Cal felt like he had been under water for a very long time and suddenly broke free to the surface. He took a huge gulp of cold air through his mouth and nose and then started choking, coughing, gagging, his shoulders convulsing, tugging on the ropes on his wrists, reminding him harshly where he was and what was happening. His nose was blocked and when he sucked in air, he had snorted back congealed blood into his throat. But he was glad his mouth was clear because if it hadn't been for that he would have surely choked to death, if not before, probably now. He used his gag reflex to bring whatever was in the back of his throat into his mouth and unceremoniously spat it across the room, as far away from himself as he could possible get. And then he realised, not only was his mouth clear from the gag, his eyes were unencumbered too.

The room was dark, the door wide open. Cal was on the floor, where he had fallen, his face still mashed against the wood. Through moonlight he could see the dark shade of his own blood on the floorboards. Cal stopped shifting around and listened. He could hear the very faint murmur of something in the background. A TV if he had to guess, because he could hear the occasional jingling music of an advertisement. The TV was on. He could make noise! He shifted himself up into a kneeling position, the pressure on his knee caps almost unbearable. But he was renewed with an energy based on his stores of anger. He had had enough of this bullshit. He was going to try something, anything to help himself. Every hour that he spent here was another hour he imagined Gillian in hospital potentially giving birth. And he had promised her.

He had promised her.

Cal looked up at the hook. Too far away. What else? He shuffled towards the open door. The insert that fit into the door frame had a sharp edge. But the door would swing around, it would take a very long time, and it was the wrong height; Cal couldn't stand. He needed to think again. What else did he have? A belt buckle he couldn't get to. A knife would be handy, cell phone... 'Stop it'. He took a deep breath, tried to relax, to think clearly around a fuzzy dehydrated brain. His shoulders ached. His ribs, his kidneys, his legs, his wrists stung, his head pounded, his nose, eyes, face. He noticed for the first time his eyesight seemed blurry, but that was hard to confirm in silvery moonlight.

The door was wide open. He could leave the room. Which was dangerous in itself. Because if the bastard assailant came back Cal couldn't launch himself at the mattress and pretend he had been lying there the whole time. And with his hands bound, there was no way Cal could get far, or defend himself, or do much of anything outside the room anyway. He could break a window, hope a sharp edge was left behind and he could use it to cut the ropes. Breaking a window had the potential to bring attention. He wondered how loud the TV was, decided he didn't really have time to go and check. It wasn't like he could just nip downstairs for a second. Cal moved over to the window. Breaking it might be worth the possibility. He would have to smash his head into it though; it wasn't like he could get an elbow or foot there. Then he ran the risk of cutting his face. Head wounds bleed profusely, but that didn't mean he was in danger of bleeding out. So long as he didn't nick one of the veins or arteries in his neck. And considering he hadn't had anything to drink in a while, his blood would probably be thick...

Would he even be able to reach the window? Cal got closer and closer until he was underneath it. Being in the attic was suddenly a blessing. The ceiling tapered off quite abruptly, the window was low. Cal could reach it with his head easily. In fact, now that he could look out of it properly, he could see the asshole attacker's truck. He could see where the driveway led off. If he pressed his face against the glass, Cal could even see the headlights of a car on the road. His heart leapt with joy, optimism, hope. The road was right there.

'Focus,' he told himself. He tapped the glass with his head to see how thick it was. If it was double glazed he was going to have a harder time. But if it was the original glass there was a chance it had dropped. Glass was more liquid than solid, over time gravity would have its way and the top would become thin, the bottom thicker. It seemed pretty solid. Cal felt a small pang of disappointment. He tried to ignore it. Escaping was not going to be easy, he reasoned with himself but he had to do something. He was a man of action and he didn't like just lying around waiting to get the snot kicked out of him again. Besides, he had promised Gillian. Promised her. He always kept his promises.

