‘No, no, I’m sure…’ Henry began, but Finn silenced him with a raised hand. Apparently she could reach him at a moment’s notice. Even some bloody memo from his teacher to the head about packed lunches for a school trip. ‘She showed me school photographs, reports, everything. They’re working miracles with him.’ I drained my mug again. ‘You could tell us if you wanted to.’ Henry joined us at the table and pouring me another inch of brandy. ‘Feel free.’ Finn took the lighter from me when my trembling fingers failed to make it work. ‘May I?’ I asked, taking a cigarette without waiting for a reply. If I were you I’d be packing my kit – if you’re not swayed by flaying me alive, she’ll be busy finding another way to keep you on the island.’ ‘Anyway, I don’t know why you’re down here wasting time playing Florence fucking Nightingale. It would take years for a scar to fade to this translucent memory. Under the angry grid of most recent marks, I could see a fainter web of silver-white lines across the man’s back and shoulders. He leaned across the table to take another cigarette from its battered pack. ‘Looks worse than it feels,’ Finn replied, which was no answer at all.
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