‘That’s the sad thing,’ Crossland had said in a voice of genuine pity, ‘we can’t do any physical harm to you, otherwise when you revert to your ignorant state you’ll wonder where the cuts and bruises came from. We even had to give you the telescopic handgun you dropped in the corridor, simply because you would have taken it if you’d escaped independently. So we’ll have to use a different means of extracting information.’

She had sat down at the dining room table, beckoning Alex to follow. There, she had powered up her miniature laptop.

‘Your father is up to speed on the situation, so don’t worry about explaining.’

He knows I’m fighting against Nicholas Grant. That’s something , at least.

And suddenly, Dean Ginelli was on the screen. Alex had felt his insides shrink, as if he were a small child in front of his taekwondo instructor once again.

‘Alex,’ his father had said.

‘Hi Dad.’

No more words had been spoken.

The video background had been a blank wall. There were no clues about where in New Brighton he was being held. Not that it would have mattered.

Gwen Crossland had stood up, invited Alex into the chair, and towered over him as high as her short body was able to.

‘Your friend Daniel couldn’t tell us anything useful, but maybe you can. Tell us the location of Spitfire’s Rise, or your father gets shot in the head. You have one minute.’

This exact scenario had occurred to Alex. It was their most obvious move. But two days in the bungalow had given him almost zero time to think of ideas, as he had spent most of it unaware his father was even in danger. As far as he could remember, this was only the third time they had woken him up.

‘Don’t you dare, Alex,’ his father had said.

‘My decision, Dad, not yours,’ Alex had replied, just for the power trip.

‘Fifty seconds,’ Crossland had said.

Alex had stayed silent. It was interesting watching his father’s reaction: stuck between determination to stay alive, and determination for Alex to not give in. He had seemed to want life and death at the same time.

‘Twenty seconds.’

The New Brighton clone, out of shot, had cocked his gun, and the barrel came into view, pointing at the side of Dean’s head.

The power is all mine now. Everything that happens is my decision , not his. In another world, this might have been rewarding.

‘Ten.’

What if I saved him and didn’t betray my friends?

‘Nine.’

I could lie. Why does nobody think of that in interrogations?

‘Eight.’

If I lie and get away with it, they’ll either keep him alive or shoot him, depending on what they were planning all along.

‘Seven.’

Of course, one day they’ll learn I was lying and kill him anyway.

‘Six.’