Read Online Say You're Sorry by Michael Robotham - Free Book Online
Authors: Michael Robotham
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eighteen now—as far as I can tell. I have no idea of the date, but I can count the seasons. Tash woke me one morning last spring and said she was throwing me a party for my birthday. We had biscuits and sweetened tea on a blanket in the middle of the floor.
Right now I know it’s winter because of the snow and the naked trees. I can look outside if I stand on the bench and lift myself up on tiptoes. The window is about ten inches high and wider across. If I hold my face close I feel the air coming through the crack at the bottom of the metal frame. At certain times of year, when the sun shines, it angles through the window and makes geometric shapes on the opposite wall that shift and twist. It’s my television, my weather channel.
That’s the window Tash squeezed through by standing on my shoulders. I’ve jammed it back in place so that George won’t be angry, but he’ll know the truth and there’s nowhere for me to hide.
I know every inch of this place. I know the crevices and cracks between the bricks, every water stain and smudge and peeling paint flake.
In one corner there are two narrow bunk beds. Tash and I pushed them closer together so we could hold hands in the dark. On the far wall there are shelves with cans of food and boxes of porridge oats. The other wall has a bench with a gas burner, a kettle and a sink. There is a tap with only cold water. A hose snakes through a hole in the wall. If I look along the edge of the hose, I can see a tiny bit of greenery.
The only other furniture is a chest of green-painted drawers and a kitchen cabinet with stencils of geraniums. This is where we keep our clothes. Oh, and I forgot to mention the two straw-bottomed chairs and a table with bamboo legs.
The ladder is attached to the wall opposite the window. It only goes halfway to the ceiling and if I could balance on the very top rung, I might just be able to reach the trapdoor with my fingertips. Behind the ladder there is a poster of Brighton Pier. I think it’s Brighton. The words have been torn off at the bottom but you can see the sea and people walking on the pier. They’re dressed in old-fashioned clothes with the women carrying umbrellas and the men wearing hats.
There is a camera in the corner of the ceiling, one of those webcams that look like a cue ball, or a beady black eye. I don’t know if it’s hooked up to anything. Maybe it’s another one of George’s lies.
There is only one place in the room where the eye can’t see us. It is in the corner under the ladder near the sink. That’s where I wash myself and where I squat over the bedpan.
When I can’t sleep I do OCD stuff like rearranging the cans of food in the cupboard and wiping the benches. There are only four cans. I have plain baked beans, baked beans with sausages, baked beans with barbecue sauce and baked beans with cheese, which is totally gross. I’m out of tuna and sweetcorn and biscuits. After stacking the cans, I count the sticking plasters and headache tablets and little rehydration sachets that you mix with water when you get the runs—the ones that are supposed to be fruit-flavored, but they taste like medicine.
That’s everything in the cupboard. There’s nothing for the skin rashes, eye infections, aching teeth, stomach cramps, or period pains; nothing for the boredom or the loneliness.
At least there are no bugs. If this were summer my legs would be dotted with bug bites, which I scratch until they bleed.
I don’t mind the darkness any more. It hides my blotchy skin and hairy legs. In the darkness I can be invisible. I can pretend that I don’t exist or that George can’t see me. He’ll think I’ve escaped and leave me alone.
Some nights I used to think he was watching us. I could feel him behind the beady black eye on the ceiling, which seemed to follow us around the room, but Tash said it was just an optical illusion.
In all those months and years, he only ever looked at Tash. The reason she cut off my
Right now I know it’s winter because of the snow and the naked trees. I can look outside if I stand on the bench and lift myself up on tiptoes. The window is about ten inches high and wider across. If I hold my face close I feel the air coming through the crack at the bottom of the metal frame. At certain times of year, when the sun shines, it angles through the window and makes geometric shapes on the opposite wall that shift and twist. It’s my television, my weather channel.
That’s the window Tash squeezed through by standing on my shoulders. I’ve jammed it back in place so that George won’t be angry, but he’ll know the truth and there’s nowhere for me to hide.
I know every inch of this place. I know the crevices and cracks between the bricks, every water stain and smudge and peeling paint flake.
In one corner there are two narrow bunk beds. Tash and I pushed them closer together so we could hold hands in the dark. On the far wall there are shelves with cans of food and boxes of porridge oats. The other wall has a bench with a gas burner, a kettle and a sink. There is a tap with only cold water. A hose snakes through a hole in the wall. If I look along the edge of the hose, I can see a tiny bit of greenery.
The only other furniture is a chest of green-painted drawers and a kitchen cabinet with stencils of geraniums. This is where we keep our clothes. Oh, and I forgot to mention the two straw-bottomed chairs and a table with bamboo legs.
The ladder is attached to the wall opposite the window. It only goes halfway to the ceiling and if I could balance on the very top rung, I might just be able to reach the trapdoor with my fingertips. Behind the ladder there is a poster of Brighton Pier. I think it’s Brighton. The words have been torn off at the bottom but you can see the sea and people walking on the pier. They’re dressed in old-fashioned clothes with the women carrying umbrellas and the men wearing hats.
There is a camera in the corner of the ceiling, one of those webcams that look like a cue ball, or a beady black eye. I don’t know if it’s hooked up to anything. Maybe it’s another one of George’s lies.
There is only one place in the room where the eye can’t see us. It is in the corner under the ladder near the sink. That’s where I wash myself and where I squat over the bedpan.
When I can’t sleep I do OCD stuff like rearranging the cans of food in the cupboard and wiping the benches. There are only four cans. I have plain baked beans, baked beans with sausages, baked beans with barbecue sauce and baked beans with cheese, which is totally gross. I’m out of tuna and sweetcorn and biscuits. After stacking the cans, I count the sticking plasters and headache tablets and little rehydration sachets that you mix with water when you get the runs—the ones that are supposed to be fruit-flavored, but they taste like medicine.
That’s everything in the cupboard. There’s nothing for the skin rashes, eye infections, aching teeth, stomach cramps, or period pains; nothing for the boredom or the loneliness.
At least there are no bugs. If this were summer my legs would be dotted with bug bites, which I scratch until they bleed.
I don’t mind the darkness any more. It hides my blotchy skin and hairy legs. In the darkness I can be invisible. I can pretend that I don’t exist or that George can’t see me. He’ll think I’ve escaped and leave me alone.
Some nights I used to think he was watching us. I could feel him behind the beady black eye on the ceiling, which seemed to follow us around the room, but Tash said it was just an optical illusion.
In all those months and years, he only ever looked at Tash. The reason she cut off my
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