‘I’m sorry,’ Rachel says, stroking my cheek. ‘I don’t know who that guy Theo was, or why he was taking photos of you, but you can’t stay here.’
The door closes. Rachel’s steps fade away and I am alone with my pain and uncertainty.
You can’t stay here.
What does she mean by that?
A while later the door closes and the steps disappear.
My thoughts are clearer and my body has come back to life. I can move my fingers, but not my arms or legs.
I’ve understood that she is keeping me drugged.
What I don’t understand is why – why is she doing this? What kind of sick kick does she get out of having me here in this bed, massaging my hands with cream and sticking a fucking tube up my nose?
Steps approach from the outside, but I hear something else too, something that rattles on the steps and a hollow metallic bang, like from a tin bucket hitting something.
The steps enter the room.
‘We’ve got to hurry,’ Rachel murmurs, without further clarification.
One hand grabs on to my right upper arm, another takes the right leg, dragging me towards the edge of the bed.
I fight to open my eyelids but don’t succeed. But my hands have come to life – I spread my fingers and clench my fists, over and over again. Try to pump some life into my lower arms. I do my best to grab on to the mattress, to stop her from pulling me onto the floor, but don’t succeed.
The next instant the edge of the bed disappears from below my right shoulder.
I slide helplessly off the mattress, but not onto the floor. Instead I land in something hard that feels like a big box.
Rachel lays me on my side, takes a hold of one leg, bends it and puts it inside the edge of the box. Then she does the same with my other leg, then folds both my arms against my chest so that I am in a foetal position.
Steps leave the room. My cheek rests against cold tin.
I put my hands against each other and feel around. Feel the dry, cracked skin and the warm glass beads on the bracelet. My body wants to start to cry again, but whatever drug she shot me up with has made me as dry as the fucking desert.
Steps approach from the hallway.
Seconds later something soft lands over me – maybe a tablecloth or a blanket.
Rachel tips the whole tin box – my head is raised and my feet are lowered. The box shakes and I understand.
I’m in the wheelbarrow.
The fucking lunatic has put me in the wheelbarrow, just like we did with Igor.
*
She wheels me out of the door and down the ramp. Then she continues straight ahead and I hear the sound of gravel crunching under the wheel, which must mean that she is headed towards the road.
The wheelbarrow jolts and my head bounces against the bottom over and over, while I am unable to do anything about it. I smell soil and grass. Tiny rocks make their way into my mouth.
I think of Mum and of Alexandra. Of how I would do anything to have them back, to have my life back. And I think of how messed up it is that I thought that I was the one who was going to trick Rachel, steal from her, when in reality she was the bad guy.
Nice Rachel who is always so understanding. Who makes pancakes and looks like my mum. Who likes roses and takes morning swims and actually saved my life. Is she wheeling me off in a wheelbarrow?
This is so messed up; it has to be a punishment from God.
But even now I can’t believe in God.
Even now I can’t believe in heavenly salvation. Because if there was a God I don’t think He would have let Rachel do something so sick. No, he would have crushed her like a bug between his fingers before she could say hand cream.
Rachel wheels me over a bump and my hands end up outside the edge of the wheelbarrow.
Why doesn’t she say anything? Can’t she explain why she is doing this?
What does it matter? You’re going to die now either way, you little shit.
My eyes burn and it actually feels like real tears. Maybe the drugs are loosening their grip on me, maybe the tears will come after all.
Something is poking into my cheek, something sharp. It almost feels like a pin, or a small twig. With effort I manage to open one eyelid, try to see what it is, but the object is too close.
And then the wheelbarrow jolts and a small orange object rolls over a bit, so that it ends up an inch or so from my face.
It’s a ladybird, but not a real ladybird. It almost looks like an earring.
The wheelbarrow stops, my head is lowered and my feet are suddenly elevated.
There are a few seconds of silence, then I hear the rattling of keys and the squeak of the gate.
My head is raised again and I roll on.
After a while I feel as if Rachel is turning. The fabric that she has laid over me tickles my cheek and I have the impulse to scratch myself but I can’t move.
It is a few seconds before I realise where she is taking me.
My stomach contracts and my heart thumps in my chest, like a rabbit scared out of its mind. The only thought I can hold on to is that I need to get out of here somehow, that I have to stop her. But my arms and legs still won’t obey me. I’m lying helplessly on my side with my hands resting over the edge of the wheelbarrow.
I feel around for something to grab on to – anything, a stick or a rock – but around me is nothing but air, nothing but the teasing caress of the summer breeze.
I’m going to die today and nothing I do can stop it.
I’m going to die today, Mum.
I clasp my hands in desperation and suddenly I have an idea.
Suddenly the thought appears.
I don’t know if it’ll work, but it is worth a shot, after all it’s just a simple math problem.
There are 252 steps where she is going and she can’t have walked more than ten steps from the gate.
I put my right hand against my left and make a quick estimate. Then I begin to count Rachel’s steps.
One. Two. Three . . .