‘Of course you are. It’s what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it? The chance to rule the roost. Well, go on, then. Find out how it feels.’ He pushed her again and she fell forward onto her knees, fumbling her way towards the beginnings of a staircase. ‘Go on,’ he repeated. ‘Crawl like the fucking pilgrims.’

It was a kick this time, fuelled by too much alcohol, and she knew that if she didn’t do as he asked, he would beat her to a pulp where they stood. She scrambled up the spiral staircase, scraping her arms on the walls as the steps twisted sharply round to the right, hearing his footsteps behind her, driving her on. The space was impossibly narrow, even for her, and she thought for a moment that he wouldn’t be able to follow, but his rage was relentless, and she felt his hands on her whenever she faltered. There were window slits in the stone at regular intervals, but the brief respites of slivered moonlight only made her ordeal worse, and she would rather not have seen the cobwebs or the rat droppings which hinted at what lurked in the dark. The ascent seemed endless, but eventually she could go no further and her hands pressed against another wooden door. ‘Open it,’ Gerry demanded.

‘It’ll be locked.’

‘Open it!’

She did as she was told, and the rush of cold air brought both relief and a fresh hell to face, even worse than the 139claustrophobic terror of the climb. The doorway was square-shaped, more like a vertical trapdoor than a proper exit, and she struggled to get through it. Outside, a narrow channel ran between a block of stone holding the flagpole and the outer parapet, which was only waist high – an inadequate barrier between her and oblivion. The wind whipped her face, much stronger at this altitude, and the flag strained at its leash, its metal fastenings rapping rhythmically against the pole. He’s going to kill me, she thought, surprised by how calmly she viewed the idea. That’s what this madness means. After all these years, it’s finally over.

Gerry struggled to haul himself out after her, and just for a second, while his hands were too busy to threaten her, she considered doing the job for him: at least then it would be her choice. One glance over the parapet was enough to change her mind. She recoiled in horror, but he caught her by the hair and forced her to look again, and she thought she was going to faint as the terrace below seemed to rise up to meet her. She twisted her head to the side, and there was the chair, covered in snow and facing out to sea, its stone seat hanging perilously over the precipice. Quietly, she began to whimper like an animal. ‘I can’t, Gerry. Please don’t make me.’

But in one swift movement he turned her round and half pushed, half lifted her onto the wall. She grabbed at his hands, pleading with him not to let her fall, but somehow she was on the chair. The stone felt solid at her back, but it was wet and icy cold. She couldn’t bring herself to look down. ‘So how does it feel?’ he asked, his hands holding her tight around the waist. ‘Is power all it’s cracked up to be?’