“No.” Frank spins round. “I’m not stupid, Emma. I saw you looking at the house. You want to run away. Being ‘weird’ am I?”

“No, I swear, I—”

“It was like that at work. All the secretaries and PAs gathering together in the coffee room to laugh and gossip about me. Freaky Frank” – his voice goes an octave higher – “that’s what they called me. They thought I couldn’t hear them, Emma, but I’m not deaf, and, despite what they might think, I do have feelings.”

“Of course you do. I totally understand.” I ignore the thud-thud-thud of my heart and put my free hand over Frank’s. If I can unhook one finger, the rest of his grip will loosen and—

“No, you don’t.” He continues to drag me towards the bridge. “You don’t have feelings. Not real ones, not genuine feelings for genuine people. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you’ve turned your nose up at me when I’ve tried to be friendly. Don’t think I haven’t watched you fawn all over Isaac and Johan just because they’re tall and good-looking. I thought you were different, Emma. When you stood up to Isaac about Ruth’s death, I thought you were someone I could relate to, someone I could admire – like I admire Paula – but to see you fawning over Johan last night – ‘Oh, Johan, you big, hunky Swede’ – ‘Oh, Johan …’”

As Frank continues to mumble to himself, hauling me behind him like a sack of potatoes, I scan the riverbank for something, anything, I can use as a weapon. There are a couple of planks of wood, left over from the pyre, but they’re soft, crumbly rectangular lumps of charcoal. I try to grab a branch from a walnut tree as Frank continues to drag me through the orchard, but they’re too high and my fingers brush air.

“Help!” I shout as we approach one of the huts. “Somebody help me!”

I drop to my knees, using the force of my body weight to pull my wrist from Frank’s grip, and crawl back towards the bridge. I feel a hand on the neck of my T-shirt and I’m yanked back onto my feet.

“Stop it!” Frank shouts as he wraps his arms around me, pinning my arms to my side. “You’re being hysterical. I just need your help.”

“Help!” I shout again. “Hel—” A hand across my mouth muffles my cry.

Frank presses the side of his face against mine, his stubble scratching my cheek, his sweat smearing my skin. “Calm down, Emma. I’m not going to hurt you. I just want your help. I am looking for Paula.” He speaks slowly and deliberately. “When I find her, when we find her, you can help me confront Isaac. He listens to you, Emma.”

“Mmmm.” I nod my head beneath his hand. “Mmmm.”