In the kitchen, the two dark girls are still there, motionless, locked deep inside themselves. I sniff the air and don’t detect anything, other than the musty dead-flower scent, disguised with bleach, then I hold my breath as I open every cupboard, rummage through cutlery, tea towels, plates, pots and pans, until eventually I see the books, hidden at the back of a drawer full of plastic folders of papers with lists of names on them. I grab them, desperate to lose myself in them. On the front of one is a picture of a long corridor and a figure running down it, on the other is an image of a barred window and a single cloud floating.

The rain has started outside, but it’s so light it makes no sound. The dark girls are staring through the window beyond the watery sky to other worlds – worlds that only exist in their minds. My own mind won’t let me fully enter this thought, blocked as it is by Papa and the boys’ words, and I suddenly need to get as far away from these sad girls as possible.

I’m relieved to find Sammy is not in the bedroom, so I open the book with the person running on the front, hoping to be led on an adventure far from here. The print is large and although I don’t understand every word, I get the sense of the story: a pretty dark-haired school teacher is taken by a murderer who kills time and time again, and the police can’t track him down. The woman is kidnapped by the man when she is walking home late one night and bundled in a van. He places her in a dark room below ground and ties her to the wall with silver metal cuffs. I think of the marks on that girl Ling’s wrists. Maria and the other girls in school would love this book. Time passes, and my mind is filled only with this woman and her killer, my own situation receded to a background hum, until Sammy flings open the door.

‘Didn’t see you at lunch.’

I hadn’t realised it was past lunch yet.

‘You’d better go eat something before the shenanigans of the night start.’

Sometimes it’s as if this girl speaks in riddles.

‘There’s a chicken curry in the fridge. I wonder who cooks for the inmates. Doubt it’s yer woman, Ghostie. She doesn’t look like the type to chop vegetables.’

I nod, even though I don’t have a clue what she’s speaking about, and I’m still in the world of the woman tied in the cellar.

‘Hey, it’s nearly seven o’clock. You’d really better eat.’