She swallowed, once, twice, unable to dislodge the painful lump in her throat, instead clenching her jaw so tightly that her temples began to pulse.

Don’t touch me-don’t touch me-don’t touch me.

She had seen the news. She knew what sometimes happened to girls.

Her body began to shake and she told herself it was just that. A body. A shell. Not the essence of her real self, which was buried somewhere unreachable. If someone had to be hurt it was better to be her rather than Leah or Marie. They were only eight. Babies really. Still at primary. She was older. She could cope.

Although she knew she couldn’t. Already something inside of her was cracking and breaking apart.

Don’t touch me.

He didn’t.

It took a beat for Carly to distinguish his retreating footsteps from the thump of her heart.

She lay rigid, scarcely breathing, ears straining.

Nothing.

There hadn’t been a sound of the door closing and yet Carly sensed that he was gone.

She threw her weight onto her side. The mattress stank of urine but she rubbed her cheek against it until she found the corner. Again and again – a cat batting its head, desperate for affection – Carly chafed her face against the hard seam until her skin was sore. With painstaking slowness, her blindfold began to slip.

Eventually the scrap of material had fallen from her eyes, across her nose. Carly’s nostrils were now covered, her mouth still taped shut. She couldn’t breathe. She shook her head in desperation until the blindfold fell another half an inch.

She could see.

Her eyes scanned the concrete floor coated with dust and rubble, the walls sheathed with graffiti. Something creaked behind her. She yanked her head around so fast her neck cricked, half-expecting to see Norman Bates’ mum in her rocking chair, but it was a tree outside the barred window dipping against the wind. The room wasn’t empty but Carly scarcely noticed her surroundings. Piles of rubbish, a cardboard box. She didn’t check to see if there was anything there she could use to escape with.

She didn’t have to.

The door was wide open.

She shuffled her body much the way she had in the back of the van – a snake shedding its skin – until she reached the wall. Carly drew herself onto her knees, then onto the balls of her feet, until she was standing. Her legs felt like the lemon jelly the twins loved so much. It was the thought of her family gathered around the table, eating dessert, that gave her strength. She almost believed she could smell citrus rather than the stench of damp and neglect. Carly began to jump – a sack race without a sack. Steadily, determinedly, momentarily pausing after each movement to regain her balance. She fell into a rhythm.

Jump.

Thud.

Jump.

Thud.

Into a corridor with multiple rooms to her left and right, doors hanging woefully from rusted hinges. At the bottom, a staircase with a makeshift ramp propped against the stairs. A battered skateboard on its side, missing a wheel. Cool air hit the back of her neck. Carly turned. The front door was swinging open.