into it, barely even noticing that it was a pear until the taste exploded in my mouth, almost unbearable in its intensity.
Saturday—nearly Sunday. No wonder I felt so awful. No wonder the hours had seemed to stretch out forever. No wonder my stomach was even now cramping and griping as I gulped down the pear in huge, wolfish chunks. I had been locked up here without food or contact for . . . I tried to do the maths. Thursday morning to Saturday evening. Forty-eight . . . sixty . . . sixty-something hours? Was that really right? My brain hurt. My stomach hurt. Everything hurt.
My stomach shifted and cramped again.
“Oh God.” I tried to scramble to my feet, my legs weak and shaky. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
I stumbled to the tiny en suite, anxiously shadowed by the girl, who put out a hand to steady me as I elbowed my way through the narrow doorway, and then fell to my knees and vomited sourly into the blue-stained pan of the toilet. The girl seemed to feel my wretchedness for she said, almost timidly, “I can get you another one, if you want. But there’s some kind of potato thing as well. That might be better for your stomach. The cook called it pittypanny or something. I can’t remember.”
I didn’t reply, just knelt over the bowl, bracing myself for the next heave, but it seemed to be gone, and at last I wiped my mouth and then stood slowly, pulling myself up by the handrail and testing the strength in my legs. Then I walked unsteadily back to the bunk. The cubes of fried potato looked and smelled divine. I picked up a fork and ate, more slowly this time, trying not to gulp the food. The girl watched me as I ate.
“I’m sorry,” she said again. “I shouldn’t have punished you like that.”
I swallowed a mouthful of the tepid, salty potato pieces, feeling the caramelized skin crunch between my back teeth.
“What’s your name?” I said at last.
She chewed her lip, looked away, and then sighed.
“I probably shouldn’t tell you, but what does it matter? Carrie.”
“Carrie.” I took another mouthful, rolling the word around as I chewed. “Hi, Carrie.”
“Hi,” she said, but there was no warmth or life in her voice. She watched me eat for a moment longer and then scooted slowly back across the floor of the cabin and slumped against the opposite wall.
We sat in silence for a while, me eating methodically, trying to pace myself, she watching me. Then she gave a small exclamation, felt in her pocket, and pulled something out.
“I nearly forgot. Here you go.” It was a pill, wrapped in a scrap of tissue. I took it, almost wanting to laugh with relief. It seemed pathetically hopeful, the idea that this tiny little white dot could make me feel better about my situation. And yet . . .
“Thanks,” I said. I put it on the back of my tongue, took a gulp of the juice on the tray, and swallowed it.
At last the plate was empty, and I realized, as I scraped up the last of the potato, Carrie still watching me from across the room, that it was the first time she had waited while I ate. The thought made me bold enough to try something, maybe something stupid, but the words came out before I could stop them.
“What’s going to happen to me?”
She said nothing, only levered herself to her feet, shaking her head slowly and dusting down her cream silk trousers. She was painfully thin, and I wondered, briefly, whether that was all part of the part for impersonating Anne or whether she was naturally that skinny.
“Is he—” I swallowed. I was pushing my luck, but I had to know. “Is he going to kill me?”
She still didn’t answer, just picked up the tray and made for the door, but as she turned to pull it shut behind her, I saw there was a tear, welling up, about to spill. She paused for a second, the door almost shut, and I thought for a minute that she was about to say something. But instead, she just shook her head again, sending the tear tracing across her cheek, and then she wiped it away, almost angrily, and the door slammed shut behind her.
After she had gone I stood, holding on to the bunk, steadying myself, and then I saw it, on the floor, another book. This one my