Three blind mice. Three blind mice.

Has Simon locked Archie here?

See how they run.

Please don’t let my boy be here.

He isn’t.

That leaves only one place.

It feels as though I am walking towards the gallows as I approach the chutes – contaminated clothes, contaminated shoes. They are bigger than I remember but I still doubt that I will fit through the way I had before, the way Archie would now. Momentarily I wonder whether I should instead locate the end of the tunnel and work my way inwards, but my gut feeling is that I’d be wasting valuable time. There was no marker and it might be impossible to find. It might have caved in by now.

I pull open the hatch. Above hang large metal hooks. I jump and catch one in each hand, my shoulder sockets burning as I dangle there helplessly, feet scrambling for traction as I try to hoist up my weight so I can slip my legs inside the chute.

I can’t get the angle right.

My arms aren’t strong enough. I lift my legs once more. My hands slip from the hook. I have no choice. I’ll have to dive in head first.

Archie.

The thought of plummeting into blackness with nothing to break my fall is terrifying but not as terrifying as the thought of my baby being down there with the dark, and the cold, and the beetles. I steel myself, hands clasped together as though I am in prayer, ready to dive into a waterless pit. I am gripped by utter terror.

Archie.

I am free-falling through time and space. It takes an eternity and it takes no time at all. I crash to the ground. I can hear the snap of my wrist before I feel the searing pain. My mouth pressed to the ground is full of dirt.

I roll over.

My ears are ringing from the fall and my mouth is full of blood where my teeth clamped around my tongue, but I can see. There is a circle of light pooling from a torch. My head feels heavy on my neck as I look around the room. The ground is strewn with empty spirit bottles, shards of glass where some of them have smashed, crushed cans, cigarette butts. Quite the party. I can almost see the true-crime fanatics, torch pointed under their chins, faces waxy and pale as they recount our final steps. I shift my gaze and see something that lights me with happiness until fear dampens my fleetingly joyful glow.

Curled into himself is Archie. But he is too still. Too quiet.

And he isn’t alone.

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Carly

Now

‘Leah,’ Carly says. ‘You found us.’ She begins to cry.

Chapter Sixty-Eight

Leah

Now

‘Thank God. You’re alive. Marie is… Is Archie…?’

I begin to scramble over to him but Carly shouts, ‘Stop’ in a voice that doesn’t quite sound like hers. Confused, my eyes find hers. They are full of fear and regret, but something else.