Chapters (81)
- Cover
- About the Author
- Dedication
- Prologue
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-one
- Thirty-two
- Thirty-three
- Thirty-four
- Thirty-five
- Thirty-six
- Thirty-seven
- Thirty-eight
- Thirty-nine
- Forty
- Forty-one
- Forty-two
- Forty-three
- Forty-four
- Forty-five
- Forty-six
- Forty-seven
- Forty-eight
- Forty-nine
- Fifty
- Fifty-one
- Fifty-two
- Fifty-three
- Fifty-four
- Fifty-five
- Fifty-six
- Fifty-seven
- Fifty-eight
- Fifty-nine
- Sixty
- Sixty-one
- Sixty-two
- Sixty-three
- Sixty-four
- Sixty-five
- Sixty-six
- Sixty-seven
- Epilogue
- Acknowledgments
- Read More
- Prologue
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Follow Merilyn online
- Dedication
I try to catch Aoife’s eyes, to let her know we need to get out of here, but her head is leaning to one side, lids half closed. I start to panic. How will I get her home if she can’t stand? We’re on our last warning at the care home as it is.
Alf taps my glass. ‘Drink up.’
I swallow one mouthful, then another and another until the room begins to sway away from me, or I from it. Alf is speaking to Aoife, but all I can think about is his hand on my bare leg, slowly moving upwards, the roughness of his hands grating my skin.
That night smells of onions and cigarettes, blood and semen, warm rubber discarded on a café floor. I don’t say no. I lie there and hope the pain will pass, curled in on myself and waiting for it to end, knowing any move I make will only make it worse.
It doesn’t take long to get used to the way things are. That’s not to say we like it. We accept that our role in life amounts to this, having never been gifted the aspiration to make it otherwise. Besides, the treats improve – cake becomes drugs; hot chocolate, whisky – and thanks to the clothes Alf buys us, neither of us has ever been better dressed.
And I think we’re grateful. We play the game to keep him happy, because what else is there? Back to a life of hand-me-downs and rumbling stomachs, of pitying glances from our fellow pupils at best, sneering looks at worst?
But tonight Aoife isn’t playing ball. She’s been odd all day, spending longer than normal in the bathroom and baulking at food she’d normally devour.
I’m on the sofa. We’ve long since moved on from the café to his flat, and the room is the usual blur of cigarette smoke and alcohol. My head is spinning and I grab at the frayed brown corduroy with the hope of steadying myself. Aoife is alone in the corner of the room. Even through the blur I can see her willing Alf to give her a break; her sudden realisation that all the new clothes in the world can’t make up for how she’s feeling right now.
‘I said, come here, Aoife.’ Alf is angry and it’s the third time he’s demanded it. I worry for a moment I’ll have to do the work for both of us, but I can tell he’s bored of me by now; he’s turned his attention back to her. Through the smoke I can see she’s frightened, and I know why: the red dress pulls around her middle, the tiniest bulge protruding over the edge of a black lace belt, threatening to reveal her secret.