It wasn’t in there.

In the suite next door, Anna stepped around Mark’s inert body and let herself out onto the balcony. The wind rushed at her, sent her staggering into the railing, and she gripped it tightly, cursing as she almost dropped the bag she was carrying.

Down on her knees she went, head lowered against the biting gale as she pulled the spanner from the bag and angled it against the railing. It was a battle to get the first turn, and it took every ounce of strength she had, but finally the bolt moved a little.

Breathing deeply, a burning sensation in her chest, she pushed herself up and moved back inside.

Hopefully when they moved out to sea the wind would change and it wouldn’t be so hard to remove the bolts.

She placed the spanner on the side table next to her handbag and pulled out Paula’s phone. Opening the wardrobe, she slipped the phone into the pocket of the waxed jacket she had stolen yesterday.

Chapter 13

Before

When I was fourteen, I met one of my mother’s friends. His name was Carl. It was a Friday afternoon, and when I let myself into the house, he was there in the hallway.

‘Well, well,’ he said, ‘who’s this, then?’

He was a small man; his smile was grey and yellow and brown. His hair was pulled back into a straggly ponytail and he wore a checked shirt and saggy, baggy jeans. I stared at the sleeve of his shirt, rolled up. I could see the faded colours of a tattoo peeking out. He caught me staring.

‘Wanna see it?’ he grinned.

I shuddered. No, I didn’t want to see it. I didn’t want to see his tattoo or any part of him.

He laughed, and my mother drifted lazily down the stairs. ‘S’my girl,’ she slurred.

‘Pretty,’ he said.

With that one remark, I knew that I had to get out. I was a teenager now, and I had grown in places that this man, and all the other ones, liked to stare at. I looked at my mother now, her gown hanging open, the skin between her breasts like crêpe paper.

She moved past Carl towards the kitchen, and another thought occurred to me. My mother would not protect me from these men who hung around her house like flies buzzing around dirty plates in summer.

Throwing my bag down in the hall, I hurried upstairs to my room.

I listened for a while, but the front door didn’t open and close, and I knew he was still here. He had been on his way out when I came in, but he hadn’t left.