Cal steeled himself, waiting for a particularly noisy burst of television, or at least, what seemed like one; he was having a hard time focussing. He thought now that he should have closed the door, but he couldn't be bothered, and was excited now, just wanted to get this over with. He balanced himself on his knees carefully and drew his head and shoulders back. He took a deep breath and lunged forward, trying to put the force of movement into his head; he aimed high and turned his face. He struck the glass and bounced off it. He didn't even feel it move in the pane. And now his head hurt even more. He lay back on his hands awkwardly, feeling their lump in his back, his muscles burning at being stretched, thinking fleeting thoughts about what had happened in his life that had brought him to this moment, feeling a sting of tears, the throb of his nose, the sting of his wrists, the throb of his body, the sting of shame.

Gillian.

'Focus on Gillian!'

"Gillian," he said her name aloud, his voice croaking from mis-use and an over dry throat. Cal worked up some saliva, rubbed it around his teeth and cheeks with his swollen tongue. He swallowed a few times. "Gillian," he said again a little firmer, still barely more than a whisper. He got up again. He sized up the window. He didn't want to try again. And then he noticed something else. He thanked God twice over for his good fortune. The window was a sash. There was a protruding piece of metal that the catch would hook into to hold the window open. He had been lucky to see it. He had been lucky to not strike his head on it, or gouge something out of his arm.

Now, would he be able to reach it?

Determined with a new focus Cal got to his knees once again, ignored the shooting pain from both knee caps and his shoulders, and shuffled right up close to the window. Yes! He could reach it. He turned, angled his hands up behind him, had to lean over slightly so he could feel for the metal. He lined up as best he could and started rubbing the ropes back and forth over the catch. He did it until his shoulders ached so unbearably that he fell to the floor. He sucked in dusty air from the floorboards and listened for signs the TV had gone off. Nothing had changed. He felt for the rope with his fingers. There was a tiny groove. He hoped that was because of his handy work.

Feeling a new wave of energy and determination, Cal got to his knees again, lined up the groove with the metal and rubbed it back and forth again. He kept pushing until his shoulders screamed out in agony and tears prickled his eyes. He fell forward again. It took a long time for the fierce burning of lactic acid to melt away from his shoulder muscles. Cal felt for the groove again. It was definitely bigger. He felt a surge of exhilaration. He repeated the process again and again and again until he felt a pop in his left shoulder, searing hot pain, and it suddenly didn't hurt anymore. He figured that wasn't good. But the rope was literally hanging by a thread now and it gave way when he tugged on it. His feet came away from his hands and he fell to the ground onto his right shoulder, registering that something was wrong with his left, but not being able to comprehend it fully. What got through to his brain, around the pain, was that he had cut through the rope. He had freed himself.

Success!

It was bloody awkward, and almost more agony than it was worth, but Cal shifted his hands under his feet, inch by bloody painful inch, until his hands were in front of him. He thanked himself for being lean. With his hands in front of him and his legs stretched out to their full length, Cal felt blood return to areas he hadn't felt in days. That was a whole new intense kind of pain, pins and needles multiplied a thousand times over; more agony on top of more agony. He flexed his arms and legs, trying to help shift the old bad blood away and let in the new oxygenated blood. He needed his muscles getting the best, otherwise he was not going to be able to move when it really became imperative.

Cal rolled on to his back and sat up, his knees bent in front of him. He felt for the knots around his ankles. Hard to tell in the dark, but he suspected it was a reef knot; easily tied, held strongly, sat flat. The stronger version of a Granny Knot, used by one and all to tie their shoes. Over, under, under, over. Cal filed that information away. Then he worked tired, numb fingers against the bindings, trying to ease them away. All that pulling had probably only served to tighten the restraints. Cal felt like he had spent hours working on them, especially with just one hand cooperating with him. And he was actually feeling like he might give up when something gave slightly. He worked a finger and tried again. The rope became looser. Cal tugged and pulled and ignored how the rough rope rubbed at his wrists even more. The bindings came loose and Cal threw the rope away from him.

