Praise for Louise Jensen

‘So good, raced through it in a day! Creepy and compelling, another great impossible-to-put-down thriller’

B A Paris

‘A clever, addictive thriller about family, loss and lies. Packed full of secrets and twists, it will keep you guessing until the final page’

Alice Feeney

‘Cements Louise as the writer of beautiful, character-led, yet still page-turningly good thrillers. This will (and should) be huge’

Louise Beech

‘Twisted and suspenseful, each layer of deception is peeled back for maximum dramatic impact’

Woman’s Weekly

‘This gripping psychological thriller slowly lures you in, then keeps you guessing about who’s good – and who really isn’t – all the way to the end’

Heat

‘A very good study of vulnerability, and how our best intentions can often lead us astray’

Guardian

‘Enchanted by danger’

Woman

‘A fast-paced, unputdownable read’

Candis

LOUISE JENSEN is a global No. 1 bestselling author of psychological thrillers. Louise has sold over a million copies of her books and her novels have been sold for translation in twenty-five countries, as well as being featured on the USA Today and Wall Street Journal bestsellers’ lists. Louise was nominated for the Goodreads Debut Author of 2016 Award and the Guardian’s Not the Booker 2018. The Gift has been optioned for TV and film.

When Louise isn’t writing thrillers, she turns her hand to penning love stories under the name Amelia Henley. Her debut as Amelia Henley, The Life We Almost Had, is out now.

Louise lives with her husband, children, madcap dog and a rather naughty cat in Northamptonshire. She loves to hear from readers and writers and can be found at www.louisejensen.co.uk, where she regularly blogs flash fiction and writing tips.

Also by Louise Jensen

The Family

The Gift

The Sister

The Surrogate

The Date

Writing as Amelia Henley

The Life We Almost Had

Copyright

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2020

Copyright © Louise Jensen 2020

Louise Jensen asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © October 2020 ISBN: 9780008330149

Version 2020-08-26

Note to Readers

This ebook contains the following accessibility features which, if supported by your device, can be accessed via your ereader/accessibility settings:

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 Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008330132

For Finley Duffy

Who always has the best ideas…

Contents

Cover

Praise

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

Part One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Part Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Chapter Sixty-Two

Chapter Sixty-Three

Chapter Sixty-Four

Chapter Sixty-Five

Chapter Sixty-Six

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Chapter Sixty-Eight

Chapter Sixty-Nine

Chapter Seventy

Chapter Seventy-One

Chapter Seventy-Two

Chapter Seventy-Three

Chapter Seventy-Four

Chapter Seventy-Five

Chapter Seventy-Six

Chapter Seventy-Seven

Chapter Seventy-Eight

Chapter Seventy-Nine

Chapter Eighty

Chapter Eighty-One

Epilogue

The following letter contains spoilers

Acknowledgements

Book Club Questions

Extract

About the Publisher

Part One

Chapter One

Carly

Then

When Carly looked back at that day the memory was in shades of grey; the trauma had sucked the blue from the sky, the green from the freshly mown grass. She had sat on the back doorstep, the coolness of the concrete permeating through her school skirt, the late-afternoon sun warming her bare arms. Carly remembers now the blackness of a beetle scurrying down the path before it disappeared into the soil under the rose bush. The stark white of the twins’ socks, bunched below their knees.

Inconsequential details that later the police would jot in their notebooks as though Carly was somehow being a great help but she knew she wasn’t, and worse than that, she knew it was entirely her fault.

It had all been so frustratingly normal. Leah and Marie had shrieked in mock disgust as Bruno, their boxer, bounded towards them, drool spilling from his jowls. But their screams then still carried an undercurrent of happiness, not like later when their cries were full of fear and there was nowhere to run to.

The things that have stayed with Carly are this.

The way her fingers gripped the cumbersome Nokia in her hand as though she was clutching a secret. Her annoyance as she angled her screen to avoid the glare, never dreaming that soon she would be craving daylight.

Fresh air.

Space.

The pounding in her head increasing as the girls bounced a tennis ball between them across the patio. The way she had snapped at the twins as though it was their fault Dean Malden hadn’t texted her. Of all the things that she could, that she should, feel guilty about, she had never forgiven herself that the last words she spoke to her sisters before they were all irrevocably damaged was in anger rather than kindness.

