Torturers don’t do that sort of thing, do they? I just climb right up and knock on her window. It’s the dead of night – it takes her a while to wake up. Then she reaches up and pulls the curtain open. She has that sweet look of dreams – soft, warm skin that’s been crumpled against a pillow, a slightly confused look in her eye. I get a sudden desperate urge to be her, to have the innocence of not knowing what’s gone before and what’s coming in the future. To just live life as it happens. She frowns at me, then opens the window. ‘I’m tired, Will. Is this important?’ I nod and clamber in. She yawns and falls back against the pillow. I sit at the end of her bed; I pull one of her soft, warm blankets around myself. Claire sits up again. ‘You look awful. You’re shivering. You’re . . . Will, what are you wearing?’ I look down – I am wearing socks that have been dirtied by the road, pyjama bottoms and a T-shirt. My socks have holes in them. I shrug eventually. ‘I was in a hurry,’ ‘A hurry.’ She is looking at me suspiciously.