He felt another surge of elation. He got quickly to his knees, at least, as quickly as he could, and this time picked the exact spot he wanted to cut through with the metal catch on the window. He had a much better angle this time too and even though his upper arms burned and his left shoulder dragged it wasn't long before he had cut through the ropes on his wrists. He fought the ropes away and heaved them at the mattress. The mass of knots bounced off and struck the wall. Cal froze. He quickly, at least, as quickly as he could, crossed to the door on uncooperative legs and pulled it close. He stood in the gap and looked out, his legs shaking. He could see the stair case from that angle. It led directly up to the door. He didn't hear footsteps, just the TV. He had gotten away with that one. He told himself to be more careful.

Cal slipped out of the room, his legs feeling like jelly and he wasn't sure he could feel his feet. He carefully padded down the stairs in his socks, not just so he wouldn't make a sound, but so he wouldn't fall. He reached the bottom and looked around. A hallway, many doors, a gap at the end where the stairs from the first floor came up. Cal shuffled along it, one hand on the wall to steady himself. He crept down those too, noting the television got louder as he curled around a corner. In fact, the TV was up so loud, with every crash of whatever the cunt captor was watching, the walls vibrated slightly. Cal could have broken that window and he doubted the asshole would have heard anything. Cal scuffed along the next hallway towards the front door. Or back door. Whatever. It was a door that led to outside, and that was all he could think about. It was like a mirage in a desert, just slightly out of reach, wavering, taunting him. He wanted to bolt for it, but knew his legs would never carry him. He just hoped it really wasn't a mirage. He didn't want to get there only to find it had been a trick of his imagination.

Cal made his way down the wall to the only open doorway. A kitchen. Right next to the front or back door. Cal peered around it and quickly ducked back. A red armchair sat in the living room, right opposite the door way. He could see the head of the ass-wipe attacker facing the TV, his back to the kitchen. So Cal hadn't been seen, but it didn't stop bile of fear rising into the back of his already burning throat. He had to cross the open doorway to freedom. He didn't want his movement to be detected, there was no way he could out run the guy, whoever he was, in the state Cal was in right now. He slumped down the wall, tired, but by no means defeated yet. He might be physically at a disadvantage, and he usually was in a fight because he was short and lean, but he had smarts on his side. He was observant beyond the point of reason. How often had Gillian gotten frustrated with him because he had already thought of every argument and found a counter to it?

Cal took a deep steadying breath. Time to think again. He had to cross the open door to the front/back door and freedom beyond. There was a truck in the yard, and even if he hobbled along, he could probably still get there fairly quickly. But he needed two things to go his way otherwise he would be royally screwed. He needed keys for the ignition, and he needed the bastard who had beaten him to not follow. So. Cal looked up and around. The keys weren't on a hook by the door. He put his right arm up to feel for the bowl on the table next to where he was slumped. He brought the bowl carefully to his lap. Bloody typical Americans, always keeping their keys in a bowl next to the door. Cal scooped up the only set inside and tucked them into his jeans pockets.

One problem down, now on to number two.

This one was going to be much harder, so many more factors. Cal was in no physical state for a fight or any other kind of exertion; he could barely walk. So he couldn't go in there and deck the guy, or strangle him, or tie him up in a nice bundle for the police to find. And he had already established he couldn't outrun him. Cal doubted very much that he would be up for a nice chat, even though the guy clearly had issues. But Cal certainly needed to create for himself some sort of head start. So what was it?

The TV suddenly went quiet and Cal just about emptied his bladder with the fright of the sudden silence. If there was anything in it that was. He pressed himself into the table he was sitting next to. He realised it was an old sewing machine, one with a manually worked foot pedal. Cal hugged his body into it, turning away from the kitchen, screwed his eyes tightly shut, scared that he was about to be caught. He tried to make himself as small as he possibly could and tried not to think about letting Gillian down.