Although in truth, she had never forgiven herself for any of it.

‘Shut up!’ She had roared out her frustration that the first boy she loved had shattered her thirteen-year-old heart. Crazy now to recall that she once thought the absence of a text was the end of the world. There were far worse things. Far worse people than the floppy-haired blond boy who had let her down.

Her younger sisters turned to her, identical green eyes wide. Marie’s sight trained on Carly’s face as she chucked the ball for Bruno. Carly’s irritation grew as she watched it fly over the fence.

‘For God’s sake.’ She stood, brushing the dust from the back of her sensible pleated skirt. ‘It’s time to come in.’

‘But that’s not fair.’ Marie looked stricken as her gaze flickered towards the fence.

‘Life isn’t fair,’ Carly said, feeling a bubbling resentment that at eight years old the twins had it easy.

‘Can you fetch our ball, please, Carly?’ Marie pleaded.

‘Fetch it yourself,’ Carly snapped.

‘You know we’re not allowed out of the garden on our own until we’re ten,’ Marie said.

‘Yeah, well I’m in charge today and I’m saying you can. It’s not like we live in a city. Nothing ever happens in this dump.’ Carly was sick of living somewhere so small where everyone knew everyone else’s business. Where everyone would know by tomorrow that Dean Malden had rejected her. ‘Be quick and shut the gate properly.’

She turned and pushed open the back door, stepping into the vast kitchen that never smelled of cakes or bread. It never smelled of anything except freshly roasted coffee. Carly clattered her phone onto the marble island and yanked open the fridge door. The shelves, which were once stocked with stilton and steak and that had groaned under the weight of fresh fruit and vegetables, were woefully bare. There was nothing except a shrivelled cucumber and some out-of-date hummus. It was all right for her mum and stepdad out for the evening at yet another corporate function. They spent more time on the business than with their children nowadays, although Mum had assured her it wouldn’t be for much longer. She’d soon be at home more but in the meantime it was left to Carly to sort out tea again. She had loved her half-sisters fiercely since they day they were born, though sometimes she wished Mum still paid the retired lady down the road to babysit, but since Carly had turned thirteen, Mum felt that she was responsible enough.

She sighed as she crossed to the shelf above the Aga and lifted the lid from the teapot. Inside was a £10 note. Chips for tea. She wondered whether the money would stretch to three sausages or if they should split a battered cod.

Minutes later the twins tumbled into the kitchen.

‘Yuck.’ Leah dropped the tennis ball coated with slobber into the wicker basket where Bruno kept his toys.

‘Wash your hands.’ Carly checked her phone again.

Nothing.

What had she done wrong? She had thought Dean liked her.

Marie perched on a stool at the breakfast bar, swinging her legs, the toes of her shoes thudding against the kick board. How was Carly supposed to hear her text alert over that? Marie had her chin in her hands, her mouth downturned; she hated being in trouble. Carly could see the way her lip trembled with upset but she couldn’t help yelling again.

‘Shut. Up.’

Marie slid off the stool. ‘I… I left my fleece in the garden.’

Carly jerked her head towards the door in a go-and-get-it gesture before she clicked on the radio. The sound of Steps flooded the room. Marie paused and momentarily their sisterly bond tugged at them all. ‘5, 6, 7, 8’ was one of their favourite songs. Usually they’d fall into line and dance in synchronicity.

‘Let’s do this!’ Marie flicked her red hair over her shoulders and placed her hands on her hips.

‘It’s childish,’ Carly snapped although inside her shoes, her toes were tapping.

‘It doesn’t work unless we all do it.’ Marie’s voice cracked. ‘We have to be together.’

Carly pulled the scrunchie she’d been wearing like a bracelet from her wrist and smoothed her long fair hair back into a ponytail. The twins got into position. Waited. Carly reached for her phone and tried to ignore the pang of meanness that flitted through her as the smile slipped from Leah’s face. Marie’s small shoulders rounded as she headed back outside.

Minutes later she raced back in, socked feet skidding across the tiles, tears streaming down her freckled cheeks. ‘Bruno’s got out. The gate was open.’

