But the scent isn’t quite right. I can smell perfume, shower gel, conditioner. The faint aroma of make-up. But there’s no odour of sweat, or skin. She’s fake.

‘You can leave your clothes on the armchair,’ Sindy says. I had completely forgotten she was in the room. ‘I’ll leave you two alone.’

Remembering Thistle’s idea of the sex doll brothel, I touch Sleeping Beauty’s upper arm. Maybe it’s silicone. But it feels completely real. As Sindy walks back up the stairs I peel back the sheets, baring her huge thighs, knees, shins. I can see a thatching of pubic hair through the sheer fabric of the panties. The underwear must be custom—no store would sell anything so big. Sleeping Beauty’s calves have been shaved. I can see the hairs, cut back to almost nothing. I can even see a nick behind her knee.

I touch the cut, marvelling. Then, running my fingers around the area, I find something else. The same thing that Biggs must have noticed, before he ran into the woods, naked and screaming in terror.

Stitches.

They’re tiny, done with immense care. When I peer under the giant’s calf, I can barely see them. They’re the same colour as her skin. Now that I’m looking for them, I can see them elsewhere—on her hands, her hips, her neck. No wonder this place is poorly lit.

This looks and feels like real human skin because it is real human skin.

This is where the sixteen missing fat men went.

I remember what Dr Norman said: Separated from the body, skin eventually shrivels and goes scaly. A stuffed person wouldn’t last more than a few weeks. So Sleeping Beauty would need regular grafts. Some patches are a little smoother than others. Newer. A ragged-edged circle under her armpit is especially smooth and soft. I’m guessing that’s Ruthven. The newest victim. I wish he’d had an identifying mark, like a mole or a tattoo. But if he had, she probably wouldn’t have used that part. If he had enough tatts, he wouldn’t have been a target at all. Weird to think that some ink might have saved his life.

I wonder how many of Sindy’s clients have fucked this thing, not noticing that it was a patchwork of human corpses.

I wonder how many did notice, and continued anyway.

Are you kidding me? Thistle says. Most people would have done what Biggs did. Run screaming into the woods. Had a heart attack. You think some of those guys realised they were fucking a dead body, and kept going?

I think of the guilty, disgusted look on the last client’s face as he left this building. ‘Yes,’ I say.

That’s nuts, Thistle says.

‘People are nuts.’

Not everyone is a psychopath like you, Blake. Don’t you think you might be overgeneralising from your own experience?