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Abigail could not have been more frightened. There were two very good reasons for
Firstly, she was kneeling on a stranger’s stone floor, with her bare chest pressed
into her thighs, her wrists manacled to the ground on either side of her, a trembling
zed on stabilisers.
Secondly, someone had stripped her naked before chaining her up like this. And she
had no idea who he was, or why he had done this to her of all people.
It was pitch black. She waited for her eyes to become accustomed to the dark, but it
made no difference; she could see nothing at all. She could smell, though. The odour
spoke of damp, dirt and urine. Smell was the one sense she could really have done
without right now.
She could shuffle her knees around on the stone (though it scuffed them badly), but
her ankles stayed firmly pinned in place. They must be manacled, too. The sense of
vulnerability, of being powerless, was almost overwhelming.
She shivered violently, partly through cold, but mostly in shock. This couldn’t be
happening to her. She was a nice girl, from a good middle-class family, with a safe
and caring husband. Women like her weren’t kidnapped and chained up in cellars.
And certainly not in Ramsgate! This sort of thing happened to drug-riddled
prostitutes in London or the other big cities, not friendly shop -assistants from sleepy
sea-side towns in Kent.
She had been to the cinema that evening (or possibly yesterday; God only knew
how long she had been here before regaining consciousness a few moments before).