The man in the heavy canvas coat had returned only once. He hadn’t brought McMahon. Instead, he’d tossed a pile of clothes in front of her – jeans, T-shirt, jumper – and placed a wooden tray on the floor. Food. A bowl of hot stew and a piece of crusty bread. She’d rushed to it immediately but, given it was the first food she’d tasted in years, it felt strange to eat. On every swallow she felt like she was going to choke – and it took a long while for her body to remind her gullet of how to transfer solids from her mouth to her stomach. The clothes also felt odd. Somehow restrictive and unnecessary. But they also held the coldness of the basement at bay, and made her feel more human. More civilised. Less like a lost animal. And less of an object in her jailer’s eyes. With the food finished, Kirsten got to her feet and crossed the basement to the door. It looked and felt solid. She started to hammer on it with her fists. Loudly. It didn’t take long before she heard his footsteps.
