She doesn’t answer. Instead she turns to climb the stairs.
‘You’ve come this far. Help me.’
She’s gone, back to her room, unseen, unheard, unconvinced.
60
Crossing a carpet of dead leaves on the paving stones, I let myself through the French doors into the dining room. The furniture is covered in old sheets that turn armchairs and sofas into shapeless lumps.
A cast iron coal grate, forever black, sits in the small fireplace beneath an old mantelpiece that is dotted with pinholes left by dozens of Christmas stockings, none of them owned by the Arab.
I climb the stairs. The girl is lying quietly. She hasn’t tried to take tape from her head. How obedient she’s become. How compliant.
The wind outside is blowing branches against the walls, scratching at the paintwork. Occasionally, she lifts her head, wondering if the sound is something more. She lifts her head again. Perhaps she can hear me breathing.
Sitting up, she lowers her chained feet cautiously to the floor. Then she leans forward until her hands touch the radiator. Feeling her way, she hops sideways until she reaches the toilet. She stops and listens, then pulls down her jeans. I hear the telltale tinkle.
Pulling up her jeans, she manages to find the sink. There are two taps, hot and cold. Left and right. She turns on the cold tap and puts her fingers beneath the stream. Lowering her head, she tries to position the hose in her mouth into the stream of water. It’s like watching an awkward bird take a drink. She has to hold her breath and suck at the water. It goes down the wrong way, triggering a coughing fit that leaves her sobbing on the floor.
I touch her hand. She screams and tries to scramble away, banging her head against the plumbing.
‘It’s only me.’
She cannot answer.
‘You’ve been a very good girl. Now I want you to hold still.’ She flinches as I touch her. Leading her to the bed, I make her sit. Using a pair of dressmaker’s scissors, I hook the lower blade beneath the tape at the nape of her neck and begin snipping upward, a little at a time.
Her sweat and body heat have glued her hair to the tape. I have to cut it away. I slice through her locks, pulling at the balls of tape and hair. It must hurt. She doesn’t show it until I wrench it away from her face, trying to do it quickly to spare her pain. She screams into the hose and spits it out.
I put the scissors down. The ‘mask’ is off, lying on the floor like the skin of a gutted animal. Tears and snot and melted glue cover her face. There are worse things.
I hold a bottle of water to her lips. She drinks greedily. Droplets fall onto her cardigan. She wipes her chin with her shoulder.
‘I’ve brought you food. The hamburger is cold, but it should taste OK.’
She takes a mouthful. No more.
‘Can I get you anything else?’
‘I want to go home.’
‘I know.’
I pull up a chair and sit across from her. It’s the first time she has seen me. She doesn’t know whether to look.
‘Do you remember me?’
‘Yes. You were on the bus. Your leg is better.’
‘It was never broken. Are you cold?’
‘A little.’
‘I’ll get you a blanket.’
I take a quilt from one of the chairs and drape it around her shoulder. She shrinks from my touch.
‘Want some more water?’
‘No.’
‘Maybe you’d prefer a soft drink. Some Coke?’
She shakes her head.
‘Why are you doing this?’
‘You’re too young to understand. Eat your burger.’
She sniffles and takes another small bite. The silence seems too big for the room.
‘I have a daughter. She’s younger than you.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Chloe.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t seen her in a while.’
The girl takes another bite of the burger. ‘I had a friend called Chloe when we lived in London. I haven’t seen her since we moved.’
‘Why did you leave London?’
‘My dad is sick.’
‘What’s wrong with him?’
‘He’s got Parkinson’s. It makes him shake and he has to take pills.’
‘I’ve heard of it. Do you get on OK with your dad?’
‘Sure.’
‘What sort of stuff do you do with him?’
‘We kick a ball around and go hiking… just stuff.’
‘He read to you?’
‘I’m a bit old for that.’
‘But he used to.’
‘Yeah, I guess. He reads to Emma.’
‘Your sister.’
‘Uh-huh.’
I look at my watch. ‘I have to go out again in a little while. I’m going to tie you up but I won’t tape your head like before.’
‘Please don’t go.’
‘I won’t be long.’
‘I don’t want you to leave.’ Tears shine in her eyes. Isn’t it strange: she’s more frightened of being alone than she is of me.
‘I’ll leave the radio on. You can listen to music.’
She sniffles and curls up on the bed, still holding the half-eaten burger.
‘Are you going to kill me?’ she asks.
‘Why do you think that?’
‘You told my mum that you were going to cut me open… that you were going to do things to me.’
‘Don’t believe everything you hear a grown up say.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘What it says.’
‘Am I going to die?’
‘That depends upon your mother.’
‘What does she have to do?’
‘Take your place.’
She shudders. ‘Is that true?’
‘It’s true. Be quiet now or I’ll put the tape back on your mouth.’
She pulls the quilt over her and turns her back to me, shrinking into the shadows. I move away, putting on my
