I am left in the room and look at the wall as if there is a picture of Mother Mary there, but there is none. I sit and stare at the blank spot and wonder will others come. Then I pull the sheets from the bed and see a few stray hairs from the man’s head, which are white and thin. I do not know why I do this but I pick them up and put them in my pocket.

I go the bathroom and find soap and scrub the sheets. It’s making it worse, like the night of the staining, so I bundle the sheet into a tight little ball and hide it beneath the bed, then I sit on top of the bed covers, hunched into the same tight shape, and wait.

After some time, counting backwards from a hundred, thirty times, I risk taking a short shower, although I do not want to be caught naked. I allow the water to spray between my legs, but I do not wish to see. Then I quickly dry myself and put on my clothes and walk down the hallway towards the room where we first came in. There is only the smell of cigar smoke and the lingering sound of Sammy’s laughter. I fold myself into one of the big chairs. In my mind I write the end of the story of the girl in the cellar. I finger the wispy hair in my pocket, feeling sick and feeling strong.

The door opens. ‘It is time to go now.’

I follow the small man with the white gloves to the front door. The taxi driver with the fat neck and fingers is standing outside. As I step through the door, I feel a dark, shadowy presence perched on my shoulder. It is whispering: beautiful, beautiful. I try to shake it off, but it has claws that will not loosen their grip.

The morning sunshine is white and weak. Sammy is in the car, her head against the window.

‘Hi, Roomie,’ she says when she sees me.

I want to ask her, but I know this would be the worst thing, so I try to smile.

‘Aha! I knew I could crack one of those,’ she says, as she turns her back on me and pushes her body tight against the plastic door so she looks tiny. My heart flies up and out of my mouth. It cannot find a way back in, so I sit there with a hole in my chest, as it – a beating, hurting thing – flies aimlessly around the car, looking for somewhere to land.

30. Sammy

30

Sammy