‘For God’s sake.’ Carly could feel the anger in her chest form a cold, hard ball. It was one of the last times she ever allowed herself to truly feel. ‘Who shut the gate?’

Marie bit her lower lip.

‘I did,’ said Leah, slipping her shoes back on.

‘You’re supposed to bang it until it latches, you idiot. You know it’s broken. Three times. You bang it three times.’

The girls pelted into the garden, calling the dog’s name.

Marie hesitated at the gate. ‘Perhaps we should wait—’ Under her freckles, her skin was pale. She’d been off school yesterday with a stomach ache and although she’d gone back today, she didn’t look well. Carly knew she should ask if she was feeling okay but instead she shoved her roughly into the street. ‘It’s your fault, Marie. You search that way.’ She pointed down the avenue lined with beech trees.

Marie grabbed Leah’s hand.

‘No,’ Carly snapped. ‘Leah can come with me.’ The twins could be silly when they were together and she had enough to worry about without them getting into trouble.

‘But I want—’ Marie began.

‘I don’t care what you want. Move.’ Carly grabbed Leah’s arm and led her in the opposite direction, towards the cut-through at the side of their house, which led to the park.

It all happened so quickly that afterwards Carly couldn’t remember which order it all came in. The balaclava-clad face looming towards hers. The forearm around her neck, the gloved hand clamped over her mouth. The sight of Leah struggling against arms that restrained her. The scraping sound of her shoe as she was dragged towards the van at the other end of the alley. The sight of Marie, almost a blur, flying towards the second man also clad in black, who held her twin, pummelling him with her small fists.

‘Stop! You can’t do this! Don’t take her. I don’t want you to take her!’

The soft flesh compacting against hard bone as Carly bit down hard on the fingers that had covered her mouth.

‘Run!’ she had screamed at Marie as the man who held Leah grabbled to find something of Marie’s he could hold on to, clutching at her collar, her ginger pigtails, as she dodged his grasp.

‘Run!’

Chapter Two

Leah

Now

Dread crawls around the pit of my stomach. It’s impossible to ignore the urge to run back into the room. I push open the door and step inside. The kitchen is exactly as I left it, not surprising as I am the only one home, but nevertheless I twist the dial on the oven three times to make sure that it’s off, despite knowing that I haven’t cooked anything today.

Safe.

I have to keep us all safe.

My compulsions are worsening again. If I was being kind to myself I’d think it’s not surprising considering what I’ve been through, what I’ve yet to face over this coming week.

I’m rarely kind to myself.

But still, I remember what happened the last time everything got out of hand. The build of pressure. The loss of control. Despite the scrutiny I’ll be under over the next few days, I have to hold it together this time, if not for me, then for George and Archie.

The silver-framed faces of the three of us at Drayton Manor Park beam down at me from the dresser. Archie has inherited bits of both of us. He has my fiery red hair but instead of being poker-straight it’s curly like George’s dark mop would be if he didn’t keep it so short. Unlike George’s hair, Archie’s always smells of the apple shampoo I wash it with each night and as I recall the familiar scent, momentarily I allow myself to relax, until an incoming text lights up my phone.

I need you.

I tell myself I can just say no, but anxiety rises as quickly as Archie’s tears do when he’s overtired.

Calm yourself.

I force my eyes to travel around the room and name three things to ground myself.

Archie’s cuddly toy Labrador curled up its wicker basket, a fake bone between its paws. He’s forever begging for a puppy but I can’t cope with the thought of a real dog.

George’s sheepskin gloves on top of the microwave; he always forgets where he’s left them.

A canvas print of three girls holding hands on a golden beach. I don’t know who they are but when I saw it hanging in the window of a local gallery I stood there for the longest time, unsure whether it made me feel happy or sad. For three years it’s hung on my wall and I still feel a flurry of emotions when I catch sight of it. I still can’t unpick what they are.

Calm.

A second message buzzes.

It’s important.

I can just say no.

But I won’t.

I can’t delay it any more. Peeling off my disposable gloves I snap on a fresh pair and gather my keys and my mobile. On the doormat is a business card from a reporter with Call me scrawled across it.

I won’t.

