play Soul Reaver. I was still struggling to beat that same old
mutant. Every now and then I couldn’t help stealing a look at her.
She couldn’t keep still for more than a minute. She was distressed, constantly changing position like she was lying on a carpet of broken bottles. She wrapped herself in the blanket then
threw it off and fidgeted and flinched like somebody was torturing her.
It was driving me crazy the way she was doing these over-the-top groans. It sounded like she was faking it just to annoy me.
I put my headphones on and turned the volume all the way up, rolled over and faced the wall and stuck my head so deeply inside my book that I went cross-eyed. I read a couple of lines and then I
closed my eyes.
I opened them two hours later. Olivia was sitting on the edge of the settee, all sweaty, jiggling her legs anxiously and staring at the floor. She had taken her cardigan off.
She was wearing a saggy, dark blue vest and you could see her boobs hanging down. She was so thin, all bones, with long narrow feet, a thin neck like a greyhound and wide shoulders, and her arms .
. .
What did she have in the middle of her arms?
Purple spots studded with little red dots.
She lifted her head up. ‘You slept, didn’t you?’
That place in Sicily where Dad wanted to send her . . .
‘What?’
The money . . .
‘Did you sleep?’
The way my parents stopped talking about Olivia as soon as they saw me . . .
‘Yes . . .’
The illness that wasn’t catching.
‘I have to eat something . . .’
She was like those people in Villa Borghese. Those people who sit on the benches. Those people who ask you if you have any change. Those people with beers. I kept away from them. They’d
always scared me.
‘Can you give me a biscuit? A bit of bread?’
And now one of them was here.
I got up and took the bag of sliced bread over to her.
They were next to me. Inside my den.
She threw the bread down on the settee. ‘I want to wash . . . I disgust myself.’
‘There’s only cold water.’ I was surprised that I’d managed to answer.
‘Doesn’t matter. I have to do something, take control,’ she said to herself. She struggled to stand and went into the bathroom.
I waited to hear the water running and then I leapt to her backpack. Inside was a worn-out purse, a diary full of scraps of paper, her mobile phone – and some syringes wrapped in
plastic.
7
I lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. It was quiet, but if I stopped breathing I could hear Olivia in the bathroom, the cars passing on the street, the sweeping of the
Silver Monkey’s broom in the courtyard, a phone ringing off in the distance, the pilot light in the boiler. And the smell of all that stuff piled up, the sharp, pungent smell of wooden
furniture and damp rugs.
A thud.
I lifted my head up off the pillow.
The bathroom door was ajar.
I got up and went to see.
Olivia was on the floor, naked, white, bent over between the toilet and the basin, trying to get up but unable to do so. Her legs kept slipping on the wet tiles like a horse on ice. She had only
a few hairs on her pussy.
I stood there staring at her.
She looked like a zombie. A zombie who has just been shot.
She saw me, standing there next to the door jamb and ground her teeth. ‘Get out! Get out of here! Shut that fucking door!’
I went over to get Countess Nunziante’s dressing gown and hung it on the doorknob for her. When she came out, wrapped in a filthy towel, she grabbed it, stared at it, slipped it on and
then lay down on the settee. Without saying a word she turned her back to me.
I put my headphones on. One of Dad’s CDs was on. It was a piece for piano which lasted forever, so calm and repetitive that it made me feel far away, on the other side of a screen, like I
was watching a documentary. Olivia and I weren’t in the same room.
My sister got worse and worse. She trembled like she had a temperature. She was a jetty against which waves of pain
mutant. Every now and then I couldn’t help stealing a look at her.
She couldn’t keep still for more than a minute. She was distressed, constantly changing position like she was lying on a carpet of broken bottles. She wrapped herself in the blanket then
threw it off and fidgeted and flinched like somebody was torturing her.
It was driving me crazy the way she was doing these over-the-top groans. It sounded like she was faking it just to annoy me.
I put my headphones on and turned the volume all the way up, rolled over and faced the wall and stuck my head so deeply inside my book that I went cross-eyed. I read a couple of lines and then I
closed my eyes.
I opened them two hours later. Olivia was sitting on the edge of the settee, all sweaty, jiggling her legs anxiously and staring at the floor. She had taken her cardigan off.
She was wearing a saggy, dark blue vest and you could see her boobs hanging down. She was so thin, all bones, with long narrow feet, a thin neck like a greyhound and wide shoulders, and her arms .
. .
What did she have in the middle of her arms?
Purple spots studded with little red dots.
She lifted her head up. ‘You slept, didn’t you?’
That place in Sicily where Dad wanted to send her . . .
‘What?’
The money . . .
‘Did you sleep?’
The way my parents stopped talking about Olivia as soon as they saw me . . .
‘Yes . . .’
The illness that wasn’t catching.
‘I have to eat something . . .’
She was like those people in Villa Borghese. Those people who sit on the benches. Those people who ask you if you have any change. Those people with beers. I kept away from them. They’d
always scared me.
‘Can you give me a biscuit? A bit of bread?’
And now one of them was here.
I got up and took the bag of sliced bread over to her.
They were next to me. Inside my den.
She threw the bread down on the settee. ‘I want to wash . . . I disgust myself.’
‘There’s only cold water.’ I was surprised that I’d managed to answer.
‘Doesn’t matter. I have to do something, take control,’ she said to herself. She struggled to stand and went into the bathroom.
I waited to hear the water running and then I leapt to her backpack. Inside was a worn-out purse, a diary full of scraps of paper, her mobile phone – and some syringes wrapped in
plastic.
7
I lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. It was quiet, but if I stopped breathing I could hear Olivia in the bathroom, the cars passing on the street, the sweeping of the
Silver Monkey’s broom in the courtyard, a phone ringing off in the distance, the pilot light in the boiler. And the smell of all that stuff piled up, the sharp, pungent smell of wooden
furniture and damp rugs.
A thud.
I lifted my head up off the pillow.
The bathroom door was ajar.
I got up and went to see.
Olivia was on the floor, naked, white, bent over between the toilet and the basin, trying to get up but unable to do so. Her legs kept slipping on the wet tiles like a horse on ice. She had only
a few hairs on her pussy.
I stood there staring at her.
She looked like a zombie. A zombie who has just been shot.
She saw me, standing there next to the door jamb and ground her teeth. ‘Get out! Get out of here! Shut that fucking door!’
I went over to get Countess Nunziante’s dressing gown and hung it on the doorknob for her. When she came out, wrapped in a filthy towel, she grabbed it, stared at it, slipped it on and
then lay down on the settee. Without saying a word she turned her back to me.
I put my headphones on. One of Dad’s CDs was on. It was a piece for piano which lasted forever, so calm and repetitive that it made me feel far away, on the other side of a screen, like I
was watching a documentary. Olivia and I weren’t in the same room.
My sister got worse and worse. She trembled like she had a temperature. She was a jetty against which waves of pain
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