Ben lifted the handle, tentatively. ‘I think,’ he started, quietly, ‘it’s possible …’ He trailed off, abashed, massaging his chin with one hand, the other still clutching the futile handle.

Manoeuvring past Ben, Alexa was at the door now. Slower – always a little slower – Ellen followed her, noticing that Ben smelled of salt and sweat and, very slightly, of something peachy.

She and Ben joined Alexa in a crouch in front of the door. She was examining the abyss where the handle ought to have been. It had left a thick metal pin exposed, which Ben twisted roughly. There was a promising clicking noise and he pressed it again, but this time, the pin gave way and disappeared. They heard the handle on the other side drop to the floor. Ben gave them another guilty look.

The handle’s mechanism now truly buggered, Alexa tried reaching through the gap and tugging at the door with her small fingers. When this failed to achieve anything, she shot Ellen a look of concentrated panic.

Ellen’s response to this was to stand up – thighs complaining – and to throw her weight at the door. Since it opened inwards, this also had no impact.

Running out of options, Alexa now put her face to the dusty floor in order to peer through the crack underneath the door.

For want of anything better to do, Ellen threw her weight against it again for good measure. She went in a little too hard, and stood back, rubbing her shoulder. She felt heavy with dread.

‘This doesn’t look good,’ Jack whispered.

Ellen glared at him and slumped to the floor.

Alexa joined her, leaning back against the door, her arms crossed over her chest. She was chewing her lip.

Ben was slightly hunched, weighed down by the realization of what he had done – or perhaps he was just aware of the proximity of his head to the ceiling. His hands hung uselessly at his sides.

‘Wait, so are we really locked in?’ Jack asked, uncertainly, as if hoping he might get a different answer.

Ellen felt the white-wine heartburn rise in her throat again. ‘Yes,’ she said, from the floor. ‘We’re locked in, and the kitchen is filling with water – and …’ It felt like her tongue had swollen to a size that her mouth could no longer support. ‘Fuck,’ she said, with feeling.

‘I’m really sorry,’ Ben tried, quietly. ‘It just came off in my hand.’ He added, hopefully, ‘I suppose it must have been busted anyway.’