He has me by the shoulders, holding me away from him at arm’s length; I’m forced back, leaning over the pit. His fist clenches around my jumper, twisting tight. My feet feel the floor, trying to find the edge, pushing away from the void behind me. His face is closed. He’s got me with one hand, his arm flexing with the effort. I tremble on the brink, moving my lips. ‘No.’

  His fingers open in slow motion. I seem to hang in space and time. Billy and I stare at each other, our faces full of surprise. Then I fall, light and air rushing past.

  I hit the bottom and pain jolts, ricocheting through my spine. Flames lick hips, pelvis. All breath gone. I am winded and empty, limbs spread wide, one arm flung up behind my head. I’m too afraid to move. My legs are numb. I can’t feel them.

  Mum leans over me. Eva, love, time to get up. You’ll be late for school. Dad is standing in the kitchen: What time do you call this, Duchess? Faith, smiling up at me from under a fall of pale hair. My sister, the drama queen.

  When I open my eyes, I’m looking at an old beer bottle. It seems huge, magnified. The glass is cloudy, the label ripped and faded. Behind that I can see the office chair on its side like an old drunk; the stub of a missing leg sticks up, severed and raw. I smell damp and urine, rust and concrete. Slowly, I reach my hand down the length of each of my legs, carefully assessing the angles of my bones, pressing my skin to check for feeling. The numbness has become a fizz of pins and needles. I don’t seem to have cracked anything. Inside my shoes, I ask my toes to perform a cautious wriggle. They obey me. I squint towards the rim of the pit. I can’t see Billy.

  I am not dead. But I may as well be. The home that I dream about every night is a lie. My family is a lie. I haven’t looked in a mirror for months. If I saw my reflection now, I don’t know that I would recognise myself. Everything I thought I knew has changed. I am not who I thought I was.

  I don’t want to remember. I don’t want to.

  Sitting in the Bell, Marco twisted his lager glass between his fingers. ‘Don’t go home. Stay tonight.’ He put his hand on my thigh, his thumb rubbing. ‘My parents will be fine about it.’ But I knew that mine wouldn’t be. I was already going to be late. I shook my head. ‘Can’t. You know I can’t.’

  He waited with me at the bus stop. We kissed under the shelter. A man muttered, ‘Get a room,’ and I pressed my face into Marco’s shoulder to stop myself laughing, lips against the spring of his muscle.

  ‘You’ve got to stop telling your parents you’re with Lucy when you’re out with me. They’ll find out, you know,’ he said. ‘You’re nearly old enough to do what you like. You won’t need their permission for anything in a year.’

  I made a face, embarrassed. ‘They’re a bit over-protective,’ I mumbled.

  ‘Tell them about me. You’re a big girl now.’ He cocked one eyebrow, ‘Not ashamed of me, are you?’

  The bus was over-heated, nearly empty. It wound its slow way through country lanes and sleepy villages. I leant my head against the shuddering glass. I’d decided that Marco was right. I would tell them. I was suddenly confident that Mum and Dad would like him, despite his hair and his tattoo and being older than me. I loved him. That was the important bit. I loved him enough to sleep with him. Although of course, I wouldn’t tell them that.

  It was on the bus that I worked out a plan. It was really very simple. Staring at the black glass, I caught my reflection and grinned. All I had to do was slip out of the house after everyone had gone to bed and catch the late bus into Ipswich. I could be with him all night, as long as I was up at the crack of dawn. Marco was right. I was a big girl now and I was sick of Dad trying to stop me from growing up. The only problem might be Silver; if he heard me, I knew he’d start barking, his tail knocking against furniture and doors, waking the whole house. I was thinking about that as I walked home, about how to avoid disturbing the dog. We were studying Romeo and Juliet at school and I remembered the scene where they’d pretended that the thrush they heard was a nightingale because they couldn’t bear to accept that their night together was over. That was how I felt about us: we were meant to be, and our love deserved a whole night spent in a bed, not some sordid fumbling in a back alley on a Friday evening.

  The next day I phoned Marco to tell him the plan. I stumbled over my words, suddenly embarrassed. When he understood what I meant there was a silence. I twisted the cable around clammy fingers.

  ‘Are you sure?’ he asked. And then in a husky voice, ‘I want you so much.’

  ‘Yes,’ my insides turned watery. I held tight to the receiver. ‘I want to,’ I whispered, glancing back at the empty hallway.

