‘On the floor,’ the man said, a flicker of irritation in his expression. ‘Now.’

‘There might be a problem,’ Maggie said. ‘With Max.’ When the man didn’t reply she carried on. ‘He may have drunk some bleach. It’s bad for him.’

‘I imagine it is,’ the man said. ‘How much?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe none. I left the cap off the bottle. He says he didn’t, but I can’t be sure.’

‘Is he OK?’

Maggie nodded.

‘Then there’s no problem.’

‘There might be.’

The man shrugged. ‘There’s nothing I can do.’

‘You could take him to a doctor.’

The man gave a wry smile. ‘Yes. I could. But that would make all this’ – he gestured to the room – ‘pointless. How would I explain his sudden arrival?’

‘He could be ill,’ Maggie said. ‘You can’t ignore that.’

‘He could be.’ The man shook his head. ‘But I can ignore it.’ He pointed at the bed. ‘Lie down please.’

‘Not today,’ Maggie said. ‘I – I don’t feel well.’

‘Did you drink bleach too?’ His tone was mocking. ‘No. I thought not. Now lie down. On your front.’

Maggie lifted Max from the bed and placed him on a pillow. She turned him so he was facing away from her bed, then lay down.

She looked at the bath. At the place the bleach was hidden. The bleach which was her way out of here. It might not take her home, but at least she would be free from this.

She felt the man’s hand on her back, and she closed her eyes.

Eight Years Earlier: Friday, 18 June 2010

1

James swigged the tea, then took a drag on his cigarette. Even though he was sweating in the hot summer sun the tea was refreshing, which was weird. It was also a good thing, given how much tea he, Pablo, and Ricky drank each day. A levels done, it was the first week he’d been working with them – landscaping, they called it, but it was mainly mowing lawns, trimming hedges and laying the odd patio – and they had probably already had twenty or more mugs of tea.

Pablo swirled the last of the brown liquid around his mug, then tipped it on the ground. He always emptied his cup like that – Give something back, he’d said, don’t be greedy – before lighting another filterless cigarette.

‘Gimme the mugs,’ he said. ‘I’ll take them back to the kitchen. Give them to Angie.’ Angie was the woman whose garden they were working in. When they’d arrived, Pablo had said Hello, Mrs Turner, but she had shaken her head. Call me Angie.

‘Give something else to Angie,’ Ricky said. ‘That’s what you’re thinking. You’ve got no chance, mate.’

Pablo shrugged. ‘Never know, Ricky. You never know. She might fancy a bit of rough.’

‘Does that ever happen?’ James said.