Had . . . had the ritual worked?
With the clear head allowing me to think logically, I knew the first thing I needed to do was wash. Not only was it uncomfortable sitting in my own dried blood, but it was fairly incriminating too. I changed my top for the walk to the communal bathroom, keen not to let anyone else spot me covered in blood on the night of a suspected murder, and I tossed the crimson-soaked shirt into the bin by my desk. It was one of my favourites – a cream silk button-down with billowing bell sleeves – but I suspected it was beyond saving.
The undue sense of calm followed me to the communal bathroom. I carried my toiletry bag and towel with a feeling of peace and well-being despite the aches in my body, breathing in the fake pine scent of the floor polish.
When I arrived, I was the only one there. I chose my favourite shower cubicle, furthest away from the entrance and closest to the old brown radiator, where I could huddle and stay warm. I lathered shampoo into my hair, scrubbed beneath my nails with a bar of lavender soap, worked every inch of myself clean until I felt raw from the heat of the water.
My mind was curiously clear of . . . well, everything. There was no fear about the rumoured murder, or residual anger towards Lottie or even Harris. Even the low-level dread when I thought of my mum and her illness was replaced by a general sense of resignation. It was as though I’d meditated with Buddhist monks for a thousand years and emerged totally remade.
By the time I got back to the dorm room, Lottie was still gone.
But so was the blood-soaked shirt.