She began to cry, quietly at first, then loudly and wretchedly. Beside me, I could feel her body shaking. Her sobs swallowed me whole. She sounded so lost and hopeless that I felt for her hand in the dark and slipped my hand into hers.

‘You’re not alone any more,’ I said, ‘I’m real. I promise.’

She allowed me to hold her hand, though hers was floppy in mine. She sniffed and cried, sniffed and cried. For a long time, I said nothing. Sometimes it was good to cry. I tried to think of a word that meant letting out all of your emotions, but my mind felt heavy and blank, as blank as the darkness around us. I stared into the black air. After a while, her hand responded in mine.

‘Thank you,’ she said softly.

‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Let’s get out from under here. You can lie on the bed and rest.’

‘Yes, yes. You’re probably right.’

I slipped my hand out of hers and shuffled my body out from under the bed. Glad to be off the hard ground, I stepped back to give her enough space then felt for the bed frame and guided her onto the mattress. Through the thin material of her clothing I felt a bony rod on her back, which I assumed was her spine. I couldn’t help wondering if she had always been so skinny or if being down here had turned her into a skeleton. Had Mother been starving her? Would she starve me too? Mother had said that if I was good, she would bring me food and water. Had she said that to the lady too?

‘I need to sleep,’ she said, her voice thick from crying.

I nodded, then realized I had to speak or she wouldn’t have a clue about my response.

‘Of course. Lie down and have a rest. I’ll sit on the edge of the bed, if that’s OK?’

‘Tell me again,’ she said.

‘What?’

‘Tell me you’re real.’

I swallowed, mouth dry. How long had she been down here all alone?

‘Please,’ she said. ‘Tell me.’

‘I’m real. I promise. I’m real and my name’s Polly.’

‘Polly … that’s a nice name …’

I wanted to ask her a million questions but her breathing told me she was already asleep, so I sat on the bed in the pitch black and tried to take comfort in one fact: I was not alone.

Chapter 41

My brain was black. Burnt toast. My eyes were black. Coals, soot, death. My body was black. Mother’s eyes. Black was evil. A colour that murdered other colours. But it wasn’t just a colour any more. It was a killing force. A force that murdered hope – stole from you. I knew what she meant now. Knew something – however small – of what she’d gone through.