There are still four or five pieces of paper scattered amongst the books and magazines at the far end of the room, next to the window. To read them means passing the hatch. I glance back into the hallway then dart forward. I pick up two, three, four print-outs and then I hear it, a low, rattling cough, too loud to originate in one of the dormitories. I toss the emails away then slip behind the curtain and press myself up against the open window as the slap-slap-slap of flip-flops on wood reverberates through the hallway.

Please don’t let it be Isaac. Please don’t let it be—

“What the fuck?”

It’s a man’s voice. A man standing in the doorway of the study. But it’s not Isaac. It’s Johan.

I drop silently out of the open study window and press myself up against the house, my heart thudding in my chest, my fingertips vibrating against the stone wall. The study floorboards creak and I take the smallest of steps to my left. If Johan looks out of the window now he’ll see me. A small circle of light, barely visible between the trees, bobs jerkily from side to side down by the huts. I step towards it then stop. What if it’s Frank? What if he escaped and the light is his torch? A gust of wind courses through the garden, bringing with it the low, muffled roar of men shouting. One of the voices is Isaac’s. Above me Johan swears under his breath and I make my decision. I run.

I sprint across the patio and head down the bank towards the orchard. I slow down as I pick my way through the trees, stepping carefully to avoid knotty roots and sharp stones, then duck down behind a thick thorny lavender bush when I spot a group of men standing on the bank of the river. There are four of them: Isaac, Kane and Gabe have their backs to me, and Gabe is shining a torch on the fourth man – Frank – who’s on his knees in front of them, his hands bound behind his back.

“You’re fucking insane!”

His shout drifts over, carried by the wind.

He shouts again, his head turned towards Isaac. “You can’t just lock someone in your basement. That’s false imprisonment. It’s kidnapping. It’s illegal!”

“So’s attempted rape.”

“Bollocks was it rape! This place is a fucking knocking shop. She was up for it.”

There is a loud thump, like the sound of a football being kicked, and Frank topples to his left. He lies still for a couple of minutes, the side of his face pressed into the mud, then he wriggles and twists his way back onto his knees.

“Fuck you, Isaac.”