He’s already down the ladder. Standing over me. He grabs my hair and pulls me out of bed and throws me against the wall, bouncing my head off the bricks. He does it again, holding my hair, making syllables into words as my head hits the wall.
“YOU… THINK… YOU… ARE… SO… FUCK… ING… CLEV… ER!”
I crumple on the floor, trying to crawl away, but he grabs my leg and pulls me across the concrete. I can feel the skin being torn from my knees and elbows.
A forearm snakes around my neck. He pulls me back into his chest and wraps his fist in my hair.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
“What are you sorry for?”
“Please don’t hurt me.”
“Tell me—what are you sorry for?”
“I don’t know.”
The blade of the knife is pressed under my left eye, digging into the skin.
“Do you remember how I cut her? Do you want that to happen to you?”
I shake my head.
“When are you going to learn?”
“I will.”
“I’m trying to save you,” he says, almost pleading with me now, still tightening his arm across my neck. “I’m trying to save you from yourself.”
I try to nod, but I can’t move my head.
“You smell!” he says, pushing me away. “Don’t you ever wash?”
“I’m sorry.”
“You keep saying that. You think I’m stupid?”
“No.”
“You think you’re clever helping her escape. She’s not coming back. She’s dead. You killed her. It’s your fault.”
I don’t believe him. He’s lying.
I’m lying on the floor. He kicks me before I can curl into a ball. I do it anyway, trying to protect myself, covering my head.
I hear him moving, but I don’t look up. I can hear water echoing against the metal sides of a bucket. He stands over me, pouring the water slowly over my head and my arms and legs. The cold takes my breath away. He fills the bucket again. I don’t move.
Here it comes again. He kicks me.
“On your back! Open your legs!”
I turn over. He pours the water on my groin and tosses me a scrubbing brush with hard bristles.
“Wash yourself.”
I don’t understand.
He kicks me again. “I said, wash yourself.”
I use the brush, rubbing it along my arms.
“Not there! There!”
He points. I put the brush between my thighs.
“Scrub!”
I hesitate.
“You do it, or I’ll do it for you. That’s it. Harder! Harder!”
I can’t see through the tears. I can barely hear him.
When he’s satisfied, he takes the brush away from me. Then he collects the remaining food in a plastic bag, my last can of beans. He carries it up the ladder and turns off the light.
“When you’re really sorry, we’ll talk again. Maybe then I’ll turn the lights on.”
The trapdoor shuts. The darkness comes to life, breathing into my ears, whispering, sighing.
On my hands and knees I crawl across the room to the sink. The vomit that comes out of me is bitter water. My clothes are soaked. The bunks. The bedding. I still have gas in the cooker.
I make myself a cup of tea, feeling my way around the basement. Then I sit with my head over the bedpan, wanting to be sick again. I’m not scared of the dark any more. I’m used to it now. The darkness used to be like death, now it’s like the womb.
He told me nobody wanted me. He told me they stopped looking because nobody cared. He said Tash was dead. I’m not going to believe his lies.
I shake the ladder. I shout at the trapdoor. “I need a dry blanket.”
Nobody comes.
“I need a dry blanket.”
Still nothing.
“I’m sorry.”
17
It’s still early when I arrive at Ruiz’s house in Fulham. Mist hangs over the Thames, blurring naked trees on the distant bank. Rowers appear from the shroud, pulling into view with choreographed strokes like a ballet on water.
Ruiz answers the door in a short bathrobe, bare legs and Ugg boots.
I look at his feet. “You’re wearing dead sheep.”
“How observant of you. No wonder you’re a psychologist. They were a gift from Miranda. They’re so ugly I’ve grown fond of them.” He wiggles his toes. “I’m thinking of giving them names: Lambchop and Shaun.”
His arms fold around me in a proper hug. Not many British men can hug, but Ruiz makes it feel as easy as a handshake. I follow him down the hallway to the kitchen.
“Do you want to put some trousers on?”
“No.”
“Charlie?”
“Still asleep.”
“Did she say anything?”
“She puked her little heart out about 3:00 a.m. I gave her an aspirin and put her back to bed.”