But there is no answer. The flat is warm, but the flat is empty. There is nobody inside.

I check all the rooms. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

Alastair has taken Charlie. Pins and needles of terror shoot up and down my arms. There was no sign of them at the school, there is no sign of them at home. I have to bend over, the pain in my throat and tightness in my chest is so excruciating. The words rush through my head, Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.

What do I really know about this man? Alastair, who I first met barely two weeks ago. Alastair who works with children, who sat across from me at a café and told me things about his life. I trusted him because he seemed to like me, because he said I was kind and thoughtful, because he made out he had anxiety too, because he gave my son Silly Putty.

Really? I inwardly scream at myself. Really? When Marianne told you he had outright lied?

I force myself to stand back upright, muscles wrenching in my chest. Think. Think!

They went that way. I can see it in my mind: Ms Simmons’s pointing finger. That way …? Towards the park?

I hitch my stupid bag back onto my shoulder and slam the door of the flat behind me. I’m really running now, zigzagging through the streets. I’ve been this way a million times with Charlie, I could walk it in my sleep and now I cannot bear to think what I will do if they are not there. I shove my way through the entrance gate to the park, catching my fingers in the cold iron. I run towards the swings, the place I go to with Charlie all the time.

If they’re not here, the words, the blood pounds in my head. If they’re not here – and I can’t even finish the thought.

Because they are there.

Two figures, spinning slowly on the roundabout. From here, they could be father and son. Alastair waves at me as he sees me coming, and Charlie jumps off the roundabout, stumbling as he lands, his face split by a smile.

I should want to hug my son. I should say thank you to Alastair. But instead fear has hijacked every cell of my mind. Somewhere, there’s a part of me looking down from above, wise and rational and quite in control. But down here, running across the cold ground, I’m like a wild animal, all teeth and claws, fight and flight all scrambled up inside me, so that when Alastair comes up to me, Charlie following just a half-step behind, I swing my bag at him as if it’s a weapon. Alastair raises his arms to protect himself, but I can’t seem to control myself, I can’t seem to stop.