I heard distant shouting. A man and a woman. Him and Mother. I looked at the window beside my face then at the back seats. Mother’s winter coat lay in the back. I grabbed it, wrapped it around my right elbow, turned to face the headrest and knelt up on the seat. Raising my elbow high, I pulled my arm back from the glass, gripping one fist in the other, took a deep breath and rammed my elbow as hard as I could into the passenger window. Pain ricocheted up my arm and I cried out. Breathing slowly and deeply, allowing the pain to ebb a little, I drew my arm up again, counted down from three then smashed my elbow into the glass again. This time a tiny crack the size of my thumbnail splintered the centre of the window. Fighting waves of pain and nausea, I turned around, wrapped the coat around my other elbow, closed my eyes and aimed my left elbow into the crack. Groaning with pain, I gritted my teeth and hit the window again, but it didn’t shatter. I sank down onto my knees and hugged myself, breathing through the stabbing pains in my arms. My eyes fell on the door, on a handle of sorts. I grabbed the handle and pushed it down and around; the window slid down a notch. My heart leapt and I turned the handle again, unwinding the window some more. I turned faster, unwinding the window as far as it would go. I unravelled the coat from my elbow and threw it onto the driver’s seat. Stealing a glance at the broken front door of the house, I crawled through the window head first, the top of the window digging into my stomach. Stretching out my arms to the ground, I wriggled forward, lowering my upper body and performing a handstand of sorts in an effort to extract the rest of my body from the car.

Before I could get to my feet, Mother’s voice rang out: ‘Mirabelle, stop.’

I turned. Mother pushed the man to his knees in front of her. He looked at me through swollen, bruised eyes. Blood poured out of his nostrils onto his stained vest. He swayed on his knees then threw up over his own lap. The stink of vomit filled the air.

‘You saw this girl,’ Mother said, waving the gun at me, ‘and another one. A smaller girl. Emma. Where is she now? What have you done with her?’

She pointed the gun at the back of his head. His eyes rolled. He groaned and wiped his mouth with his hand.

‘Tell me, Derek, or I’ll put a fucking bullet in your thick head.’