At times like these I wonder why I’ve never moved away from this small town I grew up in, where everybody knows who I am and what happened to me. I think it’s partly because there’s no getting away from it. Once you’ve been global news there is no fading into anonymity. It only takes one person to post a sighting on Twitter or Facebook and your face is everywhere again. The public like a game of hide-and-seek even though I don’t want to play. There’s also a comfort in being surrounded by familiar faces. Strangers still terrify me. The main reason though, if I’m honest, is because staying so close to where it happened is a form of punishment and deep down we all feel in some way responsible.

We still blame ourselves.

Although I’m late, I’m in no hurry to get there; part of me knows what she’ll want to talk about and I don’t think I can face it.

I’m careful as I drive, headlights slicing through the gloom. The dark skies give a sense of early evening rather than midmorning. We’re barely into autumn and it already feels like winter. I’m mindful of the traffic, peering into cars, wondering who’s inside and where they’re going.

If they’re happy.

Everyone in the town was more vigilant after our abduction. The community was pulled together by threads of horror but over time they… not exactly forgot but moved on. Or tried to. Eyes that once looked at me with sympathy became filled with annoyance as another anniversary summoned a fresh batch of true-crime fans, pointing out the house we grew up in. Our old school. The swings in the playground our parents once pushed us on – higher-higher-higher. It’s where I now take Archie.

I’m almost halfway there when I notice the fuel gauge is nearly empty. Inwardly, I curse. George was supposed to fill my car up last night, he knows I find it difficult. I can’t bear the smell of fumes. I was sure he’d gone to do it while I gave Archie his bath and read him a story but I must have been mistaken. He probably got caught up in another long work call. The hours he’s putting in at the moment are ridiculous but I’m lucky he’s working so hard towards our future, even if we don’t always want the same thing.

It’s tempting to go home but I’d still have to refuel before picking Archie up from nursery so I indicate left and pull into the forecourt of the BP garage. The instant I step out of the car the smell of petrol invades my nostrils and I have to swallow down bile.

My hand is shaking by the time I replace the pump and go and pay.

The cashier is busy with another customer and as I wait I impulsively pick up a KitKat for Archie and a Twix for George. I don’t snack, preferring proper meals. My debit card is already in my hand, ready to tap it on the reader, but I’ve gone over the contactless limit and so I stuff the card inside the machine. Out of my peripheral vision I notice a white van pull up alongside my car. Flustered, I enter my pin number incorrectly twice before I remember what it is.

A man with spiked black hair steps out of the van. I’ve never seen him before. He’s young. Younger than me, and he looks happy but still, that doesn’t mean he’s not dangerous, does it? We all wear a mask sometimes, don’t we? I’m guilty of it myself. The calm mother, the carefree wife. That’s unfair. I’m being hard on myself again. I’ve had periods of months – years even – when I’ve almost, if not forgotten what I’ve been through, come to terms with it. Learned to live with it, I suppose, like the patches of eczema that used to scab my skin when I was stressed. Oddly my skin has been clear since my rituals became all-consuming. My mental health plummeted and my physical health problems disappeared almost overnight.

‘You can take your card.’ The sharp tone of the cashier’s voice tells me this is not the first time he’s asked me. I mumble a ‘thank you’ to him, an apology to the van driver standing behind me, whose eyes I do not meet. I hurry outside.

I’m just passing the van when I hear a thud coming from inside. I hesitate, ears straining. There’s nothing to be heard except the steady thrum of traffic coming from the main road but still I cup my hands and peer through the driver’s window.

‘Oi!’

I jump at the noise and try not to cower as the driver jogs over to me. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ His manner as spiky as his hair.

‘Do you have anyone else in the van?’ I ask.

‘What’s it gotta do wiv you?’

I keep my gaze steady, waiting him out.

‘No. Just me.’ He jabs his key into the lock but before he can climb inside, we both hear it. The shuffling coming from inside his vehicle.

‘I’m DC Ross,’ I lie. ‘Do you mind if I take a look, sir?’ I stride to the back of the van with a confidence I don’t feel.

‘I’ve told you there’s no—’

‘Then you won’t mind showing me, will you?’

Tutting, he unlocks the back doors. My heart races as he yanks them open. I make sure I’m not standing too close. There’s a delighted yelp as a white Staffie with a dark circle around one eye launches himself at his owner.

It’s just a dog.

