Chapter EighteenPatrick walked back inside the mouth of the shelter, holding the letter open in his hand. His face was blank with shock. ‘It’s … I don’t know what to do.’
‘Shauna drew me a picture,’ said Mr O’Connell. ‘I gather she doesn’t want to be rescued.’
‘How could you tell from a picture?’ I asked.
‘She drew the whole place, all shut in by hills and then shut in a second time by windowless stone walls so high there’s no sun at all, and then she drew herself inside the yard with that impudent smirk on her face.’
‘That’s more or less what she wrote,’ said Patrick faintly. It seemed he could show emotion after all. ‘She said … she said—’ He turned to the letter and read a line of it aloud: ‘Don’t break me out just yet, dear. I’m busy.’
Mr O’Connell laughed a great laugh, making me
