Chapter 2 Stranger in My Flat

She sat stiff in the plastic chair.

The doctor dabbed ointment down her side, then walked off to write a prescription.

The girl sat forward. 'I'm fine with this, really. I don't need anything else.'

Dr Antonella De Luca turned, pen still in hand. Her coat was open over blue scrubs. A silver chain pressed into the flesh at her collarbone. She blinked slowly, mid-yawn.

'You'll take the pills. They'll stop the inflammation.'

The girl raised both hands. 'I'm good. I hate medicine. Don't write it, please. I won't take it anyway.'

I looked at the doctor. 'Write it.'

The girl turned to me, startled. Her face flushed. She lowered her eyes again.

'I'm sorry. I've got maybe nine euros on me. Might not even cover a box of paracetamol.'

She reached into her pocket. Her fingers moved slowly, stiff from bruising. She pulled out a handful of coins, mostly copper.

I counted them from where I sat.

Dr De Luca yawned into her sleeve. 'Fine. Keep your change. Forget the ointment. No pills either.'

I said, 'Write the prescription. I'll pay.'

The doctor tilted her head, gave me a half-smile, and turned back to her desk.

She knew who I was. I passed by the clinic every morning.

She filled out the form. 'Name? Age?'

'Livia Castellari. I'm twenty-one.'

The doctor raised an eyebrow. 'Could've sworn you were fifteen.'

I'd thought the same.

I looked again.

Her skin was pale and smooth, not a mark on it. Round cheeks. Soft jaw. Lips full, too pink. Her lashes and brows matched the brown tint in her hair.

The doctor brought over a paper bag, folded twice at the top. Inside were pills, creams, antiseptic spray. Nothing fancy, but it came to over two hundred.

I paid.

We stepped out of the clinic. Livia kept pace beside me, clutching the paper bag to her chest.

'Thank you. For the medicine,' she said quickly. 'Can I get your number? I'll pay you back once I've got something.'

'Forget it. I live just over there. You should get home too.'

She didn't move. Just stood there, staring. Her lips parted, then closed again.

I looked at her. 'What?'

She smiled faintly, shook her head. No answer.

I didn't move either. 'Say it.'

She bit her lip. 'I... could you maybe lend me a little more? I can't go back to my flat. They might be waiting. I just wanted to sit in the twenty-four-hour McDonald's with a coffee. It's freezing out.'

She kept her eyes on mine, careful, trying not to ask too much. She looked impossibly young when she begged like that.

'There's a sofa in the living room. You can sleep there.'

I turned around before she could say anything.

She hesitated for half a second, then followed me.

The flat was spotless.

Livia stepped inside and stopped in the hallway, goggling. Her trainers stayed near the threshold.

'Your place is beautiful. Everything's so clean. The living room's huge.'

I handed her a pair of slippers, stepped out of my shoes, and pointed at the sofa.

'You stay in the living room. Don't touch anything. That's your bed. I'll get you a blanket.'

She nodded quickly, eyes wide. 'I know you didn't have to. Thank you. Really.'

'Elettra,' I said.

'Right. Thank you, Elettra.'

I went to my bedroom, shut the door, stripped off my clothes, and turned the shower on hot.

I scrubbed twice, changed into a fresh T-shirt and trousers, towel-dried my hair, and came out.

She hadn't moved. Same spot on the sofa. Legs tucked in, hands on her knees. Eyes on the floor.

She glanced up. 'Would it be alright if I used the bathroom?'

I pointed to the one beside my room. 'You don't need to ask for that.'

She flushed and darted off the sofa.

I realised then, she probably knew I had issues with hygiene. Was trying not to piss me off.

I went to the hallway cupboard, pulled out a folded blanket and a pillow, tossed them onto the sofa, then got a clean set of pyjamas from the bottom drawer.

When she came out, I held the bundle out to her.

'You should shower. Change. Then sleep.'

She blinked at the clothes, hesitated. 'But I just put the ointment on... it'll get washed off.'

'Then you'll put more on after. Use the new stuff,' I added, nodding at the toiletries I'd left by the sink. 'Don't touch mine.'

I couldn't sleep until the flat was clean. After she finished in the bathroom, I went in, wiped the floor dry, scrubbed the toilet, rinsed the sink, sprayed down the walls.

Then I ran a quick cycle for the towels.

She stood nearby for a minute, hovering awkwardly. 'Can I help-'

'No.'

She sat back down.

The pyjamas sagged on her, sleeves past her knuckles, collar slipping off one shoulder. Her build was narrower than mine. Bone-thin under the fabric.

I finished the cleaning, turned off the kitchen light, and came back out.

She was still sitting upright, arms folded, staring at the blank screen of the TV.

'What is it now?'

She looked up, bashful. 'I can't reach my back. The ointment. I need help.'

I walked over.

She unbuttoned the top halfway, then pulled it off. The bra she wore was thin, worn at the edges. Her skin was pale, tinged grey under the light. Bruises across her ribs and shoulders, some deep purple, some yellowing at the edges.

I opened the jar and started working it in.

The stuff stank-alcohol, camphor, something medicinal-but I didn't mind it. Better than perfume.

She didn't flinch, just sat there with her spine stiff and hands clenched between her knees.

I capped the jar and stepped back. 'You can put the shirt on now.'

She didn't move. 'It'll get dirty. I'll leave it off a bit.'

'Don't fuss.' I tossed the jar into the drawer. 'Keep it. I'm not wearing it again.'