She sits with her hands curled protectively round a mug of tea that went cold ten minutes ago. Sue Lawley mimes the headlines from the muted TV in the corner, but Natasha is miles away, listening again to Alexander’s words trickling over the gate to where she had stood.

Sign or suffer. See that he understands what not signing means.

She has never liked her step-father, but she’s never feared him either. Not until today. She wishes that she had suggested sleeping at her dad’s tonight. She worries about him at the best of times, let alone when he’s been threatened. What were the shipments Alexander was talking about? What switch is flicked in some people’s heads that makes them see the world through a violent lens like he must? Aside from for her dad’s sake, she wishes she was there tonight for selfish reasons too. There’s something comforting about knowing your parents are within earshot if you need them, although she suspects he is in greater need of her at the moment, even if he doesn’t show it.

It’s days like this that she wishes her mum was still around. Mary has tried her best over the years to fill impossibly big shoes. Still does, even though she’s traded up and switched Nathan for Alexander. There’s no substitute for the real thing, though. She’s not sure whether her dad is working too hard or if it’s just loneliness, but his salt and pepper moustache and the ever-deepening worry lines eroded into his forehead add a good ten years. She checks the clock above the fireplace. Quarter past ten. Tiredness washes over her like a wave and she closes her eyes. Just for a moment, she promises herself, then she’ll head to bed.

She wakes with a start, sloshing cold tea into her lap. She swears under her breath, goes to stand up, but something makes her freeze. A noise from down the corridor. Something softly scraping. Cold tea forgotten, she treads softly towards the hallway. A snick-snick of metal on metal is coming from the front door. Her mouth flops open as she watches the handle on the front door twitch, wind a quarter turn like the hand on a clock. She feels like she’s moving in treacle, paralysed with indecision as she processes what’s happening.