Shelley found herself being dragged around the circumference of the lounge, held upright by the human crutches flanking her – Nicole and Len. Her sweatshirt clung to her back, chest and arms. She felt cold and realised her clothes were wet against her skin. With her eyes less than a quarter open, she was able to see that it was still daylight. She assumed it was the still the same day – Sunday. She lowered her head; it rocked and remained unsteady as she gazed down at her stumbling feet. The dark blur of the carpet caused her to feel dizzy. How did she end up like this? The last thing she remembered was sitting in the lounge with Len.
“How could you let this happen?” She heard Nicole say. “She’s my dearest friend. I fucking love her.”
“Don’t put the dairy on me,” Len replied. “I never made her take it.”
Of course, she’d had a fix. But the last of her heroin wasn’t enough to cause her to go over. Then she remembered – she’d had help. Len had been complicit, although unwittingly. Had he known she was in possession of her own heroin, he most probably wouldn’t have parted with any of his. For a better high, she’d lied, and he’d given her enough for a reasonable hit. She’d added his contribution, as well as a scoop she’d discreetly stolen from him, to what she had left.
After circling the stinking armchair innumerable times, she realised Nicole and Len hadn’t noticed she’d woken. Remaining silent, she took the opportunity to eavesdrop on their conversation, but her mind wandered. She recalled Len kneeling beside her as she sat on one of her grandparents’ chairs in the lounge. He had his belt pulled tight around her lower arm and she was handing him a syringe. The image changed to another: tears streaming down her face, Len with his arms around her. What had she told him? She tried to remember, but she couldn’t.
“Are you really sure about this?” Nicole asked.
“Nah, but there ain’t no other way round it,” Len said.
On hearing that transaction, it became apparent that her snooping skills were impaired. Although she tried to concentrate on what was being said, it mostly sounded like gobbledegook with only the occasional word or phrase in English.
Unable to decipher the majority of the conversation, it took what felt like an age until anything made sense. Eventually intermittent words, and strings of words, started to connect. Nicole had been the one who found Shelley and she was responsible for her drenched clothes, which had been caused by the water she’d thrown over her in an attempt to bring her back.
What remained unclear was what, if anything, Len knew about the rapist and the reason he was in the cellar. Not only was she unaware of what Nicole might have told him, but she couldn’t remember what she’d said on the subject herself. And if she had, would it have been the truth or a lie?
Even though her body ached like a low-scoring boxer who’d gone the distance – and the laps of the lounge exacerbated the pain and exhaustion – she couldn’t stop. She had to keep her consciousness covert until she knew how to act, and to do that she needed to know what Len knew.