I felt the tears pour down my cheeks. Bit down on my tongue, spit frothing on my chin as I kept the scream inside. I pulled against my restraints, feeling the pain in my ribs bloom and grow. I tugged again and lurched to the side. One of the ropes had snapped and my right hand was suddenly free. I twisted in my seat, reaching behind me, the pain in my ribs so bad that I could barely breathe. I started picking at the blackened threads of the remaining rope, shuffling my feet as much as I could to try and work my legs a little freer. My fingers and toes began to tingle as the blood rushed back. I sobbed as my shaking hands disentangled the individual threads, my mind full of images from old books: the urchins in those dark satanic mills; their fingers all thread and blood, oakum and tar.

Suddenly I was free. The ropes fell from my left wrist and I toppled forward, clawing at the ropes around my ankles. I replayed all the sounds that had been beyond my comprehension during those terrible minutes of suffering. I’d heard an engine: a big powerful car. There had been quiet voices. A breeze had ruffled the sweat-soaked skin at the back of my neck.

Gradually I wriggled my feet free from the two expertly tied ropes. There was blood at my ankles and wrists where the cord had eaten through the skin. My thumb and index finger on my right hand were an ugly mess of black and pink: the skin scorched off in places. But the pain was nothing compared to the throb in my ribs. I took a step forward and the simple act of movement was enough to take my breath away. Gingerly, biting my lower lip, I ran the fingers of my left hand over my injuries. It was a clean break. If my attacker had wanted to, they could have driven the split rib up into my lungs and left me to drown in my own blood. Everything that had been done had been intentional and professional. So why had Walt helped me to escape? It was he who’d brought me there; he who did little to stop the others from hurting me. Why, at the time of whatever triumph he saw in his near future, why would he jeopardize it to hand me the lighter and give me a chance to make a difference.

‘Como te escapaste de puta puta!’

I moved so fast I almost snapped my neck. A figure had appeared in the doorway: black clothes, black hat, face paint and the perfect sugar-white slits of staring eyes.

‘Te mataré donde estés, perra del diablo!’