Before my anger could fade, I had to work out what was going to happen, but Mother was so unpredictable that there were too many ways this could go. I closed my eyes and pictured her face, trying to put myself in her position, think how she thought, see the world and Olivia and me through Mother’s crazed eyes. Olivia said that their grandfather had never abused Mother, but he had locked her down here, which was a cruel punishment that she had gone on to use on Olivia and then me. That was behaviour she had learned and copied. From what Olivia had told me, I knew their grandfather had been cold, unloving, violent – traits that Mother shared, but Mother could also be caring.

She liked to turn little girls into her vision of the perfect doll; pretty, perfectly put-together, flawless. She liked her dolls to be obedient, quiet and calm. And young. Dolls were only perfect when they were young. That was why I was out. I was growing up and Mother couldn’t handle that – but why? If I could solve that puzzle, maybe I could work out how to convince her to let us out. That was if she ever came back with the food and water she’d promised … she might decide to let us both starve to death.

I shivered, and shivered again. The dank, moist air was deep in my bones. Though the space was warm, so warm and muggy that I felt like I was inhaling steam, a nasty dampness had tunnelled into my flesh.

My stomach was already beginning to eat itself and I had not been down here for very long at all. It seemed impossible that Olivia had survived this long. She’d said nothing about Mother increasing or decreasing the portions she delivered, so that meant Mother was consistent – but now that I was down here too, would that stay the same or would she make us split one sandwich? Share one cup of water? She was punishing us both, but how far she’d go, I couldn’t guess. A tidal wave of uselessness washed over me. It was simply impossible to work out what she would do.

My hand tickled. I flinched violently and squealed, swiping at the place where traces of spider legs lingered. My skin crawled. I shivered again and hugged my knees, rocking back and forth on the bed and telling myself to calm down. Tears leaked down my cheeks and I tasted salt. The taste brought back a sudden memory of crying over the loss of my imaginary friend, Polly. I remembered curling up in bed, hugging myself, weeping quietly for fear she would hear me. Even then I had been fearful. At the age of six, just one year older than Emma, I had been frightened and uncertain of her reaction. She had always been unpredictable to me and always would be, but there was a difference now.