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For several minutes I remain still and quiet, reminding myself of my goals. And that’s when the woman sits on the mattress, her movements careful and ginger. Christ, I can’t bear to think about what’s happened to her. If I think about that it’ll mean my sister . . . No, I refuse to think of her having to endure that. It’s bad enough looking at this woman and knowing what she’s had to go through. And what will come.
“I think I was takenfive?days ago.” Her voice is dry and thin. “I was with four other women. Er . . . Lenka, and, and Irina. There was a black girl from Croydon, Charlotte, and I can’t remember the other girl’s name. She was south Asian.”
I nod encouragingly, fucking ecstatic that she’s talking and not screaming. “Did you meet a Sabine? She has long dark hair and grey eyes. Light brown skin.”
Ghost-girl shakes her head.
Gutted, I take a breath. Two. “Are you sure? Maybe there were more of you. She’s about five eight—”
“Just us,” she confirms.
Chronic emptiness consumes me. It takes me a moment to think of other, necessary, questions. “And the men in charge—what do you know? Are there any places they mention? Towns or cities?”
“Al Vaz?” she suggests. “There was a name that sounded like Janssen.”
Elated, I smile at her, drawing closer. “That’s really helpful. And places?”
She shakes her head, screwing up her face. “I’m not sure. I can’t recall it, pronounce it. Am I still in the Netherlands?”
I nod, thinking of all the long, unpronounceable places in the area. “Where are you from?”
“Cambridge. Oh God, can you get a message to Tilly, my sister?! My name’s Ava Rivas. Please!”
Her voice rises so I silence her by shoving my hand over her mouth, my eyes pleading. “We have to pretend,” I instruct softly. “Keep your voice down.”
At her nod, I release my hand, watching her carefully. And then, loudly, I hiss, “Shut up, and get on your back.” For her ears only, I whisper, “Scream a bit.”
She makes sounds depicting a struggle, of tears and pain. “No,” she whimpers a few times. “No p-please. I’ll be g-good.”
We share a pained look, her eyes filling with tears as she cries for real now, turning onto her side and sobbing. Maybe she expects me to use her too. Maybe she doubts my ploy, the subterfuge I'm suggesting just another sick game by yet another rapist.
I feel wretched. But to keep up the ruse I lean against the bed frame and rattle it rhythmically, making my own disgusting sounds.
Afterwards, I spit in another condom and toss it to the floor.
According to the clock on my phone, an hour has passed and I feel bone-weary. With no other places to sit, I ease onto the opposite side of the bed, wondering if I should offer to console her. I think about the fact I need consoling too, which is so fucking selfish, but I’m crushed.
My hopes have been wrecked.
Lying down, I roll towards her, putting a hand on her shoulder. “I’m so sorry,” I say quietly.
Her eyes fall to my hand, and I immediately move it. With her tears subsiding, she murmurs, “You’re so warm.”
“Roll over. I’ll hold you if you like.”
After a noteworthy pause, she rolls towards me, chest to chest, face to face, groin to groin.
At any other time of my life, I’d want to fuck a woman as beautiful as her. Of course, I would, because look at her: breasts, high and full; a slender shape; a face that the grand masters of old would want to paint and paint and paint again. And her eyes are like quicksilver, like galaxies of stars live in her irises. I’ve never seen anything like them, but I’ve seensomethinglike them.
Those eyes remind me of rare jewels, crafted to perfection. For a moment, I visualise them as precious diamonds, set in exquisite detail and made by my hand.
“I won’t hurt you,” I promise, meaning it. “I only came to find my sister, remember? She’s been missing for months and we don’t know where she is.”
Time clots and slows with her in my arms. Yellow light from the lamp illuminates her features to perfection. It might be early autumn, but the disused farm building is cold.
“I was awake when you came in,” she confesses. Her arms are tucked up against her chest, meaning her balled fists sit under her chin. My arm is under her body, the other tucked around her back. “I watched you.” She looks into my face, a soft expression there. “I trust you, which is madness, but you pretended,” she says quietly, glancing at the door. And then those eyes are back on me, watching, looking. “You were sad. And I’m sorry for your person, I really am,” she says tears leaking from her eyes, “but she’s very lucky to have you, and to have you searching for her.”
“You’re wrong—I’m a huge failure.”
