What the fuck were they there for? Maggie stared at them, aware that, in the back of her mind, she knew exactly what they were. She just didn’t want to face it.

They were the toilet, sink and bath.

She looked away. In the other corner was a door. Beside it was a box that looked like it contained a towel and possibly some clothes.

And that was it. Other than that, the room was empty.

It was also windowless, which explained the dank, musty smell.

Maggie folded her arms protectively. She was still clothed, still wearing the grey jeans and Gap hoodie she’d left the house in.

But there was something missing. She glanced at her feet. Her blue Doc Martens had been removed.

Which meant someone – the man – had touched her while she was unconscious.

Her stomach heaved and she tasted bile in her mouth. She fought the urge to be sick, but she retched again and realized she was not going to be able to stop it. She staggered to the pink bowl and leaned over it and threw up, over and over, until her stomach was empty.

Then she sat back on the mattress. The room was silent and empty, unchanged apart from the sour smell of vomit that cut through the stale air.

‘Hello?’ she said. ‘Hello?’

The words seemed to vanish, swallowed up by the walls. There were no echoes, no reverberations, no indications that the sound of her voice had left the room.

She looked at the door and got to her feet. There was some explanation for this. Maybe she’d fallen ill, or been hit by a car and the man who looked like her geography teacher had brought her here to keep her safe, unaware of her name or address. He was probably upstairs – she was sure the room was underground – waiting for her to wake up so he could take her home.

If that was the case – and it had to be, it simply had to be, because the alternative was too awful to contemplate, which was why she was ignoring it and pretending that there was an innocent explanation here – if that was the case then the door would be unlocked and would open when she tried it and she would walk up the stairs and in an hour or so she’d be at home with her mum and dad, sitting with them on the sofa and never, never leaving them again.

She took the few steps – three, she counted – to the door and reached out. The silver metal handle was cold.

And it did not move. She tried it a few times, each time with more and more force, but it was pointless.

She was in a locked room.

The thought did not quite register.

She was in a locked room.

She was – the word forced itself into her consciousness for the first time – a prisoner.