Shirking the topic, he asked, ‘Who were you on the plane with? I’m assuming you don’t travel alone.’
‘My colleague, Milo. Shit, he was such a good kid.’
‘What happened?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said honestly. ‘The plane struck the water, I was knocked out. When I came to, Milo was just sitting there. There was no blood, nothing. But when I lifted his head his neck was so twisted, all gnarled, as if something had been yanking on it, trying to rip it off. I threw up in his lap, right before I got out of there. I was the only one left alive in my section.’
‘And then you found me?’
‘Saved your drowning arse, you mean?’
He offered a subdued smile. ‘I’m sorry, Abbey.’
‘For what?’
‘For Milo, for Edward, for being stranded in the middle of nowhere with me.’
They walked on in silence, the cool breeze dusting them as they strolled. They passed the aircraft and carried on walking, the silence between them strangely comfortable. When it seemed like the right time to speak again, James said, ‘So what’s the story with the girl?’
‘I really don’t know,’ Abbey replied resignedly. ‘She hasn’t spoken a word but it doesn’t seem to be shock. One minute she clings to me as though the floor is giving away around her, the next she’s throwing up tents like they’re made out of Lego.’
‘Do you know who she lost?’
‘I don’t know anything, she has no ID. The only thing she does have is the flimsy locket around her neck, but she won’t let me see it.’
‘Could be a family heirloom. We should probably pin her down and take it.’
Abbey smirked. ‘Yeah, that’ll help with her trauma.’
A little further along the bay, James paused in the sand and lay down flat on his back.
‘What’re you doing?’
‘Lie down,’ he said.
‘I’m not lying in the sand, it’s freezing.’
‘It’s not cold,’ he assured her.
‘It is cold.’
‘Trust me,’ he said patting the sand.
Reluctantly she lowered herself down and lay back.
‘See, I told you, it’s bloody freezing.’
‘Ignore it,’ he muttered. ‘Look at the sky. Did you ever see anything as beautiful as that?’
Draped over them like an enormous black duvet, the sky twinkled back at them, a million stars in perfect lucidity. They appeared closer than she’d ever seen them.
‘My mom always used to say that no matter where you were in the world, you’re seeing the same night sky as a billion other people. Somehow it always made me feel closer to home.’
Abbey didn’t reply. She just absorbed the moment.
‘It’s going to be okay, Abbey,’ he murmured. ‘You’re going to see Edward again. They’ll find us.’
*
My neck is bleeding. I can feel the sticky patch against my skin.
The month is January and today is my birthday. Frost has bitten the ground and transformed it to stone. When I fall, it hurts like concrete. By means of incentive, I am allowed only underwear.
I am not permitted to fall.
If I do, I am punished.
From head to toe I am covered in scrapes and bruises, and my arm is bent at a funny angle. I fell from the frame and landed on it. There was no crack, but now it’s swollen, and it throbs.
I am not permitted to react to pain.
It is against the rules.
Each time I fall, I am dragged back to the base of the frame, the objective: complete the itinerary before sundown. There will be no food should I fail.
I must do it until I get it right.
I must do it until I get it right.
I must do it until I get it...
The words are ingrained, yet they do not assist me. Knowing the assignment is different from completing it.
Stepping onto the frame, I imagine my arm to be uninjured and haul my body-weight up. I realise now the source of the blood. With each rung, I bite into my bottom lip. It stops me from screaming. I tongue the paper-thin skin. I have almost bitten right through.
On the far side of the frame there is a cargo net, after that a rope swing, a frozen crawl tunnel and a water pit, recently filled.
The water is not yet frozen, but it soon will be.
Unable to climb further, I topple from the frame and crumble onto the uncaring frost. In an eruption of blood, I am lifted from the ground by the kick to my ribs. It takes a moment to realise the blood is mine, the remains of my lip spraying it in a haze across my small chest. But I do not scream. I do not cry.
I am not permitted to react to pain.
It is against the rules.
I am nine years old today.
20
London, 1992
A heavy blanket of mist had descended upon Wimbledon as Derek Holliday walked. There was no need to rush. He sauntered in hazy contentment, solidified by the carefully rolled blunt secreted between his index and middle finger. The streets were empty, the thick mist giving him a dank chill.
He rarely left the house anymore, and when he did he would wait until all those judgemental cunts were tucked up in bed. He didn’t mix well with others. Not that he gave a shit. The fewer people knew about him the better, but of late some people had begun probing into his affairs. The guy down at the corner shop told him only that morning that people had begun asking questions about him, the mysterious new bloke living in their street. He was an unknown, an outsider. If word got out who he was, what he was, he imagined
