I know that what I did isn’t just bad, it’s sick too. Because although I reached the point where I had more money than I could spend, I didn’t stop even after we got married.

The spider had taken its time to comment on her confession. More than ten hours, according to the clock on the notebook.

In the meantime, while she had waited for the bucket, squatting on the cold floor of the well, Naomi had almost gone mad.

Her arms, which until a few days ago she’d feared were infected with tapeworm, were no longer itching, nor her throat, beneath the skin of which the parasite had wriggled so vigorously, especially at night, when she kept being woken up.

Although the burning and throbbing had gone, she did feel a strong pressure behind her left eye and it was perfectly plain what that meant.

How do you scratch behind your eyeball?

Naomi wished she had stronger fingernails that didn’t keep breaking. Ideally as long and pointed as a knife, then she’d be able to put an end to all this at once.

Without the horrific question-and-answer game.

While she’d been waiting for the answer the engines had stopped. Abruptly. Just like that. Were they in a port? But if so, why was she being rocked from side to side?

After a very, very long time the gap above her head finally opened and from the darkness the bucket with the notebook was lowered down to her. Together with the punishment, for the spider clearly wasn’t satisfied with her answer.

‘Sex for money? A really dirty secret, Professor.’ These were the words typed directly below her last entry. ‘But not what I wanted to hear.’ And then: ‘Think about it again. I know you can. What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?’

While Naomi read the comment about her confession a small dot moved on the screen. Then another. And another.

With a scream she recoiled from the computer, but the dots had already started to spread out over her arm and wouldn’t readily be removed from her skin, filthy clothes or hair.

Cimex lectularius.

‘Who are you?’ she howled in disgust, while trying in desperation to hit and shake the bedbugs away, even though as a biologist she knew how ridiculous that was. The bloodsuckers could survive forty days without food and in the most intense cold. The well would have to be heated to fifty-five degrees for three days. Even after that you couldn’t be certain that one of the critters wouldn’t survive on her body.

Screaming, she started scratching herself again.

‘Why are you doing this to me?’ she typed into the notebook and sent the bucket up again. ‘WHO ARE YOU???’