Often she’d sense she was being watched, catch sight of a shadow the other side of the voiles. Fear would stab her chest until she peered around the material to see it was her mum watching them, as though she was concerned they would disappear again. In the day Mum often touched the girls, reassuring herself they were really back. A hand on their arms. Fingers brushing the hair away from faces. But she never asked them questions, as though she was afraid to hear the answers. Not wanting to know what her children had been through – but it was there in her eyes, the wondering what the men had done to them. The tentative questions that Carly brushed aside. She couldn’t bear to talk about it. She wanted to tell her the men hadn’t done anything to them but she knew that wasn’t true. Physically they might be unharmed but mentally, emotionally, Carly knew they would never be the same again. Any of them.

Each day there was talking. Endless talking. Adults with hard eyes and soft voices asked them to draw their feelings. Countless photos of tattoos were slid across the table in front of her until Carly identified the eye on the back of Moustache’s neck. The police knew who he was. Although he’d fled his last known address, they found his brother, Doc, in his flat, hanging from the bannisters. Inexplicably, Carly felt sad when she learned this. They reassured Carly’s parents that they were confident they’d catch Moustache, that they shouldn’t worry, but they did. Her parents seemed to have shrunk since the girls had been snatched. Lines of worry were etched into their faces. Carly caught a whispered discussion between them about moving abroad, somewhere remote, but Carly knew for certain that however far they moved away Moustache would be able to find them if he wanted to.

Three blind mice, three blind mice.

Reporters still camped outside their home. They couldn’t go to the park, they didn’t go back to school for ages. Prisoners. Still prisoners. When they did have to venture out, a crowd closed around them, microphones thrust towards mouths, cameras held high above heads, relentless click-click-clicking. The police would form a barrier with their arms and demand everyone clear some room, give them some space. They’d hold hands, Carly, Leah, Marie, her mum and stepdad – a family united – and rush, heads down, never pausing to give a comment.

See how they run. See how they run.

Mum made their favourite meals, macaroni dripping with cheese and chicken stuffed with garlic butter, but Carly’s appetite didn’t return.

‘Can’t you just forget it’s happened?’ Mum asked wearily.

‘Forget?’ Anger flared in Carly’s stomach.

‘I don’t mean forget but… it’s like you’re punishing yourself. Punishing us. We need to try and put it behind us. All of it.’

‘You don’t know what it was like.’ Carly gripped the edge of the table so tightly she feared her fingers would snap.