I back away, feeling his glare on me. Flustered, I get in my car and start the engine, gears crunching as I pull back out onto the road, breathing heavily. I’m edging forward at the T-junction, waiting to turn left when I catch a flash of the profile of the driver who slides past me in a black car, indicating right.

It’s him.

The man who nearly broke me.

I’m frozen to my seat, neck rigid, willing my eyes to take a second look.

I catch him again as his car turns into the traffic. I’m not as certain as I was a few seconds ago that it is him. The jawline is wrong. A horn blasts behind me and in my rush to move forward I stall my car. I’m trembling as I twist the key to fire the engine to life once more.

It can’t have been him.

It’s impossible.

As I pull forward, I imagine him in his cell. The thick iron bars that contain him.

It’s the anniversary that’s made me so skittish, I know. Twenty years. It’s been almost twenty years.

I’m in a state by the time I pull up outside Marie’s flat. Noticing Carly’s car is already there doesn’t calm me.

Soon we’ll all be in one room.

Three sisters.

Nothing good happens when we’re all together.

I can just say no.

Above me the grey clouds break apart and rain lashes against my windscreen.

It feels like an omen. A sense of impending doom.

Chapter Three

Carly

Then

It felt like fate that something terrible would happen because she’d behaved like such a bitch. Acid coated the back of Carly’s throat. She swallowed her sickness back down. She had to be strong for the sake of the twins. They would be terrified.

She was terrified.

It had all happened so quickly. She could still feel the arm around her throat, another around her waist as she was manhandled into the van, struggling to get free. The catch on the door scratching against her cheek, tearing her skin. The scream that ripped from her throat as she saw the second man following, dragging the girls.

‘Run!’ Carly had shouted as she kicked out again, but she knew that even if one of the twins could wriggle free, they wouldn’t leave the other.

The arms restraining Carly hefted her from her feet, shoving her roughly into the back of the van.

‘Help!’ Carly’s voice growing hoarse.

That was when she saw a glint of silver. A sharp point pressed against her neck. Instantly the bottom fell out of her world, her body slackened. She had to stay alive for her sisters. Carly forced herself to be passive as her hands were wrenched behind her back. She was shaking so violently that the rope being twisted around her wrists chafed against her skin. Tape was smoothed over the lips she had thought an hour ago Dean Malden would be kissing. She was placid as her ankles were bound. A blindfold snatched away her last glimpse of the sun. She was astonished that something like this could happen in broad daylight. She felt a jarring against her arm. Heard the thud of the twins being shoved next to her and listened helplessly to Leah crying and Marie pleading,

‘This is a game, isn’t it? Please. This isn’t real.’ Marie’s small voice a squeak.

But the real games were being played in the park just metres away, the cheering of a goal drifting through the hedgerow, and Carly knew that whatever this was, it was deadly, deadly serious.

Still, she thought someone would have heard them, would swoop in and save them at the last minute. All her storybooks ended well and it had never really occurred to her that sometimes there might not be a happily ever after. That was until the door slammed shut, the engine roared and she crashed onto her side as the van pulled away.

The stench of petrol in such a confined space was overpowering, along with the stink of body odour. At first Carly thought it must be coming from the men until she felt her shirt sticking to her back with sweat and she realized it was emanating from her. The smell of her own fear.

It was hot. Bumpy. She swayed, unable to use her tethered hands to steady herself. She tried to breathe deeply to calm down but each time she inhaled the tape across her lips prevented air from entering her lungs. Her chest burned painfully. Her nostrils flared as she drew in short, sharp bursts of air until she felt dizzy. The knot from the back of her blindfold dug into her skull.

One of the twins was whimpering, the other frighteningly silent and it was the silence that scared Carly the most. The girls had been nothing but noise since they’d been born. Laughing. Crying. Playing. Chattering away in their twin language that no one else understood. Carly planted her heels on the floor, her ankle bones rubbing uncomfortably together, and dragged her bottom, weaving forwards, slow and uneven – a spider missing legs – until her feet reached something that could have been a body. She shuffled herself around, her hands groping until she connected with another hand. A frightened cry and then long fingers gripping hers. Piano-playing fingers. She thought it must be Leah.

