She stepped over the bag of money, a smile still lingering as she rounded the corner of the landing and tripped happily down the stairs. At the bottom, she skirted William’s inert body, barely glancing at him as another wave of faintness hit.

She steadied herself against the wall. Something brushed her foot; there was a split second of confusion, then she let out a piercing scream as William’s hand clamped tight around her bare ankle.

Chapter 5

Before

I so clearly remember the first time I was touched with kindness and affection. I was at primary school, in the playground, and it was midwinter. Snow had fallen; a magical occurrence in my dark, isolated world. I ran around in it, copied the other kids as they scooped it up and patted it into balls. My hands soon turned numb. Gloves like the other children wore were a luxury that I didn’t even know existed. When my fingers became painful, I turned away from the snowballs and sprinted the length of the playground to warm up.

Even at that young age I had learned survival instincts.

But at the far end, the drain had overflowed and it was an ice rink. I went down, hard.

And then, from behind me, a firm pair of arms picked me up, carried me a few yards and set me back down on my feet in the snow.

‘Are you okay? You took a tumble there.’

I looked up into the red, smiling face of one of the dinner ladies. I was fascinated by her expression; she looked so… happy. In my little world, nobody smiled like that.

She mistook my awe for shock at having fallen, and without hesitating, she pulled me into her arms and squeezed me close to her chest. At first, my own arms hung loosely by my sides. Then nature, or instinct maybe, kicked in and I raised them, put them around her thick middle, mimicking her pose.

I had never been cuddled before. I had heard about it, seen it, watched other people doing it, but along with comfort and love, I’d never experienced it.

Once I did, I craved it more than anything in the world.

I began to act clumsy. After that first, precious hug, I caught on. If I was hurt, or sad, or wounded, people offered comfort. I became an expert at tripping, falling, slipping.

Later, I discovered that if there was visible blood, the comfort I received multiplied.

I started to cut myself.

That first time, I sliced the blade of the scissors along the pad of my forefinger. The pain made me hiss; the sight of the bright red blood that drip-drip-dripped onto the desk was fascinating. The sharp pain dulled to a throb. I held my hand up. The red tracked down my arm.

‘Miss?’ I called.