‘I’m not sure that knowing about the local reservoir is going to make much of a difference.’

Bailey laughed. ‘Yeah, maybe you’re right.’

‘Talking of mistakes, though… How exactly did you get those scars? I know you said you don’t like to talk about it…’

As part of her undercover role, Bailey knew that she needed to have a plausible explanation for her scars. However, because people often felt awkward broaching the subject with her, she was generally able to avoid having to go into too much detail.

‘It was…’ Bailey paused to choose the appropriate words, ‘…an abusive partner.’

She knew how many of the women in here had been in abusive relationships of one form or another and that this answer wouldn’t sound particularly unusual.

‘He did that to you for no reason?’ asked Poppy.

‘I guess he had his reasons.’

Poppy’s fingertips traced the ridges of the scars on Bailey’s back, moving in a feather-light pattern across the disfigured flesh.

‘You flinched the first time I touched you. Before I’d even started tattooing you. Like it hurt you.’ She paused. ‘Did he…?’

‘Did he rape me?’

There was a silence between them. A long silence.

‘You don’t have to let it ruin your life, you know,’ said Poppy.

Bailey was faintly concerned that Poppy’s probing of this sensitive area would cause her to inadvertently lose emotional control and reveal everything. So she decided to change the subject.

‘That French writing on your chest,’ she said. ‘What does it say? I’ve been wanting to ask you ever since I saw it.’

‘It says “je meur de soif aupres de la fontaine”. Translated, that means, “I die of thirst next to the fountain”. It’s medieval French.’

‘I die of thirst next to the fountain,’ echoed Bailey. ‘Very poetic.’

‘That’s because it’s from a poem. The poem’s called “The Ballad of Contradictions”. It was written by a poet called François Villon in 1451. Have you heard of him?’

‘No.’

‘He lived in France in the fifteenth century. He wrote this earthy but incredibly beautiful poetry about the Parisian underclasses in the Middle Ages. He was kind of a proto-punk and also a lyrical genius. He disappeared from the history books in 1463 and no one knows what happened to him.’

Bailey was surprised. She’d imagined it saying something crasser and much more banal.

‘I thought you said you hated history.’

Poppy laughed. ‘I’ll make an exception for François Villon. He was a bit of an outlaw and he was always getting thrown in prison. He wrote some of his greatest poetry whilst he was in prison.’

‘Does the library here have any?’

‘Nah. I already checked. He’s a bit too obscure unfortunately.’

As she lay there on the bunk, Bailey reflected on how different Poppy was from the rest of the gang. She was more cultured for one thing, but she also seemed to have a sense of humanity about her that they quite blatantly lacked. Bailey realised that she was actually starting to like Poppy. But she had to be careful. Those kinds of feelings could sometimes be a dangerous thing when you were working undercover.