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The man’s face was expressionless. ‘Give him to me.’

‘No.’ She backed up and climbed on to the bed. ‘He’s staying with me.’

‘Don’t make this worse than it needs to be. Give him to me.’

‘Why? Why do you want to take him?’

‘Because he’s three. It’s time.’

So he did know it was Leo’s birthday and this was happening again. Well, so be it. The first time she’d been taken by surprise. Not again. This time, she wasn’t going to let it happen.

She had a plan. She’d thought this through. She’d keep him talking then, as soon as he made any move towards her, she’d attack him. Hit him in the balls, scratch his eyes: whatever it took. And then she’d get out of here.

‘What’s so special about him being three?’

He didn’t answer. Without warning he darted towards her, hands outstretched, and grabbed her shoulders. He was very quick; she was surprised by his speed.

And his strength. He threw her on to the floor with a flick of his wrist. Leo was on the mattress and she reached out for him, but the man pinned her to the floor with his knees. With his hands free, he leaned over and picked up Leo.

‘No!’ Leo screamed, his face red. ‘No! No! No!’ He started to scratch the man’s face, leaving red lines on his cheeks.

The man watched him. ‘What’s he doing? What’s wrong with him?’

‘Leo,’ she said, her shoulders agony under the weight of the man’s knees. ‘Leo, it’s OK.’

It made no difference. Leo screamed, banging his fists against the man’s chest.

The man slapped him, hard. For a moment, Leo was silent, then he started to howl. The tantrum was over; now he was just a frightened little boy.

‘Shut up,’ the man growled. ‘Shut up, you stupid child.’

Maggie was about to tell him to leave Leo alone when the man threw Leo on to the mattress. He clamped a hand over her mouth, and pinched her nose, hard. She tried to bite him and tasted the salt on the man’s hand, before the pressure increased and her jaw was forced shut.

Panic flared.

Her breathing stopped.

And then, darkness.

Four Years Earlier: July 2014

Sandra

1

Sandra slipped her hand into Martin’s. His fingers squeezed hers, then he let go and put his arm around her waist. They walked in silence for a while. The air was warm, although the sun struggled to make it through the thick branches of the trees overhead.

The path through the trees – one of many in Delamere Forest – was dusty and firm. In the spring and autumn – and summer too – the forest paths could be muddy, but it had not rained much and all the paths were dry, even the one they had taken, which went deep into the trees. Some of the paths were for horses and bikes and were busy; she and Martin preferred the narrower, less well-trodden ones.

Martin let go of her waist. ‘Do you want to eat?’ he said. ‘I packed sandwiches. Or drink? I made a flask of tea.’

Sandra wasn’t hungry; she’d not had much of an appetite for a while, but she nodded. ‘Sure.’ She pointed to a fallen tree-trunk a yard or so off the path. ‘We can sit there.’

They sat on the rough bark. Martin opened his rucksack and pulled out a large Stanley flask and two tin mugs. He filled them and handed one to her.

‘Sandwich? They’re ham and mustard.’

‘I’m OK for now,’ Sandra said. ‘Tea’s fine.’