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His thin T-shirt and shorts are useless against the cold. The wind and the draughts creep under the gap in the door, through floorboards and walls. He shivers. The urine around him smells of despair and hatred and defeat. At first, a blessed release, quickly turning to dismay.
The dull ache that began in his lower back has started to spread. He shifts position, trying to alleviate the throbbing, but in doing so, a bolt of pain charges through his muscles. Tense knots of constriction that can’t be relieved and that make his teeth clench. He’s been like this too long. His calves are starting to cramp, and he massages them with his fingers. It doesn’t help. Only being able to stretch, escape, will make any difference.
But he knows not to resist. Not to protest or complain. Silence is his only friend. That, and the tears running down his cheeks. He awkwardly shifts position and wipes them away. He can cry later. When things get worse. Because they always get worse.
He hears a knock. Two quick taps on the front door, close to his cupboard. Then footsteps in heavy boots.
The door is opened; a new rush of cold air seeps inside, chilling his skin. He hears voices. His father, then another: a woman.
He gasps. He recognizes her, his teacher from school. A nice lady, with a soft voice and clothes that smell of summer meadows and joy. She’s here, at his house. But why? He strains forward, ignoring the fresh rush of pain that races through his constricting muscles. They’re talking. They’re talking about him. He can’t hear every word but he can make out her concern—he hasn’t been to school—is everything okay? Then his father, a tone he hasn’t heard before. It’s almost … kind. Considerate. His father laughs, a giggle in return. Hope turns to desolation. The front door is closing. This isn’t someone coming to save them. This is confirmation: they are alone. In hell.
Footsteps again, on the floor outside. This time they pause. A shuffle. He imagines his father standing outside the tiny wooden door, thinking. Checking his watch.
He hears the scrape of furniture against the floor, signaling his release. But there is no freedom here. The real horror is about to begin.
CHAPTER
14
ROMILLY IS GLAD Phil isn’t there when she gets home. She arrives with new resolution: to do as Dr. Jones said. Dig out what she has on the old case. Face her paranoia front and center.
It’s her day off from the hospital. She has nothing to do, bar this. She opens the loft hatch, pulls down the ladder, and retrieves the plastic storage container of old files. Dust and cobwebs settle in her hair. She climbs down and places it on the kitchen table. Pandora’s box. Open it and who knows what memories will come flying out. But Dr. Jones is right. She’s a different person now. Stronger.
Two hours. She’ll give it two hours. A boundary. She steels herself, clicking the kettle on, then notices the back door key left in the lock. She tries the handle, it’s open, and feels the shiver of worry, quietly cursing herself for not checking when she left that morning. She locks it, then makes a cup of tea and carries it to her office. The box next. She places it on the chair next to her desk.
Her office is the smallest room, right at the back of the house. No bigger than a broom cupboard, space for a bookshelf and a desk, but Rom has always liked it. The shelves are jammed with medical journals and textbooks, files and notes stacked up on the floor.
She opens the lid. A mess of paper stares back. Everything: collected and stored away. And piece by piece, she begins.
* * *
It’s not until she hears the front door bang and Phil call out that she realizes hours have passed. Her tea lies untouched and cold next to her. Lunch, missed and forgotten.
“Are you in?” Phil calls again, and she tears herself away from the box.
She glances around. Paper is scattered across the floor and the desk. Photographs. Fusty, brittle newspaper clippings. Her diary from those blurry, confused days in the aftermath of his crimes. And she hasn’t made any progress.
“Back here,” she shouts reluctantly, and she hears footsteps walk the length of the house. Her boyfriend pokes his head around the study door.
He’s dressed in a gray and black tracksuit, out of his usual NHS garb. He pauses in the doorway, his mouth slightly open.
“Good day?” she asks him, trying to keep her voice normal.
“Same old,” he replies slowly. He comes into the room, leaning down and giving her a kiss. He smells of shampoo; his hair is slightly wet from the shower he has after the gym post work. She sees him look at the notes scrawled on the pad in front of her. They look like the etchings of a mad person. She closes it quickly.
“How did it go?” he asks.
“Same old Adam. He told me to leave.”
“So you are …?” he begins. “What is all this?”
“I saw Dr. Jones. She told me to follow my instincts.”
“She told you to …” But he stops. He keeps any further questions to himself. Doesn’t want to know or doesn’t care? Rom isn’t sure. “Curry for dinner okay?” he says instead.
Rom nods, and Phil leaves to go to the kitchen. She watches him go, appreciating the energy of his walk, the bounce in his step. Phil has the body of a personal trainer, the energy of a man half his age. “Wouldn’t be a great advert for my work,” he would say. “A physio who can’t even look after himself.”
Along with the gym, he runs. He swims in the sea on New Year’s Day. He surfs, even on pathetic English waves. He cycles for hours on end. It makes Romilly feel quite exhausted.
