I look at his face in the rear-view mirror. His big blue eyes are red and swollen with tears. His bottom lip quivers as he turns his head and looks out of the window.

‘Come on, Joe,’ I say, keeping my voice extra bright. ‘Let’s see if we can spot any sheep.’

But the fields on either side of the road are empty and a thick frost covers the hedges. There are no sheep, no horses, no sign of any life at all. A feeling of dread uncoils itself in my stomach as I drive through the desolate landscape. What the hell are you doing, Lisa?

Just turn round and go home, I tell myself. You don’t have to go through with this. It’s not too late. But then I remember Mark’s face, the hatred contorting his features, and I think of the piece of paper, tucked away in my bag, with the directions to the safe place. I’ve kept it hidden all these months and now it’s time to use it.

But as I drive I feel doubt creeping in. I had felt so certain when I set off but now all I can hear is my dad’s voice, the voice of pragmatism and reason. ‘Nothing comes for free, Lisa.’ And part of me knows that is true. Have I made the biggest mistake of my life?

‘Not want you. Want Daddy.’

Joe’s voice interrupts my thoughts and though his words sting I know that I have no choice now. I have to do it. There is no other way.

I grip the steering wheel tightly as a road sign looms into view. Harrowby. I recognize the name of the village from the note. It sounds ordinary enough but as I take a left turn I see that the ‘village’ is nothing more than a cluster of decrepit terrace houses with smoke curling out of the chimneys. A grey mist hangs in the air as we drive past a pebble-dashed convenience store with a newspaper stand out front and a pub festooned with tired-looking Christmas decorations. An inflatable snowman floats ghost-like outside the front door. I shudder as memories of Christmas 2016 come hurtling into my head unbidden: the screaming, the blood – so much blood – and the fear that seeped into my bones as the horror of my situation became clear.

‘Look, Joe, quick,’ I say, pointing out of the window, in a feeble attempt to brighten the mood. ‘See the snowman. Isn’t he funny?’

‘Want Daddy,’ he screams. ‘Where is he?’

It’s ripping my heart. I want to shout at him, tell him that I’m his mummy, that I love him more than he will ever know. But that won’t make any sense to him so instead I make some soothing noises then switch off the radio and turn on the story-time CD I bought yesterday. The opening bars of a jaunty tune strike up and then a soft male American voice begins the story of Where the Wild Things Are. It was my favourite book when I was a child and I’m hoping Joe will like it too. He has stopped crying at least.