pointy. Effie sat up and crawled forward, sweeping her hands across the floor.
“Yes.”
She held up the tarnished fork and crawled back to the window. The rust flaked off in her fingers as she angled the metal prongs into the gap.
“Come on.”
Effie pushed the pointed steel into the small space and wiggled at it, widening the gap a millimeter at a time.
“Come on.”
If she could find a way out, then she would tackle the chain again. One small step at a time. There was a creak as the wood shifted and the fork wedged in deeper. A smile crept across Effie’s face. It was working. She jammed and tugged and grunted, the skin on her palm rubbed raw, until eventually, the end of the wooden slat came away.
She’d done it.
Effie pushed her hand through the thin gap, touching glass. But something was wrong. It wasn’t bright enough.No. No.There were more planks. The window was boarded up on the outside too.No. Her heart screamed as she peered through the glass at the second barrier of wood.
“No.” Effie punched the wall.
The grief rose in her stomach like a fog, and Effie slid to her knees. As she sunk downward, a voice pierced the mist.
“It’s futile, Effie.” It came from outside the hut. Low and male. “God’s the only one who can save you now.”
Effie dragged herself back up.
“What have you done to her?” she shouted.
She thumped at the planks, spitting out hot saliva with her words.
“Peter!”
The muscles in her jaw tensed, her heart racing.
“Answer me!”
1993
Adam wrapped hisarms around his head and pushed his back against the living room wall. It was bad.
Bad. Bad.
Dad crashed and swore his way around the house. Anger bloated under his skin, making his cheeks and eyes red, then it burst out. The air cracked as Dad hurled a stool at the wall, and Daniel flinched in the corner.
Daniel never flinched. Daniel never got scared.
Adam squeezed his eyes shut, then pushed his arms against his ears. He didn’t like it. He wanted Dad to stop shouting—to stop yelling bad words.
“How old’s the prick?” demanded Dad.
Daniel mumbled something.
“Speak up, boy.”
