I climbed to the third from top step and felt the wall with my left hand. Rough brick, rough brick, rough brick … metal! Scooting my bottom close to the wall, I grabbed the rusted nail with my tight-bandaged hand and begin to twist with all my might. Tears ripped through the outer layer of the tights quickly but despite my efforts, the nail did not turn. The layering was too thick. It was protecting my fingers but it was also preventing me from working out the nail. I unwrapped three of the layers and tried again. No luck. Unwrapped another three. Tried again. Yes, I could get a grip on the nail now, but after ten twists my fingertips were beginning to burn. I kept twisting and tried wobbling the nail from side to side. I twisted and twisted, wobbled and wobbled. It didn’t budge. I kept going, gritting my teeth against the pain, knowing I had to keep trying. I felt wetness between my fingertips and the nail and knew my fingers were bleeding, but I couldn’t stop. I kept at it until my fingertips throbbed and I felt like I was going to throw up. I was about to stop when I felt it turn. Only once, half the way round – a tiny amount, but enough to make me carry on.

I was sipping water from the bowl when Olivia moaned. I didn’t know whether to be happy or scared that she was conscious.

‘Polly! Help me – my finger – oh God, my finger.’

‘Hold on. I’m coming.’

I carried the bowl down the steps and made my way back to the bed.

‘You have to find something. Something to tie it on,’ she said.

‘Tie it on?’

Her breaths were fast and ragged. ‘My finger. It’s hanging off.’

‘Which finger?’ I said as calmly as I could.

‘My index finger.’

I couldn’t use my tights. I needed them, plus they were covered in muck, sweat and blood which wouldn’t be good if she was right and her finger was actually hanging off. I racked my brain. I was wearing knickers and a dress. Nothing else. Both were dirty now.

‘What can I use?’ I said.

‘I don’t know. Oh God. It hurts so much. I’m losing a lot of blood. We need to stop the bleeding.’

‘What are you wearing?’ I said.

She moaned. ‘Oh no – I’m going to be sick!’ And she was. I felt something wet splatter my leg.

‘Have you got a T-shirt on that I can tear up to make some kind of a bandage? I can use a little of our water to clean it.’

‘Yeah. But I can’t move my hand. I can’t. You’ll have to use my jeans. Pull them off.’

‘No – what are we talking about – I can use some of the sheet, can’t I?’