Cal stayed that way for several long seconds before he realised his kidnapper had gone no further than the kitchen. Cal could hear the clank of a pan, the fridge, bottles, utensils. He relaxed a little, shifted so his back was flat against the wall again, his heart pounding like crazy. The click of and then the sudden rush of gas as the stove was lit. Cal's heart started to calm down. He turned his head. He couldn't see into the room. The sizzle of something in the pan; something that made Cal's mouth start to hyper-salivate. His stomach reared with a crippling pain he hadn't noticed over four days of other physical torment; he hadn't eaten in four days! And he was fucking starving!

Cal bit the inside of his cheek. Stop thinking about it. Focus on something else. His mind trawled through possible subjects. Work, Gillian, food, Gillian, food. All right, that wasn't working. Escape. That would do. No it wouldn't. Cal felt a whimper in his chest. He was so tired, hungry, thirsty and he hurt all over. It was so tempting to leap in there and steal whatever that wanker was making out of his hands. But he couldn't. He had to be more careful. He had to be smart about this.

'If I had food I might have the physical strength,' Cal thought bitterly. He bit his cheek harder, told himself to stop wallowing in self pity. He had a heavily pregnant wife to get home to. That was far more important than his stomach.

The sizzling stopped. Cal could hear a knife on a chopping board. Wooden. It made a distinctly muffled sound. Then boots scuffing away again. The TV came back on. Cal just about threw up with relief. He could still smell the food though. Bacon. He peered around the door frame. Asshole was back in his chair. The flicker of the TV lit up the room in patterns that burned Cal's eyes. He tried rubbing them with his right hand and just about threw up from the pain; he gagged a few times, and not very quietly either. He had forgotten about the punch to his eye. He felt the left one gingerly. It was swollen, very sensitive to the touch. But he could see out of it. He wondered if that mattered anymore.

Cal slowly got to his feet, careful to place his limbs purposefully so he didn't accidently knock something over or make a sound; the key bowl he pushed right out of his way. He leaned on the doorframe heavily. He spied the frying pan. It was a massive heavy base. Perfect for knocking the bastard's block off with. Cal steadied himself and took a tentative step towards it. Better to take things slowly. He didn't want to rush and mess it up right at the last minute. He took slow steps in his socks, picking his feet up and down so carefully for a second he wondered if he was even moving across the room at all. Eventually the fry pan was within his grasp. It was very heavy. And the handle was warm. Cal hoped he had the strength to swing it. He moved forward again so he was behind the prick asshole wanker who had kept him captive for four days. Good. Time to get angry. Think about what he's done to you, not just to you, but to Gillian by taking you away from her.

Cal raised the pan so it was behind his head. His left shoulder was not happy with him at all so he took most of the weight with his right. He almost dropped the cooking implement, could feel it slipping out of his grasp. Why were his hands wet? Were his wrists bleeding again? He hadn't noticed. He didn't bother to look. He had to do this before he lost his nerve.

Focus. Get angry. Cal let the anger boil up inside him, spreading out from his stomach to find his arms and brought the pan down with as much force as he could muster. It struck with such a satisfying crunch Cal almost laughed. It slipped out of his hands to thunk onto the floor. He saw the head in front of him slump over. Cal turned and moved as quickly as he could muster back across the kitchen. He kept on going to the door. It opened despite his slick hands, thankfully it wasn't locked.

It was the back door. He scuffed out into the yard, disorientated for a second. The barn was in a slightly different place, which meant the attic window was actually further around the house. Not that that mattered. Cal moved forward over the cold ground, searching with blinded eyes for the truck. There, on his right, he could see it as his eyes quickly adjusted to the moonlight. He shuffled towards it, panicked that he was going to feel the weight of someone on his back at any second. He refused to look over his shoulder. His nerves were jumpy and they made him want to throw up.

Cal reached the cab. It was unlocked. He hoped he had found the correct keys. For everything that went wrong, the universe seemed to throw two things his way. The keys were correct, they fit the first time Cal tried, despite the fact that his hands were shaking. The engine turned over and Cal simultaneously locked the doors and put the engine into drive. He couldn't feel his foot too well but the accelerator was plenty sensitive enough. The engine roared as Cal put his foot down. He turned on headlights, headed in the direction he thought he remembered the driveway to be in. It was there and he powered through the gate and down the grass lined stretch to the second gate and then he was tipping out onto the road. He swerved wildly, trying to right the balance of the vehicle. Better slow it down, lest he have a god damn accident. That would just be taking the piss.

