I can’t stop crying. I’m pretty sure this is trauma. Seeing Michael transform like that, from like this good guy to a dead-eyed monster … it’s totally freaked me out.

Crazy how can someone can seem so charming, but have all that rage going on just below the surface. Malevolent intentions can be so well hidden.

I’ve explored every corner of the turret room, checking every angle.

At first, I pulled and hammered on the door, shouting my head off. But it was stupid. I knew it was stupid. Who would come? Michael?

After the futile door hammering, I threw a chair at the door, but all I succeeded in doing was smashing a probable antique into pieces and hurting myself in the process.

I put a cheek to Skywalker’s soft fur. ‘Now I know why Mum is so scared, huh? Why she runs from him. Crazy is scary.’

I go to the window, pressing my nose right against the glass.

It’s a good view – I can see right over the woodlands, all the way to the gate. The sun is setting and although I can’t feel the temperature drop in here, I shiver.

Michael strides out of the trees on his short little legs, carrying two rifles in his arms with a box of ammunition balanced on top. He’s dressed all in black: jeans, shoes, T-shirt and sunglasses.

My heart is beating so hard. So he’s been to his gun shed. I expected that. Arming himself before my mother arrives. I’m shaking so hard that my vision is blurry.

This is what you wanted, Liberty. A change. Liberation. Right? Be careful what you wish for.

Michael has crossed the moat now and is heading into the house.

I scuttle back to Skywalker, crouching back beside him as I hear Michael climbing the stairs.

‘Hello, Liberty, love.’ Michael’s chubby body appears in the arched doorway. I expect him to still be holding the rifles and ammo, but instead he carries a tray.

‘Where did the guns go?’ I ask.

‘What guns?’ Michael’s outline reminds me of a frog stretched out – large belly over skinny legs. A frog carrying a tray of sandwiches and bottled water. He surveys the room, eyes darkening when he sees the smashed-up chair. ‘You’ve made a real mess up here, haven’t you? A real mess.’

Michael puts the tray down on the bed and the bottled water leans precariously. ‘Lorna hasn’t come yet. I thought she’d be here by now. How are you, anyway? You must be getting hungry. I brought you a little supper.’

‘My dog needs a vet.’

‘Oh, your poor little pup.’ Michael shakes his head. ‘He’s still not himself, is he?’ He crouches beside Skywalker, putting a hand to his chest. ‘He’s in a bad way, if he’s still not moving.’