‘We eat the same thing, every single day,’ a woman had told Casey, on her last visit to the camps. ‘I dream of the food we used to eat back in Rakhine. The spices. Fruit. The vegetables. Fish. Meat, even, can you believe it? I dream of that food. It drives you mad, after a while.’

‘We talked to them often, these men.’ Layla translated Jamalida’s words. ‘They came every day. They were our friends.’

‘How many times …’ Shamshun’s eyes filled with tears. ‘How many times have I told you girls . . .’

The words trailed away. Too late, too late, too late.

‘And one day, they said, “Do you want to come for a drive? It will be such fun.” ’

‘Did they say,’ Hessa asked urgently, ‘where they might go?’

Jamalida shook her head.

‘But then I was late on the day of the trip. I had to get water for my mother, from the big pump. The well had run dry, the one near our tent. So I ran when I was finished. I ran all the way down the paths, as fast as I could. I was shouting for them to wait. But they had gone . . . I must have just missed them.’

Casey imagined the men waiting for a few minutes. Romida beside them, excited, skipping from foot to foot. A shrug, impatient. Well, one’s better than nothing. Dangerous to hang around too long anyway.

And the little girl climbing into the car, grinning as the car accelerated.

Romida, thrilled, for a few minutes.

And then the slow-growing worry. The car, moving too fast. Bumping along the road, hooting other cars out of the way. The hesitation, not wanting to be rude: not to these kind friends. Then the fear, prickling down her neck. Please stop, I should be going home by now. Nothing. And then the sudden rush of real terror. Where am I? Who are they, these men? And what have I done, going like this? The car stopping, at the edge of the jungle, somewhere far from the busy main road. Where am I? I don’t recognise anything. A punch, maybe. That was when she knew it was over, really over. A blindfold, maybe, and into the van like a sack. Please. Please. Please.

And a little girl, lost, for ever.

‘When Romida called me from wherever she is, she told me to move tents,’ said Shamshun. ‘She said that I was in danger.’ Shamshun made a flicking gesture with her hand. ‘But what more can they do to me? I don’t care any more. And besides, if I moved, Romida might not be able to find me again. The camps are so chaotic. And she might . . . She might.’

‘Did they say where they were from?’ Hessa could just about make herself understood, speaking to Jamalida.

‘No, I don’t know,’ the girl answered. ‘They talked about Dhaka. Chittagong, too.’

‘Did you know their names?’