‘What?’ he said. ‘What are you – how?’

Maggie stepped towards him. She looked at her left hand. Her fingers were mottled and bruised and the pain was like a bright light, but she didn’t care. It was working.

And she was only getting started. In her right hand she had another surprise.

The idea had come when she had stood on the Duplo. The brick was large, about two inches by two inches, and the plastic was hard.

These are hard, she had said to Max. And she had thought I’m glad it’s not broken. The edge would be like a knife.

It had all come to her in a rush. She had put Max on the mattress.

Stay there. Mummy has to do something.

She picked up the Duplo brick and took it to the bath. She lay it on the carpet, then lifted the wooden base of the bath and slammed it down on the Duplo.

It squirted away, unbroken. She placed it against the floor and hit it again, then again and again and again. The hard plastic Duplo split in two.

She picked it up and ran her fingers along the edge. It was as sharp as she had thought it would be. She took it and drew it across the skin of her forearm, pressing it down hard. It left a thin red line. As she watched, blood welled up in it.

Max was indignant. Mummy! What are you doing? That’s my toy!

It’s OK, darling. I’ll get you some more.

Maggie stared at the broken Duplo. This was it. This was the weapon she needed. She could make lots of them, pick the sharpest and use them to attack the man. But how? She was hardly going to do much damage by coming at him with a piece of Duplo Lego held in her hands. She needed something to attach the plastic to, some kind of club.

She looked around the room. She already knew there was nothing. Just the clothes and the bleach and the sewing kit.

The sewing kit.

She took a deep breath.

It might work. It really might.

But it would hurt.

She looked at her left hand. The hard, sharp pieces of Duplo had blood on the ends where they had gouged the man the first time. They were holding well; it was one of the things she had worried about when she attached them to her fingers, winding the cotton thread around them in a lattice that held them in place.

She had tried it a few times before she got it right. She had attached one to her forefinger, but it had fallen off as soon as she started to scrape it down the wall – her trial run for the man’s face – and it had not been until the fourth or fifth that she got one to stick.