“Is that an invitation?”
“Yes.”
She laughs and kisses me again. As she steps away, I grab her and pull her close, hearing her exhale softly. Her mouth opens. There is nothing left to say.
Later that night or early the next morning, she is lying next to me, her head resting on my shoulder and her right arm across my chest.
“I thought you were going to say no,” I say, tracing my fingers over her breasts.
“I have no self-control.”
“Maybe I should apologize.”
“It’s a bit late now.” She kisses the tips of my fingers. “It was certainly different.”
“In a good way?”
“Definitely worth repeating.” She rolls out of bed. “Not tonight, sadly, I have an early start.”
“So you’re loving me and leaving?”
She’s in the bathroom, getting dressed. “It’s not like that.”
“What is it like?”
“Complicated.”
“You’re seeing someone else?”
“This was probably a mistake.”
“Don’t turn it into a tragedy. Nobody got hurt.”
She’s studying herself in the mirror, adjusting her hair. There is something very sensual about a woman preparing herself.
“Are you married?” I ask.
“No.”
“What is it then?”
“Nothing.”
She pulls on her overcoat and kisses my cheek. There is a note on the floor, pushed under the door. She picks it up and reads the name, her forehead buckling.
It’s a handwritten message from DCI Drury.
Blackout over: the storm breaks.
I haven’t heard him coming.
He is sitting in the shadows with just his hands and knees in the light. My heart stops and I take a juddering breath, scrambling to the end of the bunk.
He leans forward, his face now visible.
“Good morning, Princess.”
The skin wrinkles around his eyes.
When there were two of us he would never come down the ladder. He’s more confident now that I’m alone. I haven’t had a chance to study him up close for a long time—not for years. He’s a forgettable man; one you wouldn’t notice twice. Once even.
“You must be hungry. Are you ready to come upstairs?”
I shake my head.
“I have a warm bath waiting. Hot food.”
He’s smiling with a mixture of compassion and dry humor.
“Where’s Tash?”
“Don’t worry about her.”
“Is she all right?”
George glances at the window. “You were very foolish helping her escape like that. I know what you did. I know how you did it.”
My bladder is full. I have to use the toilet.
He walks around the basement, stopping at the sink and examining the empty cans as though frightened he might catch something.
He points to the ladder. “I’m going up now. You know what’s going to happen if you don’t come to me? Remember the hose?”
He grips the ladder and climbs easily, balancing on the uppermost rung before swinging through the open hatch like a gymnast. He peers back through the hole.
“Come on now, Piper. You know you want to.”
“Are you going to hurt me?”
“Why would I do that?”
“You hurt Tash.”
“She didn’t do as she was told.”
I scan the room, looking for something—a weapon or a way out.
“Don’t make me wait, Piper.”
I don’t want to go up the ladder, but it’s been three years living in a hole. I want to see different walls.
“I have hot food,” he says again. “A warm bath.”
I climb. One hand follows the other. Higher. I hold my arms above my head. He reaches down and grabs me by the wrists, lifting me easily. Hoisting me to the edge of the trapdoor and then higher onto my feet.
He lets me go. The room is dark. I’m standing under a set of iron stairs. George walks through a door into a second room, motioning me to follow. He’s wearing a jacket and corduroy trousers—the sort of clothes my father would wear.
We’re in some sort of workshop or factory, with high ceilings and narrow windows running along the top of the walls. The plaster is crumbling, the roof panels are broken. I notice a chest freezer with a blinking red light; a table, two plastic chairs, boxes, metal drums. Then I smell the food. Barbecued chicken. Still warm.
He tears open the bag. I think I might faint from hunger. The bag is from the Chicken Cottage in Abingdon. I know that shop because the man who runs it has one of those mail-order brides from the Philippines who looks like she’s about seventeen.
“Maybe you should wash first,” says George.
I shake my head.
He offers me a chair. My hands are shaking. Stomach cramping. I can see the greasy warm flesh, the golden brown skin, the fat drumsticks…