I wanted to scream – to yank her hand away from me and give her a taste of her own medicine, but I couldn’t move. I couldn’t raise my hand to her. Instead, I stared at her lap. At the gun, which looked like a dead, black snake in the darkness. I imagined myself snatching it off her lap, turning it around and pointing it at her. I pictured her reaction: shock, dismay, anger. Pictured her running away …

It all played out so perfectly and I began to believe I could do it. I could beat her. I could win. I could regain my freedom, save Emma, save Patrick, live a normal, happy life.

She grabbed my chin. ‘If you try to leave, you know what I’ll do.’

She opened the door and got out of the car without another word. I gawked at the car door as it banged shut. She had taken the gun with her. I scrabbled with my door handle, but the door was locked. I tried her door, the two back doors: all were locked.

Mother marched up to the house and hammered on the door with her fist. In her free hand she held the gun down by her side. She didn’t even try to hide the weapon. She looked back, her eyes warning me. I watched, fearful for the man even though he was a pig. He didn’t have a clue about Emma’s whereabouts.

When there was no answer, she pounded on the door again. Five times, louder than before. She waited, foot tapping the ground. After only a short wait, she raised the gun and smashed the door with the thick end. The door held despite her efforts, so she aimed the gun at the door and fired. The explosion made the car windows vibrate. If the man was asleep before, he had to be awake now. Mother staggered back, reeling from the shock of the gun, dust and debris flying into her face. She coughed and dragged the back of her hand across her eyes. Without a backward glance, she kicked down the door and strode into the house.