Chapter 27
Rhys stood, hands splayed, back pressed to the thin wood of the hospital door. He swayed, giddy. His knees trembled. A cold like black vice squeezed his chest. Dark, so dark, like the inside of a cupboard.
No! This had nothing to do with Tad. He was a man, not a child. No bolt held him captive. No one stood over him, belt in hand. There was only Siân, whose blood stained his fingers. Who’d always believed in him. Who even now might be dying because of him.
He groped for the bench; its cheap, splintery wood felt solid beneath his fingers. He found a bed post, took a halting step—followed by another. Past the single girl’s bunks, the long narrow table. He stopped, bent double, gasped for breath. Took two more steps. Had he reached the ladder? He swung round, arms outstretched,