  ‘I’ll meet you at the bus station tonight,’ he said. ‘But Eva, then promise me to introduce me to your parents. I’ll win them round.’

  I laughed. ‘What an ego.’

  I climbed out of my bedroom window. I’d done it before. There is a drainpipe to cling to and a short drop onto the porch roof. From there it’s an easy scramble to the grass. A big moon made the ground silvery. I took the back route, past the castle, thinking of Marco. I was wearing my best knickers, perfume behind my knees and elbows. The trees stood still. There was no wind. A whining noise behind me made me jump. I recognised the sound of a moped coming out of the darkness, and I put my head down, walking faster.

  The beam from the headlight caught me. Small moths fluttered inside the white glare. I turned, shading my eyes. Robert took off his helmet, grinning. I kept on walking. He cruised beside me, the engine puttering. ‘Where’s pretty boy?’

  I folded my shoulders. ‘Go away, Robert.’

  He stopped the moped, lurching forwards to grab my arm. ‘Someone needs to teach you manners.’ He shook me. ‘What makes you think you’re better than everyone else?’

  I was shocked by his touch, my eyes sliding past looking for an escape. He wouldn’t let go of my arm, fingers pinching. I tried to wriggle away, but he held me tighter, twisting my elbow, burning my skin. He pushed me into the dark grounds of the castle.

  ‘I’ve got an interesting story to tell you,’ he breathed, ‘and you are going to listen to it, you snotty bitch.’

  My heart staggered like broken wings. I swallowed, looking around for help. Panic flapped and scrabbled inside my ribs. We were alone. The shadows of the castle stretched long and straight over the moonlit grass. Beyond the grounds, I could see the jumbled shapes of the allotments, the shapes of bushes and plants and the outlines of sheds. An owl hooted from the copse of trees at the foot of the escarpment.

  ‘My uncle works in the pub,’ he said. ‘Worked there for years. People tell publicans things, spill out their troubles over a pint or a shot.’

  ‘It’s late, Robert,’ I tried to pull away. ‘I’ve got to catch the bus. I’ll miss it…’

  He held up his finger and wagged it at me. ‘Naughty, naughty. Mustn’t interrupt. Hasn’t anyone told you it’s rude?’ His face, close to mine, was all nostrils and teeth. ‘As I was saying, there’s my uncle minding his business behind the bar, and in comes this stranger. Posh bloke. And he’s in a bit of a state. Orders a stiff drink. Tells my uncle he’s just had a nasty shock. Seems he’d come a long way to see his sister’s bastard brat. He’d wanted to do the right thing by the child–bring her up as his own. The sister was dead. So he’d come to take her home with him.’ I waited, limp in Robert’s grip, unable to move. ‘Because guess what?’ Robert asked, speaking slowly. ‘The kid had been taken by a couple, and was living right here in our village. Wasn’t that a coincidence, Eva?’

  He smiled. ‘See, this kid’s real mum was a slut, got herself knocked up. Posh bloke already knew that. But turns out the brat had a touch of tar brush about her. Posh bloke said that couldn’t be, because he knew who the father was. But that kid’s got mixed blood, the poor sod kept saying. Bad blood.’ Robert whistles and shakes his head. ‘What do you think of that? This happened quite a few years ago. But the girl’s still here, isn’t she, Eva?’

  I squirmed away, images from his story spooling behind my eyes. I could see the man at the bar: sweat shining his top lip, his fingers trembling against his glass. Robert jerked me close, mouth against my ear, his words vibrating, ‘Next time you want to act high and mighty, remember you’re nothing. A half-breed bastard.’

  He let me go and I ran, stumbling towards the castle. The ground tipped and lurched. A sob caught in my throat, a stinging bubble, choking me. But he was coming at a run, heavy footsteps pounding. I gasped as he slammed into me. He swung me round, pushing his face against mine. His mouth opened: cold, clammy lips, tongue like an eel.

  I hit out, flailing through darkness. Bone cracked against bone. I felt the give of his flesh, smacked into the angle of his elbow. He grabbed my wrists and held them by my sides. ‘Not so fast.’ He was leaning over me, forcing me back. I stumbled, fell, and he landed across me, pinning me down. ‘I reckon you owe me for that story.’ I smelt stale beer, something foul. He was scrabbling at his belt buckle. The metal stuck into me. ‘I’m going to show you what a real man feels like.’

