Belle didn’t answer. She was watching the man warily. He could be anyone. He could be a fucking serial killer, how the hell would she know? Maybe he got off on stitching girls’ faces up. Maybe he bloody enjoyed it.

‘I’ll get you some painkillers,’ he said, and was gone again, leaving the door ajar.

He was back within minutes, carrying a glass of water and a strip of paracetamols. He came over to the bed, sat on the side of it. ‘Here,’ he said, and pushed out two tablets from the silver strip. As Belle struggled to sit up, he put a hand behind her head and helped her.

‘Open,’ he said, and Belle obeyed, putting out her tongue. He put the tablets on it and handed her the glass of water. Belle took it unsteadily, washed the pills down. Lay back down, exhausted by this simple act.

‘You’re going to be fine,’ he said, and he stood up and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

Belle looked down at the dog. ‘Hey Trix,’ she said feebly.

Her voice sounded more like her own again. That was good. Half your face hanging off, you weren’t going to sound good, now were you? Trix’s tail thumped the cover once, hard. Then she put her head down on her paws, her dark liquid eyes on Belle’s face, with one ear erect and the other, which looked half-chewed, flopping over. A dog was staring at Belle, and she didn’t like it.

‘How do I look?’ said Belle. ‘Good, yeah? Miss Universe, what do you think?’

With sore eyes she looked around the room. There was a padded nursing chair between the two beds, and what looked like a dressing table – but the two struts at the back of it that had drop-down hinges fitted were intended for three mirrors. There were no mirrors hanging there. There was an old-fashioned silver vanity set on top of the dressing table, two brushes – but no hand mirror. Wasn’t there always a hand mirror with those things?

Had he taken them all away so that she couldn’t see herself in them?

Oh holy Christ, how bad is it?

But she already knew the answer to that. She just wasn’t allowing herself to take it in, not yet. She couldn’t.

Once again she raised a shaking hand to her left cheek. It took every ounce of courage to do it. Her fingers touched painful swollen flesh, and the hard raised nubs of the stitches. Flinching, she quickly put her hand back down.

Belle thought of the wreckage of her life. She thought of her mum, dragged from the gatehouse and . . . and what?

And Dad! Where the hell was he?

Belle started crying again. She cried until she had no more tears left. Then she fell asleep.

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