“Oh”—Laura turned to look at her—“they not around anymore? Sorry. My parents are a dead loss. I told you that, didn’t I? My dad means well but my mum’s a nightmare, and the thing with her is, no matter how shit she is, right, I always end up forgiving her, don’t know why. I can’t help myself.”
The kettle whistled; Miriam got up and removed it from the hob. She folded her arms once more across her chest, watching Laura with a thoughtful expression on her face. “You’re damaged, that’s why,” she said at last. “I don’t mean that as a criticism; it’s an observation. Things were done to you when you were younger that left you with scars, inside and out. Isn’t that right?” Laura nodded. She backed away a little, so that she was leaning right up against the bookshelf. “When I came to your home and you laughed at me and mocked me—no, no, don’t say anything, just listen—when that happened, I told you that we were similar, and you said that we weren’t, but you were wrong. I recognize the damage in you, because I’ve been damaged too, you see. Something happened to me when I was a girl, something that marked me.”
Laura sidled along the back of the cabin, toward the bench that ran along one of its sides. She hopped up onto it, crossing her legs as she did, leaning forward, her curiosity piqued. “How do you mean?” she asked. “What happened?”
Miriam reached for the kettle, picked it up, and then put it down again. She turned to face Laura. “When I was fifteen years old,” she said quietly, her expression grave, “I was abducted.”
Laura was so surprised, she almost laughed. She covered her mouth with her hand just in time. “You . . . you were abducted? Are you being serious?”
Miriam nodded. “I was with a friend. We bunked off school one day, we were hitchhiking. A man picked us up and he . . . he took us to a house. A farm. He locked me in a room.” She turned away again, her fat little fingers holding on to the edge of the counter. “He locked me in, but I managed to break a window; I managed to escape.”
“Jesus. That is, like, unbelievable.” Laura meant it, literally; she couldn’t be sure whether to believe Miriam. “That’s really horrible. Were you hurt?” Miriam nodded. “Fuck. Man, I’m sorry, that is . . . that is properly scary. Was your friend hurt too?” Miriam said nothing. She didn’t move but Laura could see her knuckles whitening. “Miriam?”
“I couldn’t help her,” Miriam said quietly. “I ran away.”
“Oh, God. Oh my God.” Laura, for once, was lost for words. She shook her head, her hand covering her mouth, tears springing to her eyes. “But then . . . ?” Miriam gave a cursory nod. “Oh, God,” Laura said again. “When was this? I mean, you were fifteen so this was like . . . the seventies?”
“Eighties,” Miriam said.
“And . . . what happened, I mean, afterward, Jesus. I can’t even imagine this; I can’t even begin to imagine what it must have been like for you.”
For a long moment Miriam stood and looked at her, and then, without speaking, she turned away, squeezing through the door from the main cabin into what Laura assumed must be the sleeping area at the end of the boat; when she returned, she had in her hands a sheaf of papers. “If you’re really interested,” she said, “you could read this. It’s the book I wrote about it. What happened, how it affected me.” Miriam held out the papers, which had been bound into a hefty manuscript. “You could . . .” Miriam’s face was flushed, her eyes shining. “I suppose you could read it if you want.”
Without thinking, Laura shook her head. “I’m not much of a reader,” she said, and watched Miriam snatch the manuscript back to her chest, all the warmth disappearing from her eyes, her mouth turning down, expression souring. “I mean . . . I really would like to read it,” Laura said, holding out her hand. Miriam pulled away. “Only, it might take me a while, because, like, I’m really, really slow. I mean, not like I’m slow in the head, though some people might say that too, although actually when I was little they said I was gifted and I used to read, like, all the time, but then after the accident I just couldn’t concentrate on anything and I kind of lost the habit, do you know what I mean?” Laura bit her lip. “I would really like to read it, it sounds like—” What did it sound like? It sounded awful, devastating. “It sounds like such an interesting story.”