She clicked ‘reserve for collection’ before she could talk herself out of it.
Jenna stepped out of the car, the machete in her right hand. It felt heavy in a way gym weights never did. Heavy with potential. Heavy with the knowledge that she could, if she swung it wrong, remove her own shin.
Thwack.
The handle was black rubber with a lanyard hole. The blade was 18 inches of high-carbon steel, a spine thick enough to baton wood, a belly that curved into a point designed to sever green vines. It had a nylon sheath with a belt loop. It was utterly, terrifyingly competent.
It felt absurd. A contradiction. A machete from a place that sold tap washers and trade packs of caulk. But the results loaded with cold, logistical certainty. machete knife screwfix
She thought of the other things she could order from Screwfix: a drain rod, a sledgehammer, a respirator. Tools for the living. Not for fighting, but for clearing. For carving a way through the mess that had grown up around her since Mark left.
She raised the blade.
She opened the Screwfix app again. Scrolled past the machete listing— 64 reviews, 4.7 stars —and added a pair of thorn-proof gauntlets and a head torch.
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