'And you,’ I say, searching his face. ‘What do you get out of this?’
'A bit of revenge.' He shrugs. 'Got nothing better to do at the moment. Plus, I always liked Marguerite. Good at following instructions.' He frowns a little and shakes his head. ‘Not right what they do in there. I never held with it.’
‘Why didn’t you tell anyone. Get it shut down?’ Mav asks quietly from the back.
Douglas snorts and glances back at Mav. ‘Stoke has backers. Powerful ones. Rich cunts with deep pockets. Police aren’t going to listen to the likes of me.’
Blake puts down the binoculars, nodding. 'Where will they keep her?'
'Her room, if it's the same as before, and I don't see why it wouldn't be. It’s the fifth window from the left at the bottom there. Can't remember her room number, but that’s the one from the outside.
Blake raises the binoculars again, looking at the house.
'Can we go in that way?' I ask.
Douglas shakes his head. ‘Too small. My advice is to go in the side door. Where the bins are.'
He thinks for a moment.
'Dumpsters. They're hidden from view, so you should be able to sneak through behind the wooden fence, and around there is a door that leads into the kitchen after ten. At that time of night, the orderlies usually leave it open because that's where they have their fag breaks. You know,cigarettes,' he mutters as my eyes widen at the word.
The English sure have some weird words for stuff.
'It'll be unlocked,’ he continues. ‘It always is. You go in there, through the kitchen. That'll lead you to the canteen. Through there, beyond the double doors, you'll find a hallway. Go right all the way down, and then rightagain. You'll see a common room. Her door is…,’ he shuts his eyes, 'the fourth on the left.'
'And if she's not there?'
Douglas shrugs. 'You go in the night, that's where she should be.’ He winces. ‘I mean, unless she's being corrected.'
I look sharply at Douglas. 'What the fuck does that mean?'
The others behind me in the back seat are tense. Douglas senses the shift in our demeanors. He side-eyes me and sighs.
'There's...some rooms downstairs in the cellar. Padlocked. Quiet rooms they call them. I suppose they are quiet, but really, they’re just bare cells.'
'Why would she be put in one of those?'
Douglas leans back in his seat, and it creaks a little. 'Various infractions. If she hasn't been following the rules or got too many demerits, they might put her down there. But it's unlikely. Marguerite was one of Stoke's success stories. He cured her, he said. She always did as she was told.'
Mav leans forward, his jaw tense, his hands clasped in his lap, knuckles white. 'All that motherfucker gave her was PTSD. He didn't cure shit.'
He doesn't say anything more, though there's plenty more we could say about the state of our girl because of that place.
I think back to when she first arrived at the KIP house. Her movements so careful, so controlled, barely speaking. The way she'd sit straight with her legs crossed at the ankle. How she wouldn’t argue and didn't advocate for herself. Because she wasn't able to. She didn’t even know how. That place tried to break her. I see that now. How could we have ever thought that she was in a spa for all those years, whenwe were met with the evidence with our own eyes, when I saw the changes in her?
I silently berate myself. I’ve failed my best friend and the girl I love at every turn, and I don't know if I'll ever forgive myself.
'Let's get the fuck out of here,' Blake snarls.
Douglas nods and turns the key. The engine sputters to life, and we leave the side of the country road where we've been sitting. He drives us back into the village.
'When are we doing this?' Blake asks. 'Tonight?'
Douglas shakes his head. 'Friday night would be better.'
'Why?' Mav asks, clearly thinking, as I do, that we want to get her out of there as quickly as possible.
'Because Fridays are when the orderlies on duty usually have a bit to drink.'
