Bewildered, I stop pushing. Why has he put me in here if he can’t lock me in? I slam my hands against the door and the edge of my palm catches something, a latch of some kind. My fingers find a bolt and without thinking, I slide it into place. And as the lock connects, a light comes on, faint, but there.
I blink, then turn slowly and see the toilet that I’d crashed into. Next to it, there’s a small enamel sink with a hot and cold faucet and a cupboard underneath. He pushed me in here for the water. My hands are dirty from crawling along the floor so I turn on the hot tap and wash them as best I can. I run the cold tap, scoop some water into my hands, and drink.
I look around. The walls are painted cream, the woodwork white. Apart from the sink and the toilet, the room is bare. I lift the toilet lid and peer inside. It’s clean and smells of disinfectant. I use it quickly and find a toilet roll on the floor, wedged into the space between the bowl and the wall.
I flush the toilet, wash my hands again, wipe them on my pajamas, and tug open the cupboard door, not expecting to find anything inside except perhaps a second toilet roll. To my surprise, as well as another toilet roll, there’s a folded towel and a washcloth, and beside them, a cloth bag with a zipper along the top.
Taking it out, I place it in the sink and examine the contents. A small tube of toothpaste, a toothbrush, and a bar of soap wrapped in soft white paper. I stare at these treasures, then check the cupboard again and find on the lower shelf, a box of tampons. My heart sinks. How many weeks am I going to be here? This can’t be a payback killing, as I first thought.
Suddenly claustrophobic in the small space, I turn to the door. Will the man still be there, on the other side of it? I slide the bolt to the right—and the room is immediately plunged into darkness. Panicked, I slide the bolt back to the left, hoping the light will come on again. It does. I take a steadying breath; it must have been designed so that I could only have light in the bathroom, not the main room. I quickly unlock the door and push against it. There’s no resistance, it swings open easily. The same blackness greets me. I wait, listening. Nothing. The man has gone.
I move a few steps into the outer room, close the bathroom door behind me. With my hand on the wall to guide me, I feel my way to the corner where I was sitting. My foot knocks against something rigid. I crouch down, grope around it—it’s a tray with a bowl and a spoon, both made of plastic, and a plastic cup. I lift the cup; it’s empty. If I want to drink, I’ll have to fill it with water from the bathroom. But there’s something in the bowl, I can smell it.
Shifting onto my mattress, I take the spoon and guide it to where my other hand is holding the bowl, such simple movements but reliant now on feel and touch. I dip the spoon in and raise it tentatively to my mouth, bending my head to meet it. My lips find a gluey consistency—porridge, unadorned but edible. I begin to eat, slowly, carefully, in case there’s a hidden surprise. And as I eat, I think of Ned.
He hates porridge.
CHAPTER SEVEN
PAST
I was so lost in thought that I didn’t notice anyone standing by my table until a plate was placed in front of me. I looked at the blueberry muffin, then raised my eyes to tell the waitress it wasn’t for me. But it wasn’t the waitress, it was the woman I’d followed home the week before, after I’d seen her crying.
“Can I sit here?” she asked, indicating the empty chair opposite me.
I nodded, still confused about the muffin, about why she’d bought it for me.
“I thought you might be hungry,” she said, seeing the question in my eyes.
“Thank you.” I didn’t see the point in pretending that I wasn’t.
“Then go ahead, eat.”
I tried not to cram it in my mouth.
“Do you live around here?” she asked, as I ate.
I nodded.
“In an apartment?”
“A youth hostel,” I lied.
She studied me for a moment. “How old are you?”
“Eighteen,” I said, adding a year to my age.
“And where is your family?”
“Dead.” Then seeing her expression, I hurried to explain. “My father died from cancer earlier this year, my mother when I was a child.”
“That’s very sad, I’m sorry,” she said, and briefly touched my arm.
“Thanks.”
“What do you do?” she asked, taking a sip of her coffee.
“Mainly kitchen work. But I’ve just been let go.” I gave a little shrug. “Not enough customers.”