Leah Giarratano - Vodka doesn't freeze

And then she heard footsteps just outside the room. Jerome had only seen houses like this on TV. When they got out of the cupboard, he stuck close to Tadpole, feeling minus-cule under the cavernous space of the three-metre-high ceilings. Through huge windows, Jerome could see it was very dark outside. His footsteps echoed on the shiny floors.

Where was the party? Was this another trick? When his parents had people over, every chair was taken and there were people in each room, talking and laughing, ruffling his hair when he passed by. Kids running through hallways, slowing to a giggling walk when they passed a group of adults, whooping and running again when they turned a corner. He couldn't even hear anyone talking. He looked up at Tadpole, and the man smiled down at him, his eyes glittery and weird. Jerome looked back down at his shoes, wishing his dad would come get him.

They walked past several open archways, and he glimpsed gleaming surfaces and empty furniture. And then Jerome heard music. Quiet, tinkly music. By this time of night at a party in his neighbourhood, they'd be playing Cold Chisel or Midnight Oil, or something like that. He and his friends would be pissing themselves, watching the oldies jerk around like they thought they were dancing. It was the best bit, but you had to force yourself to stay awake long enough for them to have had enough to drink. Even though it was really embarrassing, he also kind of liked it when his mum and dad would start kissing in the middle of the dancing.

They walked through a hallway, approaching a corner on the left. He could hear people speaking in soft voices. He couldn't hear any other kids. Thank God, he thought, looking down at his shiny shoes, pulling at the belt. At least they wouldn't see him dressed like this. A belt, for godsakes.

When they rounded the corner, no-one really paid any attention at first. No-one dressed like this at any party he'd ever been to either. Jerome was pretty sure his dad didn't even own a suit. He looked around, and couldn't help but feel a little awed by the beautiful room, the fireplace, the long white table covered in platters of food that looked great, and the important-looking men, standing and sitting around. All men. He took another look around. Not one dress or skirt in here. These people were just freakin' weird.

Jerome stepped onto a thick, round rug he thought his mum would probably like. She was always trying to stop his dad to look at stuff like this as he marched through department stores ahead of her. Thinking of his mum and dad so much made his throat hurt again.

A man sitting in a chair to Jerome's left looked straight at him and gasped. The man stood up and several others near him looked up. Everyone started talking and then suddenly the whole room stared at him and Tadpole. He turned around to see if maybe someone else had come in behind them, but there was no-one else there. They all just gawped at him. This was absolutely the worst. The men had all stopped whatever they were doing and stood full-on staring. Jerome wished there was one of those trapdoors underneath him right now, and he could just bolt back down to the underground room. He knew he looked like a dork, but what the fuck were they all staring at, really?

And then they started to clap. Jamaal knew that he was indispensable to Sebastian now. He had brought him the boy, and when he'd told him he had the cop bitch in the basement, he'd seen his boss was pleased. He told Sebastian that he'd dropped some of Carter's optometrist solution into her eyes, to keep her from seeing anything if she woke up before they got back down there.

'That was very quick thinking, Jamaal. And you're certain there was no-one else on the grounds?'

'She must have come alone. It's all quiet everywhere else. I looked carefully.'

'Oh, I'm quite certain that you did. Was the boy in there when you brought her in?'

'No. Tadpole had just taken him out. They'll be out there by now.' He indicated with his chin to the rooms outside the study.

'I see.' A wrinkle of annoyance creased Sebastian's forehead. 'Well, I really should be out there too, you know, Jamaal. We can't have people helping themselves before I've established the pecking order.' He stood to leave.

'Would you mind very much going back down there,' he continued, 'and checking to see that our new guest has everything she needs and that she is not getting herself into any trouble?'

Jamaal stared as the big man smoothed his suit and left the study. Our new guest. Why did he speak like that? In the dining room down the hall from this very room, Jamaal had once seen Sebastian pull out a chair for a whore, offer her a glass of wine, and drink with her, before reaching forwards and strangling her with his hands.

One sick motherfucker, he thought to himself as he left the room to go back downstairs. I am not ready for whoever that is, thought Jill when she heard the movement outside the room. Then she remembered, and reached quickly into her pocket. Nothing. Her gun was gone.

Pretend you're still unconscious, then. The white-eyed girl could put the thoughts in Jill's mind without moving her mouth.

Jill moved forwards a little, quickly and silently, until she figured she was back in the spot where she had been lying when she'd regained consciousness. She lay down just before she heard a door open at the end of the room.

'You awake yet, bitch?'

The male voice, slightly accented, came from about ten metres away from her head. That's where the door is, she recorded for later. The room is big. She counted his footfalls, listened for the way he moved, began to picture objects he was manoeuvring around as he walked through the room. Good girl, the white-eyed girl whispered in her head. Jill lay still.

'Hey, Sergeant Jackson.' A singsong voice, close to her ear. He was leaning right down, his mouth close to her head. Eyes closed, she could see him now, from where his voice had issued, from where she could feel and smell him breathing. She could swing, now, pivot her legs up from her hips, wrap his head in her thighs and snap his neck. She chose not to move, but she felt power seep back into her body with the knowledge that she could. She enforced stillness, body and mind.

'You know, you fucking whore, that I almost killed my wife because of you. You come to my house?' His voice sounded soft but outraged, hissing into her ear. 'Can you hear me? Does your head hurt, cunt? I'm going to make you hurt much more than that.'

She lay in the basement with Jamaal Mahmoud. She knew that now.

Because she heard him breathe in, and felt him move to take the shot, she knew the blow was coming and could block her reaction, but she couldn't block the pain. She let her head loll limply from the force of his open-handed slap to her face. The slap was nothing. It was the fist-sized mush of tenderness at the back of her head that made her want to vomit; the force from the blow caused it to roll on the hard floor beneath her. She focused her senses on the hand he had used to strike, his location now, mentally picturing his positioning. She thought of an alternate strategy to strike back if she had to, absorbing the energy of the pain to use later.

'Hmm,' she heard him say. And she waited. Waiting was important now, she felt. His movements were her eyes. She had to learn more about where she was in order to be able to get around in the dark; to find her way out. She felt him crouching there by her head, breathing with her, a bond between them, united by their hate for one another, and the desire to make the other one hurt; an intimacy in their silent understanding.

She heard him shift and undo his zipper. Oh no, no, no.

Be still, the white-eyed girl warned. Don't be silly now.

Jill smelled the sweet sweat of male genitalia that had never failed to flood her with distress and with images of being raped as a child. She retreated further into herself as she heard the man beside her stand; he took two steps from her head towards the middle of her body.