Cal felt his vision periodically cloud over into blackness even though his eyes were wide open. They were open right? He suspected it was the fatigue and dehydration combined. Either way, he couldn't stop it. He just eased up on the speed a little until he could make out the white painted centre line again, on his right. He checked left and right as he went, looking for the first farmhouse. He went for ten minutes before spotting warm yellow lights on his left. Cal slowed, made an awkward turn into the drive way, clipping the right bumper of the truck on the edge of a fencepost. Facing the right direction Cal gunned it down the driveway and up to the front lawn. He popped open the lock, pulled the door handle, fell out on to the cold grass. Wherever he was, the sun's warmth didn't stay in the ground for very long.

He got to his knees, bruised knee caps and fucked shoulder protesting along the way. He used the open door to pull himself to his feet. He shuffled forward a few steps, fell again. He felt like crying. He had never felt so bloody desperate in his whole life. This topped the time he had been caught in a fire fight in Afghanistan and bullets whizzed around his head. Cal got onto his hands and knees. His stomach started contracting, forcing his throat to constrict. He gagged several times but there was nothing to throw up.

'Stop it, stop it, stop it.'

He managed a deep settling breathe. He wasn't safe until someone knew where he was.

'Get up, get up, get up.'

Another breath. Good. Now get up. Cal struggled without anything to pull himself up with. But he managed because he was so damn close. He could just about spit on the house, that was how close he was. That is, if he had the strength to spit at full capacity. Cal staggered forward again. Stumbled up the concrete steps, stubbed his toe, shoved the pain to the back of his mind along with the rest of it and fell into the door. He banged on it. He wanted to call out but his throat was dry. He banged again.

"Ok calm down!" A female voice called from within.

Cal worked spit into his mouth, whetting his cheeks and tongue and throat as best he could. He croaked out a noise, cleared his throat. Tried again. He heard a key in a lock and then the door moved forward and Cal fell onto his knees, pain shooting up his thighs to his hips. Tears formed in his eyes as he looked up into the bewildered face of the young woman.

"Oh my god!" She exclaimed, bewilderment shifting to horror.

"Can I use your phone?" Cal asked around dry and cracked lips.

She looked as though she wanted to close the door. Luckily Cal was kneeling on her door step. "What happened?"

"Spot of botha," Cal responded. Gillian. He needed to call Gillian.

"I'll call you an ambulance."

"No. Please. Can I please just use your phone? There are people lookin' for me."

He wanted to tell her he wasn't going to hurt her. Wasn't that obvious by the state he was in? He must look a terrible mess.

"And some wart-a?" Cal added as his vision cleared over again. It took a really long time to come back. Enough to scare him into thinking he might be going blind. And never see the face of his baby boy? Fuck he would be so cheated.

The young woman returned with a home phone and a glass. Cal slumped against the wall, barely inside the door; his legs were still hanging over the threshold. They seemed to have abandoned him. He took the phone in his right hand, attempted to take the water with his left. But there was something wrong with that arm because he could barely get his fingers to grip it. He sloshed water over both of them. "Sorry," he muttered.

"Here," the woman held the glass up to his lips. Cal took a sip. She clearly wanted to give him more but he turned his head away and the water spilt down the front of his shirt. It felt cold and refreshing and Cal felt one last burst of energy. "I'm sorry," the woman apologised.

"No. Me. Small sips. It'll make me sick."

The woman put the glass down next to him. "What happened to you?"

Cal had no idea where to start. "What's your name?"

"Tracy."

"Thank you Tracy," Cal said instead. He brought the phone up to his face and dialled out numbers. It rang for a very long time and he almost cried with the thought that it wouldn't be answered.