  His hands ripped at my top, grabbing my breasts, fingers digging at my skin. ‘You know you want it. Your sort always does.’ His mouth was at my neck. I tried to get away from the wet of his saliva, the edge of his teeth. The nub of his shoulder stuck into my face, shirt fabric filling my mouth. I tried to shout, feeling his other hand pulling at the button on my trousers, nails scratching. I twisted my head free, gulping air. No energy for words. He was too heavy, too strong. He’d got his fingers inside my trousers, ripping at the zip; his knee was between my legs, trying to force them apart. His tongue jabbed at my mouth. I opened wide, felt the slither between my lips and bit down, hard as I could. Flesh broke like raw fish between my teeth. He roared and started back, his hand clasped over his mouth. Rolling sideways, I managed to scramble to my feet, yanking at my trousers, running blind through the night.

  Sliding through the gap in the fence into an allotment, heart thundering, I jumped a flowerbed. Feet thrashed through roses, thorns catching at my skin. I heard Robert behind me. But he didn’t know the layout of the allotments like I did. I ducked into what used to be Jack’s garden and dropped to my knees, crawling on my belly, canes of runner beans shielding me. I waited, cheek against the gravel, trying to be silent while Robert stamped past on the other side of the vegetable bed. When I couldn’t hear him anymore I got to my feet, getting off the crackle of small stones to wade through plants, tubers and leaves rustling, stalks snapping beneath me, feeling my way to Granny’s old shed. It was padlocked. I bent down, scrabbling in the dark, telling myself that the new owners wouldn’t keep the key in the same place. Stupid. But my fingers fumbled over a large rock, poking beneath it. Something slimy. A slug? Then a small cold shape. Robert’s voice came from the next allotment, calling my name.

  I stabbed the key towards the centre of the lock. I couldn’t see what I was doing. The key clicked into place. I stumbled inside, crouching in the darkest corner, pulling a sack across me. I heard Robert outside the shed, breathing hard. He swore under his breath. The shed smelt of soil and metal. I could taste his blood in my mouth.

  I hid under rough, musty sacking, cobwebs in my face, hardly breathing. I waited, hunched over, kneeling in the same position until my limbs seized up with cramp. But I didn’t dare move. My ears strained for sounds. Hours later I heard a frenzy of scraping coming from the bottom of the door. I went icy, stiff with fear. The scratching started up again. Choking with panic, I tried to decipher it: a key in a lock? A knife blade? And I began to breathe, understanding that it was the sound of busy teeth and claws. A rat probably. But still I was too frightened to push the suffocating sacking from me and stretch my burning legs. Eventually light began to mist the panes of the window above me. I could hear birds singing. Peering out, the interior of the shed developed contours and depth, shapes becoming themselves: shelves piled with plant pots, trowels hanging from the wall, an old pair of gloves sticking out of a bucket. It was only then that I dared push open the door. I went quickly as I could through the wet grass, forcing my aching limbs to jog down the lane, all the time listening for a moped’s engine.

  I let myself into the sleeping house, crept up the stairs, managing to get into my bedroom without waking the dog. I struggled to strip off my clothes, wiping my fingers, not wanting to have the smell of Robert on me. Crawling naked under my covers, I think I must have passed out.

  When I woke, my stomach churned, memories skidding into my head. I wanted to believe it had been a nightmare. But I could feel Robert’s tongue, the trickle of his blood in my mouth. I brushed my teeth while I ran myself a hot bath, locking myself in the bathroom. I felt dirty. There were scratches across my stomach, thumbprint bruises on my arms. I lay in the water and cried. I looked at my body, skin the colour of tea, and I knew that Robert hadn’t been lying. All the things that I’d felt all my life, but not understood, came rushing in. It was as if someone had untied a blindfold and slipped it from my eyes. Things I’d only sensed with my fingertips were suddenly revealed, towering over me.

  Mum knocked on the door. ‘Eva?’ I crossed my arms over my chest, holding my breath. The lock rattled. She called. ‘Do you want breakfast? I’m cooking eggs and bacon for the others.’ Clearing my throat, I told her that I was fine. Not hungry. I tried to sound normal, leaning forward to run the tap to disguise the shake in my voice. There was no hot water left. Scum floated on the surface, leaving a tidemark. I noticed bits of hair and grey stuff like foam. I was nothing. Worse than nothing. Robert’s hands and tongue and words squirmed inside me. As I hauled myself out of the bath, I remembered that Dad and I were supposed to be sailing that day: our first sail since the winter lay-off. But he wasn’t my dad. Robert said they’d taken me. Taken. My brain stuttered around the word, unable to make sense of it.

