Irina shrugs. ‘Most girls do not stay as long as you have,’ she says, going to the fridge to get milk. She pours and blows and swallows her witch’s brew. I study her. How old is she really? Impossible to tell. She’s had the light sucked out of her. Beautiful, yes, with her heart-shaped face, her cat’s eyes and high cheekbones, but dead and ugly too in a way.

I notice Nico blessing herself, in miniature. She’s pretending she’s brushing dust off her top, but I can see the shape she’s trying to hide. He hasn’t done much of a job of protecting her, though, to be fair. Where is He? Thinking of God makes me think of Doc O’D. That man always had that kind of a complex, that kind of an ego that imbued him with power and status, and righteousness. Holy fuck. Would he play with his daughter that way? I think of Luce, and know it’s not possible. But would he want to? Is that why all these married men come to us? Because they know they can’t do it at home? Where do they put their fatherly impulses when they are with us? I think of my dad. Where does he go when he’s away on his trips?

I shake my head to interrupt this particularly vicious spiral of thoughts, and focus on Nico. She has a weird stabilising effect on me.

‘Can you make sure that if we’re moved on, it will be together?’ I ask Irina. I know my survival is linked with Nico’s – I can see a future for her, even when I can’t see one for myself.

‘I have no say, you know that,’ Irina says.

I want to grab this woman by the neck and shake some life back into her. ‘You are left in charge of a house full of girls, you must be somebody to these people.’

She blows and sips her tea. ‘I am nobody,’ she says, before she leaves the room.

Nico is staring out the window. The spinning marbled sky is streaked with fast-moving clouds, which, when I squint, look like cantering horses.

‘What are we going to do?’ I ask her, hoping to ignite the old soul guru in her.

‘Write our pens on paper.’

‘And will Doc O’D be part of our story?’

‘Who is Doc O’D?’

‘That man you were with last night.’

‘Ah, he is doctor.’ She stops. ‘That is sad.’

‘Yes, yes I guess it is …’

We go back to our room and take out our pens and paper and for the first time I wonder why they would leave such a thing here. Why have we not written out ‘Help I am a prisoner’ on a piece of paper and handed it to one of the men? I ask Nico this.

‘Because they know,’ she says.