And since then, every few bath days, he brought a razor and sat and watched as she spread soap on her legs and shaved them. It would probably be time again quite soon, judging by the hairs that had grown.

She became aware that the room was totally quiet.

She looked up, and her heart stopped.

There was no noise coming from the bath – no splashes, no dripping, no giggles.

No little boy peering over the side.

‘Max!’ she called. ‘Max!’

He was probably fine. The bath was deep, so he could easily be hidden, but it was the lack of noise that worried her, that made her picture his body, face down in the water.

It was funny: losing your child in a supermarket or park or outside school was every parent’s worst nightmare. The moment, even if it only lasted for a split-second, when you couldn’t see them, was heart-stopping. Even she, trapped in a place where there was nowhere he could have gone, had that feeling. It was something primal, instinctive.

And she was panicking now.

Then there was a noise. A hollow thump, like a bass drum. There was a pause, and then it came again. Maggie breathed out, her lips pursed. He was there. Safe and making noise. She walked over to the bath. Max was sitting on the floor, banging his heel against the wood. The noise reverberated around the room, amplified by the space between the floor and the base of the bath.

Maggie smiled. ‘Well, well,’ she said. ‘Quite the musician, aren’t you?’

‘Bang!’ Max thumped the wood. ‘Bang!’

Maggie leaned over and tapped out the knock that everyone learned – dum dum duh-dum dum – dum, dum – then ruffled his hair.

‘Try that.’

Max banged a random series. Maggie did the knock again. He frowned in concentration, then tried to copy her. It wasn’t much better, but she clapped her hands together.

‘Well done! I think you might be a pop star when you grow up.’

‘What’s that?’ he asked.

‘Someone who sings songs.’

‘I like singing.’

‘Me too. And you never know. Maybe you’ll be famous.’

He would be, if he ever got out of here, but not as a pop star. As the boy who had been born in a basement. The problem was he wouldn’t get out. In four days he’d be three, and the man would come for him.

There’d be no more baths. No more laughter and splashing. No more anything.

She wanted this moment to never end. She wanted him to stay in the bath, happy and clean and naked and perfect, forever.

Twelve Years Earlier, 29 July 2006

1

Martin stirred milk into his tea and stared out of the kitchen window. It had been three weeks since she had gone. He looked at the orange pill container in his hand. Only a few left.