That was the moment. Once the door was locked, she wasn’t sure she could get the key off his wrist, but if she could hurt him in the second before he locked the door she could get out.

And maybe lock him in the room, if there was a lock on the outside and she could find some way of locking it.

But she would only have one chance.

She was lying on the mattress, staring at the ceiling, when she heard the scraping sound. She tensed. When the door opened the man needed to see her on the mattress or he would not come in, but then she would be ready.

The lock clicked. The handle turned.

The door cracked open.

‘Good morning, Fruitcake.’

The man stood in the door frame, a tray in his hand. He put it on the carpet, his eyes on her. Her stomach tensed. He was going to leave without coming inside.

‘Morning,’ she said. ‘How are you?’

He caught her eye. ‘I’m fine – as usual. You’re talkative.’

‘I was thinking about what you said last night. I think you were right.’

A faint smile touched his lips. ‘Right about what?’

‘About me being safe. In here.’

‘Exactly.’ The faint smile swelled into a grin. ‘I knew you’d start to understand, eventually.’

‘I needed time to consider it.’ She smiled back. It took a huge effort. ‘Tell me more. About how you decided on all of this.’

The man nodded. He gripped the key in his fingers, the chain taut.

‘Of course,’ he said, a look of something like triumph in his eyes. ‘Of course I will, Fruitcake.’

5

He turned, and bent down to put the key in the lock. As soon as his eyes left her, she sprang off the mattress and threw herself across the room.

She hit his back, hard. He was much bigger than her but he was off balance and his head smashed into the door. He twisted away from her and she slammed her knee into his balls. His eyes widened and he puffed out his cheeks, then groaned and clutched his groin. He sank back on to his haunches, his face pale.

Maggie tried the handle.

It turned, and the door opened. Ahead of her wooden stairs led up into blackness.

To a hatch of some kind.

To freedom.

She had done it.

She ran up, her hands over her head, feeling for the way out.

And felt a hand on her ankle, pulling her back. Pulling her back hard.

The hand yanked and her foot slipped, and then she was being dragged backwards down the stairs and back into the room.

The man threw her on to the mattress. He stood over her, his face purple with pain and rage.

‘You lying fucking bitch!’ he screamed. ‘You’re not my Fruitcake! You’re not my Fruitcake at all!’

He stamped his right foot on the floor.