Page 129 of The Island of Lost Girls

52 | Gemma

She’s a mess of snot and tears. She’s been sobbing out loud, the past half-hour, unable to keep it in any longer. Stands stock-still and trembling. Unable to be certain that they are done, afraid that there will be more to come. And when she hears their footsteps shuffle out, hears the voices rise once more in manly hilarity, her strength gives way and she drops to her knees on the carpet.

Someone cuts the cable ties. When they grab her wrist, she cringes and tries to pull back because she thinks it’s starting again. But Tatiana’s voice, by her ear, tells her not to be stupid, tells her to sit still, and she’s so well trained by now that she does as she’s told.

But even when her hands are free, she doesn’t touch the mask until she’s told she can. They didn’t want us to see who was doing what, she thinks. Even they have some degree of shame.

‘Okay,’ says Tatiana, ‘you can ditch the masks. Well done, girls. You’ve done splendidly!’

Gemma peels the mask off and looks around. They’re in a room she’s never seen before, hidden at the end of the corridor. A manly room; all leather and corduroy and polished reddish-brown wood. On a cinema-style screen, a blurred image in black and white that she can’t make out, as though someone’s paused a film mid-action. A coffee table is scattered with ashtrays and glasses and in the middle there are four Japanese ceramic bowls where someone’s been throwing coins. All different colours. Red, green, yellow, blue. Green is fullest by far. Whoever’s been aiming at it, they’ve an eagle eye.

Her hand strays to her wristband, and she wonders if she can take it off yet. Same colour. Creepy.

Sara and Wei-Cheng are still on their feet, but Hanne too has dropped to her hands and knees at some point. They all look drained of blood, pale as though they’re in shock. It wasn’t just me, then, thinks Gemma. That was too much. But nobody else is tearstained. Only I’ve been crying. Only me.

‘Sorry, darlings.’ Tatiana’s voice is back to what it was when they arrived. Indulgent, as if she’s treating them to ice-cream. ‘They got a bit over-excited there. Men!’ And she rolls her eyes as though she’s talking about someone breaking a window with a football, not … that. ‘I should think you could all do with a nice stiff drink.’

Sara staggers slightly as she walks to an armchair. ‘Yes,’ she says, and even she sounds shaken.

The indulgent voice again. ‘You just get cosy,’ she says, ‘and I’ll bring you all a brandy.’

They stumble their way into armchairs. Which are still warm from their previous occupants.

Gemma feels bruised inside. As though she’s actually injured.

‘Fuck me,’ says Sara. ‘I dunno if that was worth twenty grand.’

‘Bloody hope that’s really it,’ says Wei-Cheng. ‘I don’t think I can take much more partying.’

Hanne is rocking slightly in her chair. There’s blood on her thighs. Gemma hazily puts a hand between her own to check herself. The fingers come up slimed and sticky, but there’s no blood. A bit of her is surprised.

‘Yes, darling,’ says Tatiana, bustling back in. Four huge brandy snifters on a butler’s tray, the best part of a quarter-bottle in each. ‘That’s it. It’s all just fun fun fun from now on! A lovely long lie-in and some swims in the pool, and it’s fancy dress and champagne all the way! Here! Drink up!’ She presses the glasses into their hands.

‘I want to go home,’ says Hanne.

‘Don’t be silly,’ says Tatiana. ‘A good long sleep and a bath and you’ll be right as rain.’

Gemma’s hand shakes as she puts the glass to her lips and takes a large slug. The brandy’s warm, and mellow. I won’t do this again, she thinks. They like hurting people. Really hurting them. I thought I was going to break.

She wipes her face with her wrist.

Tatiana picks up a remote and kills the picture on the big screen. Gemma’s a bit relieved she has, because, although the image was fuzzy and hard to make out, something in her had been finding it disturbing.

‘Tatiana?’ asks Sara. ‘Have you got any painkillers?’

‘Really?’ asks Tatiana, and looks surprised, as though the things these men have done should not have hurt. ‘Sure. What do you want?’

‘What have you got?’

‘Most things,’ she says, casually. ‘Ibuprofen? Trammies? Zomorph?’