In the Mission’s sleeping quarters, Arnold paced this way then that beside a hammock he chose never to use. Hands clasped behind his back, he stared at the floor. His little, pit-patting shoes were wearing a groove in the boards.
He turned, and walked the other way. Should he go and see her? He didn’t want to. She might do awful things to him.
He turned, and walked the other way. But perhaps he should see her. She was the only one who could put things right. And things were so terribly wrong.
He turned again.
But she was the one who’d made things wrong in the first place. She could make them even worse. He’d seen for himself what a monster she could be.
He turned again. And again. And again, now simply going round in circles.
But if he did nothing, it was only a matter of time before something dreadful happened; to Sister Theresa, the Mission, the whole world. But then … but then … but then …
But then no matter how he tossed it round in his head, no matter how many directions he tried walking during the course of one evening, only one route lay open to him.
Whatever the consequences, he would have to confront the terrible Dr Rama.