Carly moved again, fumbling around until she located Marie. She was still. Too still. Afraid, Carly pressed against her wrist, willing a pulse to jump beneath her fingers. She blinked back tears of gratitude as she located the slow and steady thump. She wouldn’t allow herself to cry.

She had taken the twins out of the garden and got them into this.

She had to get them out.

Thoughts jostled for attention as Carly tried to process what had happened. Who had taken them and why, but nothing made any sense. Part of her clung desperately to the vague hope that it was a prank. The programme her parents liked to watch where unsuspecting members of the public were fooled – but the blood streaming from a gash in her cheek told her it wasn’t a joke. On TV, the tricks were unexpected, funny. Never cruel.

She rubbed her face against the wall of the van, trying to dislodge her blindfold. Each time they drove over a bump her head smashed painfully into the hard metal but still she persisted until at last she felt the material begin to slide.

She could see blurry shapes. She waited for her eyes to adjust.

The space was compact, dark. Only a small amount of light spilled through a grimy opaque window that led to the cab. Two figures sat shadowed in the front. Just two. Carly felt a flicker of hope. Although the twins were small, together they outnumbered the men. They had a fighting chance if only she knew what was planned for them. Where they were going.

She shifted her weight. If she could get close enough to the partition without being spotted she might be able to hear their conversation over the growl of the engine.

Always have a plan was her dad’s motto.

She might only be thirteen but they shouldn’t underestimate her.

Progress was slow as Carly rocked herself onto her knees. Using her toes for balance she moved her legs apart, waddling forwards, trying not to fall as the wheel dipped into a pothole. The engine grew louder as they gathered speed. They must have left town. A lump rose in Carly’s throat as she thought of the distance they must be from their house. Her pink flowery bedroom she was nagging her mum to decorate now that she was a teenager, her canopied bed she had loved at six but now found embarrassing. The twins’ mermaid room they insisted on sharing, stupid because their house was big enough for a bedroom each. Their cuddly toys lined up on the bed. Carly’s bears were stuffed at the bottom of her wardrobe. Still part of her, but not quite.

Focus.

She forced her left knee forward again as simultaneously the van flew over a bump. She toppled over, her face slamming against the floor. Stunned, she turned to the side, the tape that had covered her mouth hanging off. She spat out blood and a tooth, her nose hot with pain. She thought it might be broken.

She drew her knees to her chest and lay curved like a comma. Not a full stop. Not the end.

Her watch tick-tick-ticked.

Ten minutes? An hour? She’d lost all concept of time. She’d lost all concept of herself; a mass of pain and blood and fear, her cells skittering around her body as adrenaline flooded her system.

Fight or flight. She’d learned about it at school.

Determined, she dragged herself up onto her knees once more.

Another lurch. Wheels dipping in potholes. She was back on her side, juddering over rough terrain.

A slowing.

The crunch of the handbrake.

A momentary silence as the engine cut out.

Carly summoned all of her strength and drew her knees in before kicking both feet as hard as she could at the side of the van over and over. Screaming for help until her throat burned raw.

Someone would hear her.

They had to.

She squinted in the brightness as the door yanked open. She was dragged by her hair.

‘You’re a feisty one,’ a voice said but it didn’t sound angry, more amused. Her blindfold was retied tightly around her eyes. Too tightly. ‘That’s better. Three blind mice, three blind mice,’ he sang.

Carly could feel eyes on her. She clamped her lips together hard as he stretched another piece of tape across her mouth. She wouldn’t cry.

Her breath left her body as she was slung over a shoulder as though she weighed nothing.

She breathed in. Listened. Committing what she could to memory so later she’d be able to tell the police, her parents, everything she knew, for she had to believe there would be a later.

The smell of soil. A farm? The sound of rustling. Leaves?

Inconsequential details that would never make up for her putting the twins in danger.

It was wholly her fault.

The man began to walk, Carly curved over his shoulder. Again a comma, and that thought gave her strength. Not a full stop.

This wasn’t the end.

Chapter Four

Leah

Now

There’s a crackle when I jab the intercom with my finger and before I can speak, there’s the click of the front door releasing its catch. I hadn’t replied to Marie’s text but she hasn’t asked who is at the door. She doesn’t need to – she knew I’d come. The door sticks. I shoulder it open and the letterbox falls at an odd angle, like a slipped smile. I try to stick it back in place but it’s missing a screw.

