Free The Safe House by Nicci French Page A

could see into her skull.
    ‘You’re safe here, Finn,’ I said. ‘You don’t have to tell me anything unless you want to; you don’t have to do anything. But you’re safe.’
    The second-hand on the kitchen clock, the glowing green digits clicking over on my radio clock, the deep metronome of the grandfather clock’s pendulum in the hall, all agreed with me that it was a long, slow afternoon. Time, which had always hurtled through my days, slowed to a painful dawdle.
    I ran Finn a hot bath, which I filled with my favourite bath oil. She went into the bathroom, locked the door, and I heard the sound of undressing and of her getting in, but she was out again and dressed in the same clothes as before in under five minutes. I asked her to help me choose curtains for her room, and we knelt by the piles of fabric that I pulled out from under my bed where I’d stored them, and she watched as I held up pleated lengths and said nothing. So I chose her something cheerful in dull red and yellow and navy, though it was much too long for the small square window, and hung it up. I left her in her bedroom so she could unpack, thinking she might like to be alone there for a bit. Before I left the room I saw her looking into her open case at clothes which were all still in their packets. A few minutes later she came downstairs again and stood in the doorway of my study where I was tidying away folders. I took her out into the garden, hoping that the bulbs the previous owner was sure to have planted had poked through the neglected soil, but all we found were a few snowdrops in a cracked flowerpot.
    We went back inside and I lit a fire (mostly consisting of firelighters and tightly crumpled balls of newspapers), and she sat a while in my only easy chair, staring into the erratic flames. I sat near her, on the rug, reading through chess problems I’d saved up from the week’s papers. Anatoly clattered through the cat flap and into the living room, and he pushed his moist jaw against my hunched knees a few times and then lay between us. Two women and a cat by the fire: it was almost cosy.
    Then Finn spoke. Her voice was low, husky.
    ‘I’m bleeding.’
    I looked in horror at her neck, but of course she didn’t mean that. Her eyebrows were puckered in a kind of vacant puzzlement.
    ‘That’s OK.’ I stood up. ‘I’ve got plenty of Tampax and towels and stuff in the bathroom. I should have thought to tell you. Come on.’
    ‘I’m bleeding,’ she said again, this time almost whispering. I took hold of her thin, chilly hand and pulled her to her feet. She was several inches shorter than me and she looked terribly young. Too young to bleed.
    ‘This,’ said Elsie, ‘is a shoulder.’ She plunged her thin rectangle of toast into the runny yolk and sucked it noisily; it slipped down her chin like yellow glue. ‘Do you have shoulders?’ She didn’t wait for a reply; it was as if Finn’s silence had loosened her own guarded tongue. ‘We had chicken nuggets today and Alexander Cassell’ – she pronounced it Ale-xxonder – ‘put his in his pocket and they squished together.’ She gave a squeal of appreciation and sucked her toast again. ‘Finished. Do you want to come and see my drawing?’ She slithered from her chair. ‘This way. My mummy says I draw better than her. Do you think that’s true? My favourite colour’s pink and Mummy’s is black but I hate black except I like Anatoly and he’s all black like a panther. What’s yours?’
    Elsie didn’t seem to notice that Finn wasn’t replying. She displayed her picture of her house with a front door up to the roof and two crooked windows, she showed her how she could do somersaults, crashing into the legs of the chair, and then she demanded a video and together they sat through the whole of 101 Dalmatians , Finn in the chair, Elsie on the rug, both staring at the screen full of puppies, Finn vacantly and Elsie avidly, and when I took Elsie up for her bath (‘why do I