When he’s done, he slides the bucket as far away as he can and then sits back down at his spot on the floor in the corner near the steps. He tries to pull his hand free of the iron band. The blisters have become bleeding sores. He tugs harder. The skin tears and his wounds open further – the pain is too much despite his blood being a useful lubricant. His face is hot and sweaty and he stops for a moment with the intention of trying again later but a sudden furnace of anger lights inside him and all he wants to do is vent and scream, but there is no one to vent and scream at.

Only the thing in the tank.

Jordan trembles with rage and his fists curl as he stares back at its stupid mask and dumb eagle tattoo. He frowns. Something triggers inside him, a flicker of recognition that he cannot place. After a moment his shoulders slump, his hands unfurl and all he feels is pity for the thing.

He is distracted by his tummy as it begins to rumble with hunger. He reaches for the empty sandwich box, peers inside, searching for any crumbs he might have missed. There are several, snuggled in the corner, which he extracts with a grubby damp finger and sucks greedily. Tossing the box aside, he picks up the crisp packet, rips it open and runs his dry tongue over the plastic interior, savouring the salty residue. He reaches for the empty Coke can and squeezes it tight in the hope that something might magically pour from it and quench his bone-dry throat. Nothing comes and he tosses it hard at the green door. It bounces off the wooden panels and tumbles down the steps, echoing loudly inside his concrete cell.

The sound of a door slamming startles him and he holds his breath. Footsteps cross the floor upstairs and music begins to play.

Classical music.

Through the gap in the door he sees two feet. Jordan inches into the corner, his pulse racing. He hears the bolt sliding and the door creaking open.

The man appears and walks down the steps. He is wearing a beanie hat and dark glasses and is holding something in his hand.

A phone.

‘Take off your hoodie,’ he says. His voice is flat and unfriendly.

‘I can’t. It’s cold.’

‘Take off your hoodie.’ His voice lowers to a growl.

Jordan’s teeth begin to chatter. He tries to grit them, but they won’t stop. His body begins to tremble and he can’t seem to move.

‘Do it!’ shouts the man.

Jordan jumps and quickly pulls off his hoodie and lets it hang on the chain.

‘Take off your T-shirt.’

‘What . . . why?’

‘Would you prefer I rip it from you?’

Jordan shakes his head.

‘Then do what I say.’