As I watched, the sun cut through the clouds. It may have been my mind playing tricks, but I swear I could feel the container heating up in real time. Amelia, who’d swapped positions to look out of a hole with a view, either felt it too or read my mind. ‘Alternate between looking out of the hole and breathing through it,’ she said. ‘The air’s cooler outside.’

There were still hours to go before the sun went down. What little water we had left we divided as equally as we could, careful not to spill any. The temperature in our prison rose and rose. Every now and then one of us banged on the metal wall, trying to attract attention, but although the noise was horribly loud inside the box, it had to compete with the background rumble of the mine, and nobody came. The nearest people, going in and out of that hut every now and then, didn’t even look up. Had we been put in here to die?

48.

About a year after Mark was killed, Mum bought us a dog. I say bought, but he came from a rescue home. Still, the donation she made to the charity that ran the home was bigger than they were expecting, so in a way she bought him. The dog was a nine-month-old mixed breed – part whippet, part sheepdog – called Chester. When Mum arrived home with him she made the mistake of saying he might help cheer us up. Dad put his coffee down and walked out of the kitchen when she said that. To be honest, I felt the same way. A dog, instead of my dead brother: what was she thinking? I knew she didn’t mean it that way, but when I looked at Chester that morning, I hated him.