She smiles at me out of the corner of her mouth. I try on one myself and it seems to crack the surface of my skin. An engine is revving, cranking itself up, and before I know what I’m doing, I throw the covers off the bed, jump out and do a hoop-la dance, a rain-dance, a mad-thing-possessed dance. I pull up my sleeves and roll up my bottoms, splashing about in puddles. Something in Nico’s face stops me. I look down, and see what she sees: my arms are circled, blotched, mottled. Purples, blues, pinks. Dizzy and breathless, I plonk myself at the edge of the bed as my brain somersaults, whacking itself against the fleshy insides. Insane, insane in the membrane. Granny Mona appears beside the bed, stroking my forehead, cooing and clucking, while Mother is passed out downstairs; then she leaves, she leaves me alone in that house.

31. Nico

31

Nico

Irina looks like a ghost has slipped inside her as she apologises for what happened tonight. I follow Sammy to our room after she slams out of the kitchen. She has pushed herself down under the duvet and I can see the shape of her, rising and falling. I am scared to go to sleep in case I fall into the well again, so I take out the notebook and pen, and draw squiggles, lines, circles, dots, then I press the pen onto the page and scribble over the whole thing. The ink is blue, making it appear like a jagged whorling sky. I tear the page with the pressure and feel a little better. I bite down on the pen. No words will come. The creature on my shoulder is still there, its whispers quieter now.

After some hours, Sammy’s bed moves and groans, as she pops her head out. Her face is puffed and red and her swirly head of hair looks like hedgehogs made their home there. I can’t help smiling. She tries one back; it’s twisted and hard. She asks me if I’m writing a book, and seems delighted with the idea. She throws her legs over the side of the bed, stands for a moment, then sways and shakes and stamps to some imaginary music. She pulls up her sleeves and her sleeping trousers and I see that her body is covered in marks – handcuffs or hands grabbing at her, encircling her, holding her down. She stops dancing as she sees the reflection in my eyes. I worry she might faint from the shock of seeing their imprint on her, but she just sits, dazed.

There are no bars on the windows, no men with guns, no chains tying us down. The weight of that thought crashes into the room and settles on us both. Without having to speak, I know we are thinking the same thing.

She looks closely at me. ‘Did he hurt you?’