A deep fear passes through Lauren as the beam lands on more stairs, leading downwards to nothing. ‘Ann-Marie?’ Diane shouts into the hole, blocking Lauren from the pit with her arm. ‘ANN-MARIE?’

They wait and listen. ‘Did you hear something?’ asks Diane.

‘No,’ Lauren whispers, looking out of the cupboard door. They need to leave, get help. Lauren can hear their breath in the quiet.

‘I can hear something rustling down there,’ says Diane. She grabs Lauren by the arms. ‘You stay up here.’ Her voice quavers in the silence. ‘She’s my best friend. And we had this plan. And something has gone very, very wrong. It’s my fault.’ Diane starts to climb down, her torch light disappearing. The cupboard is dark now. Lauren props the door open with one of the work boots. She lingers, listening, looking out of the doorway. She is too terrified to pee.

There is a low thud from the basement, and a clatter, Diane’s voice calling out.

‘Diane! Are you OK?’ Lauren’s voice is reedy. Perhaps Diane doesn’t hear her, because she doesn’t call back up.

‘Diane?’ Now she’s scared.

‘Lauren,’ Diane says from below, out of breath. ‘The torch. I fell and dropped the torch. I think it …’ She sounds as though she is scrabbling around.

Lauren hesitates, making sure the cupboard and the trapdoor are securely open, then starts to make her way down the stairs slowly, sick with fear and vertigo, running her hands along one wall to steady herself. Then she sits down, as she did when she was younger, and moves down the stairs on her bum. In the basement she crawls on her hands and knees towards Diane’s voice.

‘I’m here,’ Diane says blindly. ‘I’m here. I’ve found my car keys.’

Lauren’s hand touches something round and rubbery. The torch. She breathes out, wanting to cry with relief. The beam of the torch scans a mess of papers, dirt, boxes, sacking, and a bare, soiled mattress in one corner. Then she sees Diane, in front of a branch she presumably tripped over. Diane makes her way back to Lauren and puts her arm around her shoulders. ‘Hold my hand,’ Diane says, taking the torch. Lauren moves round so her back is against Diane’s. She swivels her head to watch the torch beam. Black grime and a fetid, meaty stink coat the walls. Something lacy is lying among the paper. There are long freezers and a washing machine. Metal loops are built into the wall by the mattress. Mounted on the wall is a thin, curved sword, encased in a black sheath.

The sword. The Ace of Swords signifies clarity, raw power, triumph.

They move over to the wall and press themselves against it, back to back. Lauren can feel her breath in the dark. It’s easy to be scared now.

‘I think I imagined it,’ whispers Diane. ‘I don’t think she’s—’