With a shove to the small of my back, I am propelled into the small square room. The sound of the door being locked behind me causes my heart to leap in my quivering chest. A woman lies on the bed, bound in an off-white thing that looks like a sweater with the sleeves crossed over the chest and tied behind her back. Only it’s not a sweater.
With small steps, I shuffle forward, one foot at a time. Slowly. The shoulders of the woman on the bed twitch. When I am close enough to reach out and touch her, she screams and leaps up like a cat. I whimper and retreat.
‘So she didn’t take you! Ha! Figures. Who’d want a creature like you? No one. That’s who.’ She doubles over with laughter and falls from the bed to the ice-cold concrete floor.
I rear up against the door and cry out.
‘Let me out! Please!’
My tiny fists pound the door, but my voice reverberates off the stone walls and hangs in the air as if suspended by spider’s webs.
No one comes.
‘It was an accident,’ the woman says. ‘Oh, I know they’re saying I purposely set the house on fire. But why would I do that? I had the two of you. Tried to love you, I did, you ungrateful brat.’
She shuffles closer to me on her buttocks and snarls like a rabid dog. Like a desperate chained-up dog trying to escape. She is not like my mother at all. Though I know that is who she is.
I cry out once more. Turn my face towards the door to blot out the sight of the foam oozing from the side of her mouth.
‘I want to go back to my own bed. Please…’
‘I want to go back to my own bed,’ the woman mimics, before her voice convulses in a long cough. ‘Come here and help me, sweetie pie. Open the buckles. You know how to do that, don’t you? I showed you once, didn’t I? With the buckles on your shoes.’
My whimpers dissolve into choking sobs.
‘Please… I want to go home.’
‘This room is soundproofed. No one can hear you, my little baby. Only me.’
‘I w-want to g-go home.’
‘This is your home now. Maybe I will finish what I started, and this time I just might kill you.’
Another strangled laugh. More foam. A gurgle. Broken breaths.
I stare at the steel door without turning around.
I remain standing facing the door until someone comes and opens it.
Twenty-four hours later.
Day Three
Twenty-Four
The clock on the old whitewashed wall showed the men it was 5 a.m.
‘They’ll be here soon,’ the older man said.
‘I’m a bit nervous,’ replied the younger one. ‘Such an awkward time to have a meeting.’
‘Have a pull on this. I made it extra strong.’
‘I will. What’s the point if we can’t test the product?’
‘Now you’re sucking diesel.’
‘I hope no one found out.’ The young man took a long drag and let the familiar feeling float through his veins. He took two more drags, the taper desiccating between his bloodstained fingers. ‘We’ve done what we were asked. I don’t see the point of this meeting.’
‘Will you shut your gob?’
‘But the old woman. That wasn’t supposed to happen, was it?’
‘I think it might’ve been part of the plan all along. Can’t bring her back to life, can we? She was old enough to kick the bucket so stop going on about it.’
The young man laughed nervously. Had he really signed up for all of this? Once you’re in, there’s no backing out; that was what his friend had told him. All the same, he had never been that violent before. It must be the drugs. Not him. Someone else had inhabited his body. An alien. Yeah, that was what it was. A big green alien.
‘What’re you laughing at, you eejit?’ the older man said.
The young man kept laughing. After a while, his companion joined in.
They were laughing so loudly they didn’t hear the door open, or see the figure in black clothing enter, a knife clutched tightly in one hand and a jerrycan of petrol in the other.
Twenty-Five
Emma couldn’t hear any rain. The house seemed to be resting in silence. She struggled to her knees and peered out through the slit in the curtains. A pall of smoke was rising far in the distance, a grey mist rooting it close to the earth.
She wished she could go out and walk, allow the softness of the morning to fog up her spectacles and her feet to splash in puddles. But she wasn’t five any more and she was stuck in Natasha’s house. Sitting back down on the bed, she dragged the duvet to her chin and remembered the rows she’d had with her mother. About her dad, and her granny. That woman could shout when she wanted. And the rows she’d overheard. The words that had been flung to the four walls. Words that had seeped through bricks and mortar and settled in her brain.
Her home had been much quieter since Tessa had moved to her own apartment and Daddy had left. But a strong ache stabbed at Emma’s heart as she thought of what was facing her.
Another day with Natasha and her mum, and of course her guard. Why did she have to be here? She felt perfectly safe.
The tears threatened again. She pulled the duvet over her head and let them flow.
Twenty-Six
The morning broke without rain. The first time in over a week. But the sky bulged with heavy grey clouds and Lottie could see a mist hanging around the cathedral spires.
‘Annabelle, I hate to be annoying you, but can you fit me in today?’
‘I’m free before surgery starts. Now. Can you get here in the next five minutes?’
‘Sure. I’m outside.’
She put away her phone, opened the door and entered the building. The receptionist nodded and Lottie made her way into Annabelle’s surgery.
‘What happened to you?’ she asked.
‘Oh, this?’ Annabelle put her bandaged hand down on her lap, under the desk. ‘Knocked over a kettle of boiling water.’
‘Are you okay?’
‘Yes. Enough about me. Sit down and tell me what’s up.’
Lottie shook off her jacket and hung it on the back of the chair. ‘I hate asking, because I know you don’t want to do it, but…’
‘But what? I’ve a full roster for the rest of the day, so you’d better be quick.’
Taking a deep breath, Lottie said, ‘It’s like this. I’m… I’m drinking again. Just the last few months. I’m trying to quit. It’s hard, Annabelle. Very hard.’
‘You’ve quit before.’
‘I know, but it’s worse this time. I need something to shave off the bristling edge.’
‘And you want me to give you that something?’
‘Just for a week or two. Until I get the alcohol out of my system.’
‘You know as well as I do that substituting alcohol with a narcotic isn’t going to help.’
‘I’m not a druggie. I just need a few Xanax. To get me through the bad patches.’
‘You need rehab.’
‘I’m not an alcoholic!’ Lottie folded her arms and turned down her mouth in disgust. No, she wasn’t an alcoholic. She just couldn’t do without it. Big difference.
The desk phone buzzed.
‘I’ve a patient to see.’ Annabelle took up a pen. ‘Against my better judgement here is a script for one week. One a day. Twenty-five milligrams. Okay?’
‘Can’t you make it fifty?’
‘No.’
‘For two weeks?’
‘Lottie, you need help. Professional help.’
‘You’re a professional. That’s why I’m here.’
‘You don’t give up.’
‘Never.’
Lottie watched as Annabelle tried to write out the prescription with her bandaged hand, her other hand shaking as she held down the page.
‘What’s wrong, Annabelle?’
The doctor raised her head. Blackness circled her eyes through a sheen of foundation.
‘Wrong? Nothing is wrong with me.’
‘Keep telling yourself that and you’ll believe it. I’m the expert on that hypothesis.’
‘Honestly, everything is fine.’
Lottie took the script, folded it up and shoved it into her bag before Annabelle could change her mind. ‘You have my number. If you ever need to talk. About anything. Understand?’
‘Up until a few days ago, you were hardly speaking to me.’
‘I’m always your friend, even when we argue. So ring me if you need me.’