‘I have ibuprofen,’ he said. ‘I had to take some myself earlier. I had a bit of a’ – he glanced at his shins – ‘a run-in with something.’

‘That’ll be fine. But I need the Tampax more.’

‘Where would I get them?’ he asked.

‘Supermarket. Or chemist.’

He nodded. ‘But why would I be buying – those things? It’ll look strange.’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘But I need them.’

‘How soon?’

‘Now.’

He looked at the tray. ‘Here’s your dinner. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

2

Maggie didn’t know exactly how long it was before he came back. Hours, certainly, but how many she could not tell. Time was different in here. She had no way of knowing whether it was morning or afternoon or evening. All she had to go on was the man. He came with breakfast, and then he came with dinner.

And sometimes after that, in his bathrobe.

In the mornings she marked her calendar. Another day gone. Over three weeks, now. Over three weeks in here, in this place where there was nothing to do but sit and stare at the walls.

It felt like a different life. A different world. She was already finding it hard to picture her family, but she knew one thing.

They would be missing her. More than missing her. They would be torn apart by her loss. By now they would think she was dead, and would be grieving for her. Had they held a memorial service for her? She pictured it, all her friends and family gathered in some room, photos of her playing on a projector.

It was sick. She needed to help them, somehow. Get a message to them to let them know she was still alive. At least if they knew that they would not have to worry she was dead.

But there was no way she could contact them. The room was totally isolated; the only way would be telepathy, and she’d tried that. She’d sat cross-legged on the floor in the middle of the day and closed her eyes and concentrated, hard, on her brother and mother and father, beaming messages to them.

Nothing came back. Was it possible they had felt her presence for a moment? Maybe, but she had no way of knowing.

She wondered how James was taking it. She missed him with an intense, physical ache. Yes, he was annoying – he was a younger brother – but she loved him, and she knew he loved her. Adored her, in fact. On her twelfth birthday he had made her a sculpture of a crab out of clay; they had been on holiday to Brittany and eaten crab, which they had all loved, so he had honoured the memory in art. Sculpture, it turned out, was not one of his gifts and she had laughed at it; James had snatched it back, hurt.

Afterwards her mum had taken her aside.