26

AMANDA WESTON CAN’T STOP SHIVERING. EXCEPT, shivering is something you do when you are cold. She has a feeling she might be cold – she’s naked, after all – but this spasmodic shaking has nothing to do with temperature. This isn’t cold. This is terror.

High above her head, suspended from the ceiling, hang large, coloured shapes. She sees red, blue and yellow paint peeling away and thinks she should know what they are but her petrified brain can’t seem to process normal information any more. Just the minutiae of what’s happening to her body. The rough wooden bench she’s lying on feels like a thousand tiny creatures are biting into her. An itch below her right eye has become so intense it makes her want to weep and she’s sure something is crawling up her left leg. Nothing she can do.

Not that it stops her trying. Hands, then arms, head and legs. Tugging and twisting and pulling until exhaustion gets the better of her again. One last effort, whole body, one massive buck, do it now. Useless. She can’t move.

A noise behind her head. Someone coming back.

A hand touching her face. Then a sudden burning as the tape across her mouth is ripped away and the cold air stings raw skin.

‘How’re you doing?’ whispers the voice in her ear.

Amanda tries to think of something to say. Something that will strike a chord, make a difference. Something other than the old clichés. Why are you doing this? Please don’t hurt me. Let me go now, I won’t say a word, I promise.

‘This is a mistake,’ she chooses. ‘I’m not the person you think I am. I’ve done nothing.’ Amanda thinks it isn’t possible to be any more afraid. Then she realizes it is.

‘Tell me something about yourself, Amanda,’ whispers the voice. ‘Tell me about your children.’

Her children? Her stomach turns cold. Impossible. Abigail is at school. Someone would have called her if she’d gone missing? When did she last talk to Daniel? Amanda strains her eyes, looking left and right, as though she might see them, strapped down like she is, one on either side. No one there. She and the voice in her ear are alone.

‘What are their names?’ asks the voice. ‘I’ll know if you’re lying. You’ll know too. What’s your daughter called?’

‘Ab— Abigail,’ Amanda manages.

‘Sweet. And your son? Tell me all about your son.’

‘Daniel,’ she says.

‘You must be very proud of them. Mothers will do anything, won’t they, for their children? Are you a good mother, Amanda?’

‘I try. I don’t understand. Why are …’

Suddenly, Amanda isn’t cold any more. She’s hot. Sauna hot. She watches a figure in white move away from her towards a bench at the far wall. She sees a hand reach out, a finger tap gently on a small, portable CD player.

‘Let’s have some music, shall we?’ says the voice. ‘This is one of my favourites.’

The tune rings out, light, jolly, familiar, as the white figure comes back towards her. It’s a tune from childhood. The lyrics start just as something that feels like ice is traced slowly across Amanda’s stomach. The trail it leaves behind begins to prickle and then sting. She can almost hear her hot blood sizzling as it meets the cold air.