I understand this. I want to walk, I want to run. I try to move my legs but they feel as if they are encased in cement. My heart starts to sound very loudly behind my eyes and I can feel my eyelids pulsing.

‘I think it might be shock,’ Magda says.

He nods. ‘Well, we’ve arrived. We might have to lift her.’

I don’t want to be carried, I don’t want to be touched, and as if just by thinking these thoughts, my body goes into revolt. It seems to jolt itself into action, and my legs kick hard, smashing the concrete shell.

‘It’s time to go,’ the man says.

Magda’s eyes look huge and hunted, and something inside me hardens. That giant hand that has pushed down inside me is protecting my heart, putting a barrier between me and anything that hurts. ‘Come on,’ I say, swinging my body to sitting.

‘Be careful, Nico.’

But it’s as though a god-force is galvanising me and my muscles are pumping and strong. Magda moves slowly, like she’s pushing against an invisible weight, and stands, arms dangling down beside her, palms facing forwards, in worship, or supplication. I tell her to come on again, a new power flooding and moving through me as I stand and walk tall through the door.

A man is waiting at the top of the corridor and waves at us to follow him. Magda reaches out for my hand and we climb narrow stairs into the dark, wet night. The man is watching me but says nothing. He leads us out onto a large, black, concrete field, where I see a huddle of soaked girls and a figure standing near them, an umbrella protecting only their own head. Behind them, I can make out a van. No. No. No. As soon as my feet touch the solid surface, I walk in circles, slowly first, pacing, making sure my muscles are working, then I build up my speed inside and push off the ball of my right foot. Magda screams at me to stop, to come back, but I’m running on pure instinct, like the blood is up. I’m the hunter, not the hunted. My blood is pounding, my heart is pumping and I am free, for a moment free, until I feel hands grabbing onto my clothes, pulling me to the ground. This is the moment the rabbits freeze, when they pretend they’re dead. I won’t give these hands the satisfaction of feeling me go limp, so I hold myself hard and make my body into harsh angles.

Go on: hit me, scream, shout, pull a trigger. I am ready. Instead, two pairs of hands lift me and carry me back to the van. My body is stiff and I have vacated it, watching the men hauling it. They open the back door and push me in beside five other girls.

‘Magda?’

No one answers.