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She runs upwards. The steps are uneven. Worn and slippy. But nonetheless she runs.
Three storeys. Forty steps.
Let the door be open. Let it be open.
The shush of sandals on ancient stone and the thunder of blood in her ears. She can’t hear what’s behind her.
Stealthy. It knows I’m trapped. It doesn’t …
The dark begins to grey. She can see her arm as it reaches for the rope. Then she sees her hand, the curve of the central pillar, the steps high above her head.
The door. She can see the door. She’s panting with the strain of her flight. But, up above, she sees cracks of light between the ancient planks.
Be open. Be open. Be open.
Still dark. But she knows the shape of the door. Her hand is reaching for the latch long before it’s within her reach.
It touches. Fumbles. Grips. Raises. The door gives under her hand and she tumbles out into the bright sunlight on the roof.
Golden bastions. Crenellated battlements. Striped umbrellas, sun loungers, a stretch of sapphire-blue water, a huge satellite dish, pointed at the sky.
Mercedes looks down and sees that her arms are a gauzy mass of grey cobwebs. She gasps and bats at herself, bounces off the wall, nearly steps back into her prison. The doorway gapes black behind her. She hurries over and closes it. In case. Just in case.
I’m not staying here. I’m not. If she did that, she’ll do anything.
Fear gradually gives way to rage as her heartbeat slows. Mercedes grinds her teeth, makes fists of her fingers. Says all the things she wants to say, inside her head. Fuck you, Tatiana Meade. No, fuck you. I’m not staying here to be your … plaything.
She strides to the battlements, looks over. Down below, the great central plain bakes gold in the sunshine, the temple like jagged teeth on the cliff edge, the sea beyond, no sound but the song of the cicadas. On a sun lounger, Tatiana has left a pile of belongings. A dress. A book whose spine is covered in bright gold letters. A portable cassette player with plug-in headphones and a pile of tapes that are no doubt the absolute latest, biggest, most up-to-the-minute …
Fuck you.
She sweeps everything onto a striped cotton towel, makes a bundle and dumps the bundle into the pool. Watches, grimly satisfied, as the towel opens up and the contents sink down to the bottom. There. Hope you’re happy now, she thinks. And she spots the grandees’ door to the main stairs and starts the long walk home.
