THIRTY-FOUR

She dreams about her brother’s boat, and she knows it’s a dream, because this time she’s aboard it.

The water is rough, drenching her; cascading over the brightly coloured bow as the boat tries to avoid weeds and logs, empty cans and plastic bags. She can see her brother on the bank, but he can’t hear her when she shouts, urging him to bring the boat back to shore. She sees a huge wave approaching and tries desperately to steady herself, but the chain makes it impossible. She closes her eyes, but the water rises up like a fist and punches her over the side.

She is falling for a long time.

Her eyes are open as she sinks fast and takes in the first mouthful of water. She can see the man who took her, his face getting smaller, shimmering at the surface. He calls and stretches out a hand, but she is already too deep to reach, already swallowing again. Something cold brushes against her leg and she knows other things are coming for her.

When she opens her eyes, the side of her face is in the water, pressed against the rough concrete. It is an effort to raise her head, the weight of it, but when she finally manages to sit up, she feels the icy water running down her neck, the trickle inside her shirt. She thinks about what’s in it, this water she sips and pisses; the rotting pieces, dissolved now and drying on her skin.

She stares into the blackness.

She shivers, she screams, and the time passes.

Sometimes, she imagines she can see things in the dark, ragged shapes that loom and then retreat, but she knows they aren’t really there, so she is not scared of them. It’s the stink, and the sound from what’s stinking that frightens her. The buzz, the scratch-scrabble, the snick and flutter of teeth and wings. She knows the flies that tickle her face and the beetles and the rats are only there because there is food and somewhere to lay eggs. Because something has died and because something else will be dead very soon.

She imagines she’s already stinking of death too.