‘Shh,’ I whisper. ‘Go back to sleep.’

And then something odd happens. He stops wriggling and starts to laugh. It’s a strange laugh, low and guttural, like it’s coming from a man, not a child. I turn round to face him. His eyes are open.

‘What is it, Joe? Why are you laughing?’

‘It’s Daddy,’ he says, pointing past my head to the window. ‘Daddy pulling faces at the window.’

I stare at him, my body rigid with fear.

‘Don’t be silly, baby,’ I say, my mouth drying up. ‘Daddy’s not there.’

‘He is,’ he cries, his voice still light with laughter. ‘Daddy at the window.’

I want to grab Joe and make a run for it but my body is frozen. I have my back to the window. If it is Mark out there he will be able to see me.

‘Bye bye,’ says Joe, waving his hands. ‘Daddy gone now.’

Then he turns over and within minutes he’s asleep. I lie next to him, my eyes wide open, my fists curled into balls, my brain repeating the same thing over and over again.

Mark is here.

I need to know. I need to see for myself. With a racing heart I get out of bed and make my way to the window. Moonlight exposes the garden. I see the empty cages, the broken plant pots, the remnants of a stone path. And then, just as I’m about to step away and dismiss the whole thing as a figment of Joe’s imagination, I’m sure I hear the faint sound of a car engine starting up.

Could Joe have been right? Had there been somebody out there? But if it was Mark, where has he gone?

16

Soldier Number 1

Rowan Isle House, 27 August 2004 – 4 p.m.

Something good to report. After three days of stuffing newspaper down my knickers and scrubbing sheets at five in the morning the bleeding finally stopped last night. It disappeared as swiftly as it began.

So far I’ve managed to keep it from Sarge, though he did look a bit puzzled when he saw me wringing out my sheets for the third day in a row. I told him it was the August heat, that I’d been sweating in the night and wanted to freshen up the sheets. I don’t know whether he believed me but he didn’t say anything. That was good because the last thing I want to do is worry Sarge at the moment. He’s in a bad way, that much is clear. His eyes are all black and bloodshot and his skin looks pale and clammy. I heard him talking to himself yesterday morning when I got up to wash the sheets. When I passed his room he was shouting out, ‘Leave him be. Can’t you see he’s had it? Just leave the man be.’

I wanted to knock on his door and ask him if he was all right but I knew he’d just go mental so I walked away and left him to his monsters.