Francesca Christie heard the sound of a hatch opening in the ceiling of the cell in which she was imprisoned. Instinctively, she sat up on the bed, covering her breasts with both arms and folding her legs at the knees.

The Ghoul.

Feet came down the stairs, one hand holding the rail, the other carrying a canvas bag; she watched a body materialise, arms and body clothed in black, face concealed by a black balaclava with a head light that acted as a blinding screen.

The Ghoul stood at the bottom of the stairs, she guessed, looking directly at her.

‘And, so, off she floats to nowhere.’

The Ghoul’s voice was mechanical, robotic, and she tried to remember what had been said to her and the way the words had been spoken when she’d been taken at knifepoint, but her memory felt like it was swathed in twisting clouds.

Francesca looked away, memorised the first words spoken to her since she’d awoken in captivity. She clenched her body and paid attention to the metal table between herself and the empty cot on the other side of the cell.

‘I’m thirsty,’ she said.

The Ghoul walked to the metal table and placed the canvas bag on its surface.

Polite, be polite, don’t say a word that is offensive. The words rose up from deep inside her. Show that you are listening.

‘What do you mean: And, so, off she floats to nowhere?’ she asked.

The bag was unzipped and out of it came a hypodermic needle and a scalpel. The noise of the scalpel against the table told her that it was made of metal.

Francesca counted in silence. One, two, three, four. Out came four scalpels of different sizes.

The head light shone directly in her face.

She felt the contents of her stomach lurch, held on to her breath as if it were her last one and battled down the urge to throw up, to give away another victory to The Ghoul.

‘Do you like my mask, Francesca?’

She nodded.

‘I can’t hear you?’

‘I like your mask.’

She could hear the dryness in her throat, the rasp of her tongue against the parched walls of her mouth. Above her head, in the building, she heard a kettle whistle and voices talking, but knew that they were coming from a radio because as soon as they stopped, a Radio City jingle played, normality on the edge of the abyss.

I’m still in Liverpool then, she thought, or the area just outside the city.

‘Sit up and sit perfectly still, Francesca…’ The Ghoul came closer.

She sat up and rested her chained hands at the top of her legs. A right-hand index finger appeared in front of her face.

Francesca shut her eyes tightly and pictured herself at the bottom of the wooden ladder running up the steps…

She felt the weight of an index finger at the middle of her chin.