‘Shall we get some juice?’ I say, turning to Joe.

He is making a low humming noise.

‘What kind would you like? Apple or orange?’

I hold up two cartons but he just shakes his head.

‘Come on, Joe,’ I say, crouching down so I’m at his level. ‘Tell Mummy what you’d like to drink.’

He scowls then lifts his hand up. I go to grab his wrist before he can hit me again but he quickly yanks it away. A clawing dread rises up my chest as I put both cartons of juice into the basket. Every part of me wants to shout for help; to alert someone to the predicament I’m in. But I know if I do that then Mark will find us and I can’t risk that happening.

I move around the shop adding cleaning fluid, sponges and bin bags to the now overflowing basket. It’s more than I need but it’s reassuring to see the familiar items. For just a few moments I forget about the house and focus on being an ordinary mum.

When I get to the counter the woman folds her newspaper and puts it down. She doesn’t speak, which I’m grateful for, just scans the shopping and puts it into carrier bags for me. While she does that I cast a glance at the headline on the newspaper. Nothing yet.

Still, it’s only a matter of time. My heart starts to palpitate. I need to get away from the village now. He could be anywhere. He could be closing in.

‘That’s £22.80 when you’re ready, love.’

I look up at the woman. Her accent is soft and warm, and for a moment I feel like telling her everything that’s happened, ask her to help, to take me and Joe to her nice, cosy cottage and give us hot tea and toast. But instead I distract myself with separating the plastic ten-pound notes that have unfurled out of my purse and landed on the counter like those fortune-telling fish you get in Christmas crackers.

I hand three of them to the woman and as I’m waiting for my change I turn to check that Joe is okay. But he’s not there.

‘Joe?’ I call. ‘Joe. Where are you?’

‘Are you all right, love?’

I hear the woman’s voice behind me as I rush up the drinks aisle, frantically calling his name.

‘Joe! Where are you, baby?’

I reach the third and final aisle and there’s no sign of him. The room shrinks around me and I feel my legs giving way. This can’t be happening.

‘Lost someone?’

I look up and see the man from outside the pub standing there. He’s smiling at me.

‘My little boy,’ I say, staggering towards him. ‘He’s run away from me and I –’

‘He’s over there, love,’ says the man, pointing at the door. Joe is standing by it, looking sheepish.

‘Oh, thank God,’ I say, running to him. ‘Joe. You naughty boy. You mustn’t run off like that.’