‘No.’ He brought both hands up in a gesture of placation. ‘Rest assured, we’re not.’

‘Then why the fuck am I chained to the fucking bed?’

The smaller man opened and closed his mouth, then looked to his larger companion, who placed the plastic tray on the trolley standing near my bed and pushed it closer. ‘You attacked some of our people when they brought you in,’ he said, his voice calm but certain, ‘despite them saving your life.’

‘Bullshit,’ I said, trembling with fear and anger. ‘You’re Red Harvest. Where is she?’ I demanded, my voice rising in pitch. ‘Where is Alice?’

‘Who?’ asked the smaller man, baffled.

‘Alice!’ I nearly screamed. ‘My wife, Alice Beche. I know you’ve got her here somewhere.’

‘Mr Beche—’

I lunged towards the trolley, grabbing hold of the plastic tray and flinging the food and coffee at them. The larger man ducked neatly to one side, and the tray went sailing past his head before clattering to the floor. ‘Where is she?’ I screamed. ‘In some other cell? Where?’

The two men exchanged a long glance with each other. The smaller one turned to me and opened his mouth to say something, but then I saw his companion shake his head, and he fell silent.

‘You shouldn’t have done that, Mr Beche,’ said the larger man. ‘You need to eat. You’re malnourished as it is.’

‘Why?’ I bellowed. ‘So I can be good and healthy when you torture me again? Is that it?’

I kept screaming as they rapidly retreated back the way they had come without another word. When they were gone I curled up on the bed in terrible anguish, my face damp with tears as I screamed Alice’s name, hoping against hope that wherever they were keeping her, she could hear me. The smell of food while my stomach roiled with hunger was almost more than I could bear.

After enough hours had passed, I fell asleep once more, from exhaustion as much as fatigue. The next time I woke, I found another trolley beside me, laden with hot food. I gorged myself on it until I was nearly sick, then waited to see what happened next.

I learned to tell the time by the nature of my meals: first came thick porridge and coffee, then later scrambled eggs, and later still fish or chicken with salad – breakfast, lunch and dinner. The food was good, far from prison slop, and brought to me by a sallow-faced man of about middle age, based on what I could see behind his visor.

I didn’t react, shout or scream, throw the tray around or anything like that. I asked him to at least open the blind, but he wouldn’t do it. Why, I couldn’t guess. What harm could it do, to at least see the outside world?