  I stayed in my bedroom until it was time to go down to the river, my mind racing, full of anger and pain and plans to run away. I grabbed a pen and began to scribble a letter to Mum and Dad. The people who said they were Mum and Dad. I wrote what came into my head without thinking, words to leave behind–to explain but most of all to punish. I couldn’t finish it. I began to cry, sobbing until my eyes were gluey. Then I stuck my face under the cold tap, slipped the letter in my novel, got dressed in my sailing clothes and met Dad down on the quay because I didn’t know what else to do. I felt pathetic, afraid, all my rage balled up inside me like a fist that couldn’t punch free.

  He’d been rigging up. The sky was dark, clouds rolling in. The water was agitated, angry little waves slapping at the boat, restless wind in the sails. ‘Bit blowy,’ Dad said. ‘You still up for it?’ I’d nodded, not able to look at him. ‘Do your lifejacket up, Eva,’ he said.

  I couldn’t understand how he hadn’t seen the change on my face. I wanted him to ask me what was wrong. I wanted him to hold me and explain and make it all right. Questions cracked and clashed in my head, piling up like a log-jam. On the boat I went through the motions, pulling ropes, nodding when Dad said anything, avoiding eye contact. As we got past the island and out to sea we realised that the weather was blowing a real storm. The waves were big and the sky had darkened to black. ‘Better get the sails down,’ Dad yelled. ‘I’ll start the engine.’ The boat was rolling by then, waves washing over the side. I struggled to undo the cleats, wild canvas flapping out of my arms. I wasn’t frightened. I was too angry. I held onto the mast, my hands slipping on the wet, looking down at him couched by the engine. ‘I know,’ I told him, my words rushing out, ripped away by the wind. He’d frowned, cupping his ear. ‘I know about you and Mum,’ I shouted. ‘I know that you’re not my real parents. You lied to me.’

  Through a tangle of hair blowing across my face, I saw shock rearrange his features. He was sitting at the stern. He couldn’t move because the waves were crashing against us, the boat struggling through the peaks and troughs. His hand was clamped hard around the tiller. ‘We’re going in,’ he’d shouted. ‘I can’t talk now. We’ll talk about it on land.’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ I yelled. ‘I hate you.’

  I staggered across the deck, clinging to the mast, to the wire, flinging myself towards the cabin. The deck reared under my feet. I thought I could hear Dad shouting my name. I would run away, I thought. I’d run to Marco. But then I realised that he didn’t know what had happened. He must have waited at the bus stop, watching passengers getting off, one by one. He would have walked home alone, hands thrust in pockets, thinking that I’d changed my mind, thinking that I’d stood him up. I stopped in the middle of the tilting deck, my hands flailing to steady myself. Out of the corner of my eyes, I caught a wall of water rising.

  Billy hasn’t come back. There’s no answer when I call. I can hear wind across the pebbles, rain falling hard. Above the pagoda roof comes the low rumble of thunder. A sudden crack of lightning shakes the walls of the pit. He’s gone for good this time. There’s a flutter of feathers high above me, and a rustling as if some huge creature is settling in the rafters of the pagoda. Night comes slowly, trickling shadows into the pit. Soon I can’t see my hand in front of my face. I remember the stench of Robert’s breath in my mouth, my lips caught in his teeth. I curl up in darkness, wrapping my arms around my knees and wonder how long it takes to die of thirst.

  44

  ‘Wake up, love.’ Mum raps on the door. She comes in, opening my blind, letting in grey morning light. ‘Horrible day, I’m afraid. Did you hear the thunder last night?’

  From my pillow, I watch her looking through the glass. Squalls of water hit the panes. She leans over me. ‘Come on sleepy head,’ she pulls at my covers, ‘you’ll be late for school.’

  I slip my feet out of my nest of sheets and blankets, sitting for a moment on the edge of the bed, yawning. I had nightmares again. I can’t remember what they were. Only the feelings remain, dark and frightening. I rub my eyes. Mum strokes my head briefly, ruffling my tangles, calling over her shoulder, ‘Don’t go back to sleep!’ as she shuts the door behind her.