Tears poured from her eyes. ‘I’m so sorry, Little Doll. Please, please don’t do this! If you go outside, you’ll die – I love you – I never wanted any of this to happen.’

‘Keys,’ I said.

She continued to sob and wail, clutching her injured thigh.

‘Keys.’

She looked up at me and I could see her noting my determination, seeing how strong I was for the first time. With a shaking hand, she pulled the keys out of her pocket and tossed them weakly onto the floor.

‘You’ll die,’ she said, closing her eyes and sobbing into her chest, ‘Clarabelle too. You’ll both die.’

‘Don’t move,’ I said, backing up to stand behind Patrick. Placing the knife on the floor beside me, never taking my eyes off her, I grabbed Patrick’s upper arms and used every ounce of my strength to drag him out of the room into the hallway.

‘Stay where you are!’ I shouted, darting back into the room and picking up the knife, relieved to see she was still lying in a heap on the floor sobbing into her chest.

I backed out of the room slowly, the knife pointed in her direction. ‘Goodbye, Mother.’

I shut the door and placed the knife on the floor by my feet then opened the cupboard under the stairs, listening for any sound of movement from the kitchen, hearing none – not even sobbing, which unnerved me. I quickly found what I needed: an old washing line that I remembered seeing there earlier. I picked it up, tied it securely around the kitchen doorknob then trailed it to the banister at the bottom of the stairs where I stretched the line tight and tied the other end around the top of the banister. It was now impossible for her to open the kitchen door. The only other exit was through the back door, which was locked, or the kitchen window, which was securely boarded up. Mother was trapped. She wasn’t going anywhere and I had the keys.

Relief sang through my veins like water through a parched vine, but I didn’t slow down. I ran upstairs into my bedroom where Emma lay curled up, her eyes wide and terrified, her nightgown in her mouth.

‘Get up,’ I said, ‘we’re leaving now.’

Emma got out of bed, sensing my no-nonsense tone, and watched me grab my pillow and bedcovers, which I dragged down the stairs. I placed the pillow under Patrick’s head and covered him with my blankets. He was unconscious but still breathing. There was no way on earth Emma and I could carry him anywhere fast enough, so we would have to leave him there while we went to get help.

‘Is the man OK?’ Emma whispered.