Page 21 of The Dawn Chorus

Shivers rolled through me. The room was suddenly too small, the shutters hemming me in.

To calm myself – distract myself – I took in my immediate surroundings. All was tidy. The pillow I had thrown was now supporting me, and the bedclothes smelled crisp and sweet. I did not. I felt as if I was coated in candlewax, the wax being my week-old sweat.

I was going to have to face the shower. Even if it washed away the last of my sanity. I disconnected myself from the drip and took a deep breath, only for pain to spike in my chest. I coughed my throat raw.

That was all I needed. A fucking cough. Resisting the urge to lie back down and sleep for a year, I sat up.

Getting out of bed was slow-going. One foot to the floor, then the other, legs trembling. One hand on the bedpost, where a long cardigan waited. When I was up, a grey wave of dizziness almost slapped me right back down. I still had a tight headache.

Getting my arms into the cardigan was the next challenge. My shoulders were rusted, my fingers stiff. It took several tries to force them all the way down to the cuffs, longer to post the buttons through the holes.

At least I was upright. That was progress. Trying not to breathe too deeply, I hobbled across the corridor, into the bathroom. There, for the first time in days, I saw my reflection.

It was better than I had expected. Still grim, of course – I looked gaunt and tired, my eyes bloodshot, my skin dull as old newspaper – but the bruising around my eye and cheekbone was now a mottled olive, and my lip had almost healed. When I lifted my nightshirt, however, I saw that my stomach was still black and blue.

The showerhead glinted in the sullen light. I looked away. Standing under that thing would drag me back to the abyss, and I doubted I’d fare better in a bath – but I had to re-learn how to do this. I couldn’t let Scion have stolen my ability to wash.

I took a facecloth from the rail, approached the sink, and turned the tap. Hot water shot out, making me start. Shivering, I held the cloth under it until it was soaked. Steam puffed from the sink.

‘It isn’t near your face,’ I said under my breath. ‘Look, you’re fine. You’re fine, Paige.’

Water dripped from my wrist to the floor. I fumbled a bottle of body wash from the cabinet – lavender cream,quel luxe– then undressed and sat on the bath.

Keeping the cannula dry slowed me down, though not half as much as the fear did. Every brush of the cloth made me stiffen. Every time I had to soak it again, I froze at the sound of trickling water. The nearer I got to my face, the worse I shook. I found it helped – just a little – if I tilted my chin down. Smaller chance of inhaling stray droplets.

Before now, I had never realised that tap water had a smell. It was faint and insidious, like creeping damp, and it threatened to unhinge me.

My throat closed. I swallowed past the lump and forced myself to keep cleaning – gently, careful with myself. I found a hard-bristled brush and scoured away the horseshoes of grime under my nails. Drained, I stood up and swaddled myself in a warm towel.

Another search of the cabinet rewarded me with an expensive-looking facial cleanser. I dabbed at my brow and cheeks and neck. Next, I scrubbed my teeth until they squeaked.

Now for the worst part.

‘Right,’ I muttered to my reflection. ‘Time to make your hair look less like a rats’ bacchanalia.’

A steel pitcher stood under the cabinet. I filled it with hot water and took it with me to the bath.

Now for the golden question: head forward or back. Back seemed the logical option – my sodden hair would be off my face – but then, that was how I had been on the waterboard, staring up at the source of the agony. If my hand shook once, I would splash myself.

Forward, then?

I tried to think. When I was about five, there had been an outbreak of nits at my school. My grandmother had spent days teasing them out of my curls, cursing under her breath. It had been a lean month – most months had been lean – and she hadn’t been able to afford the medicated shampoo the nurse had recommended, so she had scrubbed my scalp with salt and vinegar before she attacked. I had smelled like a bag of chips for days.

She had got me to lean forward over the bath. Even now, I dimly remembered the discomfort, the incessant tug of the fine-toothed comb. But then the water would be all around me, streaming off my hair, the air would reek of it …

This was ridiculous. I couldn’t agonise over this decision all day. Head back. I was in control of the jug, not Suhail. I was in control of the water.

Except that my hand shook.

Water streamed over my brow. Blinded me. Spilled on to my lips, tasting of fear. The pitcher clanged off the floor. An instant later, I found myself crumpled next to it, dewdrops clinging to my lashes, a roar in my ears. Gooseflesh rippled all over me. Panting, I groped for the toilet and retched until I thought my stomach would uproot itself.

It was a long time before I could move. I was shaking too hard.

‘Okay.’ I wiped my mouth and got back on to the bath. ‘One more try. Then … food.’

This time, I kept my eyes wide open. And my hand was a little steadier.

It took almost as long as it had to clean the rest of me. When it was done, I scraped my damp curls into a bun and pulled my nightshirt and cardigan back on. Exhausted though I was, it had been worth the effort. It felt good to be clean.