‘You were supposed to have a little each, you were supposed to stay at the house with a mild buzz. Why didn’t you drink, Lina? Why did you go out to a restaurant instead of staying here?’

‘What was the other sedative?’

He shakes his head slowly. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Tell me, you’re going to kill him.’

‘That would be a shame, wouldn’t it? I know what I’m doing, Lina. I didn’t kill him. Not yet.’

I swallow. ‘You’ve not done anything irreversible. You can just let me go, walk out that door. I won’t call the police. I won’t do anything.’

He pauses, staring out at me, considering it. A hack of laughter now. Then he turns away, picks up the shotgun and strides up the stairs towards the bedroom.

I sit there with my hand cuffed to the fireplace. If I could get my hand free, I could run. There’s the front door through the kitchen, or the exit that overlooks the lake. And the third door. Does he know about the side exit? I could slip out through the laundry, past the clothesline and into the bush. Then it’s not so far to the road. I pinch all my fingers together, tear at the steel loop over my skin, but it won’t go past the joint of my thumb.

He’s moving around upstairs. I hear him. Any hope I had of Cain coming out of his stupor and saving me is disappearing. Even if he can wake, with enough ketamine he would likely just sit there, unable to move his legs or arms, scarcely lucid to the world around him.

What does this man want? Why is he doing this?

I hear a tap running then footsteps back down the stairs.

If we buy enough time and Cain comes out of his stupor, he could get to the ladder in the bunkroom, climb down and get out the side door at the back. He could find help. But that’s not my husband, he wouldn’t leave me here, he would stay and fight. Without a weapon and in the state he’s in he wouldn’t be too much help. Then I realise this man wouldn’t leave him up there without something restraining him anyway, probably another pair of handcuffs.

‘Please, just take what you want, I won’t call the police, I won’t do anything.’

‘You’ll never call the police about this?’

‘No,’ I say, a flash of hope. ‘No, I promise. Please.’

‘But you know who I am, don’t you?’

‘How could I know?’

He laughs again. Hoarse through the mask. He sits on the couch, places the shotgun down beside him and unclips the keys from his belt, setting them on the table between us.

He holds his phone out so I can see the screen. A video begins playing.

‘What is this?’

‘Just watch.’