Nowhere. For hours. Right through that awful night I was stuck in a trap I’d set for myself, clinging to the memory of what I thought I’d heard, tormented by the clear and present quiet. It was punctured by occasional traffic noise and the rise and fall of city-hum, but nothing else. I waited there, struggling to stay alert, praying for I don’t know what: the guards to go away; Mum and Dad to emerge on their own, unscathed; help to come?

None of those things happened. It was only when the charcoal wall of the warehouse against which I’d pressed my cheek all night began to turn a lighter grey that I realised I had no choice but to help myself. Careful to angle my phone into my chest I texted Amelia three words: ride by slow.

Instantly I received a one letter reply: k.

And within the minute I heard the drone of an engine, low at first but rising. I’d crept up to the front corner of the building, had one eye on the forecourt, was praying for the guards not to be too close. Either way, I had to go for it, hoping that if they did spot me the sight of a person running away would be more confusing than alarming.

Amelia puttered into view, a slow grey blur.

I waited until the very last minute, then made a sprint for it, dashed straight out of the parking lot and jumped up behind her on the slow-moving bike. Sure I could hear footsteps behind us, a man’s voice shouting over the noise of the engine, I squeezed Amelia as hard as I could. She got the message and accelerated. Before we turned the corner I glanced over my shoulder, just in time to see a car shoot off the forecourt and turn our way.

62.

I’ll admit it: I wished I’d been driving. I wasn’t though – Amelia was. She had her left arm threaded through my helmet strap and the bike slowed down as she wriggled to give it to me. ‘Just go!’ I wanted to scream, taking the helmet from her and pulling it on. But I knew better than to yell pointless directions at Amelia. She’d be more likely to call me out for being an idiot than speed up.