I swiped my tears away and sniffed at my runny nose. When I was six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, I had believed her to be some kind of perfect, all-knowing figure. Up until two weeks ago I had thought her invincible. But now I knew better. She was human and she made mistakes. It was a simple truth I had long known about myself, but I had never known it about her. Humans made mistakes and she was human. She was flesh and blood and bone. She could bleed too.

My lips formed a trembly smile. Shakily, I pushed myself up from the bed. The mattress wheezed and I heard Olivia move. I listened to see if she was awake but her breathing dropped back into its steady rhythm, and I was struck by the calmness of her breaths. In sleep and darkness, the emotions of the sleeping were hidden. I imagined what Olivia’s face looked like now, so many years on from the horrific photographs of her on a bed. I pictured the same widely spaced eyes and elfin nose grown larger, wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. The vision was strangely strong and clear, given it was built from memory and imagination.

I thought about poor little Emma and wanted to scream. Was she still out there, lost and alone? And Patrick. What had happened to him? And Dot. What had happened to her? Mother had hit her so hard. Was she OK? Maybe Harold had found her and taken her to a hospital. Maybe not. Maybe that poor old lady was dead. Dead because of her.

Anger clenched my jaw and fists, and I strode forward blindly, snagging my tights on the scraggy brick wall. The material on my left leg tore. I winced at the faint screak of tearing elastic and wondered how far the ladder ran, hoping it had not run all the way to my foot. My tights were another barrier between my bandaged feet and the grimy floor – not to mention the hundreds of spiders that haunted the place. Tights were my protection. My shield. My—

Tights. Tights? Tights …

Tights were strong, stretchy … tights could be useful … somehow.

The hint of an idea scratched at the back of my mind. Something to do with tights. Tights, tights, tights. I stretched and reached desperately for the idea, trying to pull the wafer-thin wisp into the centre of my mind and form it into something whole. I almost had it when Olivia gasped and the sound of metal scraping metal came from the door in the ceiling.

Chapter 45

‘She’s here,’ Olivia whispered.

‘I’m going to try to reason with her,’ I whispered back, groping my way towards the stairs.

Olivia stayed silent.