‘Did they know we were coming?’ I ask. ‘Maybe we should come back another time. Let’s go somewhere for breakfast instead. There must be an early-opening café somewhere round here.’ I yawn and stretch again, though secretly I’m worried. What the fuck is all this about? ‘I could murder a fry-up.’
He drags me back to his side, his face tight. ‘Behave.’
‘Yes, master.’
His gaze flicks to me, but he says nothing.
‘You’re a tough audience,’ I say.
‘Shut up.’
I set my teeth at his tone, wishing I could make a run for it. But I know he would only catch me and drag me back.
The downstairs window is covered with thick net curtains, a dingy grey colour. Who the hell lives here and why does Dominic want me to meet them? The house looks ordinary enough, even a little run-down, paint peeling from the door frame, a faded sticker on the glass door panel: NO SALESMEN, COLD CALLERS OR CANVASSERS.
I feel sick again.
‘Bacon and eggs,’ I say, struggling to hide my nausea. ‘With fried bread and mushrooms and tomatoes and black pudding. And a hot, sweet cup of tea.’
Then the door opens.
A large black woman with dreadlocks looks out at us, a weary look on her face like she’s been awake all night. She’s wearing a pale-blue uniform with some kind of flower logo on the collar, and a badge that says Nurse Trudi.
‘Good morning, sir.’ She clearly recognises Dominic and is not surprised to see him, despite a hint of irritation in her tone. Her gaze locks on me with interest though. ‘You didn’t say you’d be bringing someone new with you.’
‘Is that a problem?’
‘Of course not, sir.’ Her lips purse as she continues to study me. ‘Though it’s a little early for visitors.’
‘I’m sorry about that. But like I said on the phone, it can’t be helped. When does your shift end?’
‘Nine o’clock.’
There’s a clock on the wall inside. The time is coming up to half past seven. He glances at it. ‘We’ll be gone by then.’
She shrugs, and steps aside for us.
‘Right, you first.’ Dominic pushes me past the nurse into the hallway. ‘And don’t try anything stupid,’ he tells me.
I halt inside, uncomfortable and a little scared now. What is this place? A flight of stairs reaches into darkness to the right. Ahead of me is what looks like a kitchen, its door partly open, electric light spilling out into the hall. The carpet under my feet is worn almost to nothing, only a few dark blue stripes remaining along each edge from its original colour. The whole place reeks mustily of tomatoes, which I can see growing on a windowsill in the kitchen.
Everything smells damp and neglected.
It’s a little early for visitors.
Who are we visiting?
‘I don’t want to stay,’ I say, turning around. ‘I don’t like it here.’
Dominic says nothing, but spins me back round by the shoulders and gives me another shove, pushing me further inside.
‘Bastard,’ I mutter.
‘Should I put the kettle on, sir?’ Nurse Trudi asks, watching us.
‘Yes,’ Dominic says at once, as if eager to be rid of the woman. ‘Tea would be nice, thank you, Trudi. Give us some time first though. Say, half an hour?’
She looks at me curiously, seeming almost as bemused by this visit as I am, then nods and disappears into the kitchen, closing the door behind her.
It’s dark in the hallway once the kitchen door shuts.
‘Dom,’ I whisper, suddenly panicked. ‘What are we doing here? Whose house is this?’
He does not answer but feels for the light switch, and I sag against the wall in relief as it comes on, my heart thumping under my ribs. I’ve always hated the dark. It’s like death.
‘I want to leave,’ I say raggedly. ‘I hate this place. It smells like an old people’s home.’
He points silently down the hall. When I don’t move, he puts a hand on the small of my back and pushes me. I stumble, hands out, nearly falling.
‘For God’s sake . . .’
‘First door on the left,’ he says coldly.
I come to a halt outside the door. The once-cream-painted wood is grimy with age.
It’s closed.
He stands behind me, his face tense. ‘Open the door,’ he says.
‘I don’t want to.’
‘Open it, Rachel.’
I pout, turning away towards the kitchen. ‘I said, I’m not going in there. I hate you. And I don’t want tea anymore. I want a coffee. Strong black coffee.’
‘You are going in there, and I don’t care if you hate me or not.’ Seizing me by the arm, he jerks me back to the door so hard I almost smack my head on the wood. ‘It’s time to face up to what you did.’
‘Fuck you!’
He takes my hand and forces it down on the handle. ‘Open the door, Rachel.’
I stare back at him, the two of us struggling in silence, our gazes locked. But he’s stronger. The handle gives, and the door opens a little.
At first, all I can see is that the front room of the house is small and dim. There are net curtains at a window, filtering the dawn to a milky light that dapples the plain white wallpaper like a pattern. I can hear the steady pump of a machine somewhere out of sight, and high-pitched electronic beeps at regular intervals. There’s a green armchair near the door, and a half-finished jigsaw puzzle on a table beside it. An oval mirror on the wall.
I catch my face in the mirror, my eyes wide with fear, and Dominic’s dark head behind me, like an avenging angel.
Then he pushes the door open wider, and I get a proper look inside. I shake my head at what I see and try to back out of the room, but Dominic stands firmly behind me, pushing me forward.
‘No,’ I say. ‘I don’t want to look. I don’t feel well.’ My voice sounds scared, but I’m not, of course. I’m just pissed off at him for putting me through this. ‘Take me home, Dom.’
‘Get inside,’ he says harshly, thrusting me back into the room. There’s no love or humour left in his face, not a spark of the Dominic I thought I knew. ‘Not nice, is it?’ he says. ‘Take a good look. A good, hard look. This is your doing, Rachel. This is all your fault.’
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Dominic closes the door and points to a large bed near the window. It is standing on a thick plastic sheet. The bed has raised metal sides, the whole frame on wheels like a hospital bed. Next to it is a tall standard lamp.
A woman in a white gown is lying on the bed, apparently asleep, under a white sheet that covers her body from the chest down. Her bare arms rest by her sides. Two soft white pillows are under her head. Her eyes are closed. She looks peaceful in the half-light, like a fairy-tale princess resting on a bed of feathers or snow.
There’s a vase of flowers and a book lying face down on the cabinet beside her bed. I glance at the title on the spine.
Through the Looking-Glass, and What Alice Found There.
Dominic treads softly as he goes to one side of the bed. He looks down at the woman for a moment, his expression unreadable, then switches on the lamp.
The illusion of beauty falls away under that harsh light. She is painfully thin, almost skeletal. Her cheeks are gaunt and her eye sockets hollow and dark. Her head has been shaved. There are plastic tubes taped to her mouth and nostrils. She is completely unmoving. Her face is so pale that she looks dead.
I draw back in horror, wondering why the hell I have been brought here, why I’m being shown this dead woman.
But then I see her chest gently rising and falling. She isn’t dead. Merely asleep.
Not a natural sleep, however. I study the machines ranged on either side of the bed, connected to her body via various tubes and wires. A ventilator, I think, and a heart monitor, and other machines I don’t recognise.
‘They keep her alive,’ Dominic says, watching me inscrutably. ‘Until I decide this charade has gone on long enough. That it’s time to let her go.’
‘I don’t understand.’
He draws a slow breath, then lets it out. Controlling himself.
‘Don’t you, Rachel?’