Fran screeches into her masking tape as she bumps her way down the last step and collides with something large and warm.

The large, warm lump grunts in response.

It’s just Tom.

‘Nggh.’ He grunts again and Fran realises he’s moved. He’s above her and sounds as though he’s facing away. ‘Nggh,’ he says as his hands touch her face. She holds herself very still as his fingers move clumsily over her cheeks and nose, his nails digging into her skin, searching for the edge of the tape. Fran closes her eyes and braces herself. He’s trying to pull it off.

Tom grunts in frustration. With his hands tied behind his back he’s having trouble getting purchase on the tape and each time Fran feels a slight tugging his fingers slip away.

She loses count of how many attempts he makes at pulling it; somewhere around the dozen mark. Her skin is sore from all the poking and prodding but she hasn’t groaned once or pulled away. If they can just talk to each other they can formulate a plan.

‘Nggh,’ Tom says, and she feels him drop down beside her. It’s her turn to take his gag off now.

Several minutes later and it’s Tom who winces in pain.

‘Oh thank god.’ Fran breathes heavily. ‘I thought I was never going to get it off.’

‘Well done.’ Tom rests his head against her, a gentle knock of solidarity. ‘Let’s get our wrists undone now.’

They move around on their bums, shuffling like infants, their fingers splayed, spider-like, on the floor as they search the cold, dark basement floor for something, anything to rip through the tape. Fran smacks into a chair leg, several cardboard boxes and something hard and metallic.

‘Fuck,’ Tom swears from the other side of the room.

‘You okay?’ Fran asks.

‘I’ – he breathes loudly through his teeth – ‘I overbalanced and smacked my elbow on the floor. I’m okay it just … it just bloody hurts.’

They fall silent again, the only sound the shuffle of their bottoms on the floor and the occasional low groan of dismay. Fran touches something behind her then doubles over when it smacks her on the top of her head.

‘You okay?’ Tom calls softly.

‘I will be.’

There’s a pause then, ‘Jenna used to laugh at me for that.’

Fran sits up again and feels behind her, trying to work out what had just hit her. ‘For what?’

‘Asking if she was okay all the time.’

She can feel prongs, hard, metallic, evenly spaced out with a long length of wood above them. A rake. The handle was what clunked against her head. ‘Jenna hated people implying she couldn’t look after herself.’

‘You knew her well?’