The stairwell always smells of wee. I spiral my way to the third floor. Flat nine. Remembering her doorbell doesn’t work, I lift the knocker, which is ginger with rust, and let it fall, thumping my arrival. The vibration causes flecks of black paint to drift to the floor. Instantly, the door is yanked open, Marie’s arms wind around my neck, engulfing me in a cloud of the perfume she’s always worn, something woody. Nothing like the floral scent our mother used to wear, or still does wear perhaps. I wouldn’t know, it’s been so long since I’ve seen her. I return Marie’s hug, feeling the sparrow lightness of her jutting bones. She’s lost so much weight, it almost feels like I could snap her in two. She steps back and clasps my shoulders while she studies me. The bracelets that glitter on her wrists jangle as she twists me from side to side.

‘You look good.’

‘So do you. Are you okay?’ What I really want to ask is, are you drinking? – but I don’t. The whites of her eyes are tinged pink but that could be because of the tears we all shed at this time of year. I can’t smell any alcohol on her and that’s a good sign. There was a time we wouldn’t have to ask each other how we are. She used to know exactly what I was thinking. She felt what I felt, but over the years she has become a stranger to me, almost. What we went through brought us all together and then pushed us apart.

‘Carly’s here.’ She gestures me inside and as I squeeze past her I realize she hasn’t answered my question. Is she okay? Are any of us?

I make my way into the tiny kitchen that smells slightly rotten, as though the bin needs emptying.

Carly’s leaning against the old-fashioned gas cooker, fingers flying over the keypad of her phone. As soon as she sees me she tosses her mobile onto the worktop and pulls me close to her and for a few seconds I lose myself in her embrace as though I hadn’t last seen her a couple of days ago. Carly is the one I’m closer to now. She’s the one who stayed while Marie travelled the country, choosing draughty theatres over a proper home. Chameleoning herself into different characters, all of them as beautiful and as damaged as her. There are no happy ever afters in the dark productions she takes part in.

I shuck off my coat and unwind my scarf, piling them on top of Carly’s denim jacket.

‘I’ll make some tea.’ Marie fills the kettle as though this is just another social visit. My eyes meet Carly’s and she raises her eyebrows.

‘I’ve brought my own cup.’ I pull a mug wrapped in plastic from my bag and pass it to her. I’m poised to defend myself but she doesn’t ask what’s triggered my contamination OCD this time (although it’s probably obvious), or how long it’s been going on, and I’m glad. I’m not here to be judged.

A phone rings, the sound coming from the top of the fridge.

‘Do you want me to get it?’ I’m nearest.

‘No!’ Marie reaches for her phone and switches it off.

‘You didn’t have to do that. It might have been a job offer?’

‘It wasn’t. There’s some biscuits somewhere, Leah. If you can find them.’

I rummage around on the worktops, looking for snacks I will not eat.

Marie’s flat is as chaotic and cluttered as her life. Washing-up piled in the sink. Every surface messy. Tubes of half-used make-up litter the small table in the kitchen where she eats her meals for one, a box of L’Oréal hair dye pokes out of the overflowing bin; it’s the complete opposite of my minimalism. Once my twin and I shared everything but now we don’t even look the same, I think, taking in her newly bleached hair, cropped close to her head. I still keep mine long. Although I’m only twenty-eight, threads of grey are weaving into my natural red but I’m determined not to start colouring it. Every few minutes Marie runs her hand over the back of her neck as though reassuring herself that her pigtails are gone. That no one can grab them again. It’s as though she wants to be somebody else – somebody different – and I understand that, I’ve felt it too. But we can’t run away from ourselves, can we? The things we’ve done. Years of therapy have taught me that.

‘Is Archie okay?’ Carly’s face shines as she mentions her nephew. It’s such a shame she’s never allowed anyone to get close to her. She’s never had a family of her own. It’s too much responsibility, she had said once when I’d asked her if she wanted children.

It took her a long time for her to be able to look after Archie. ‘I can’t,’ she had said when we had first discussed the possibility of me going back to work. I had taken her hands in mine.

‘I trust you.’

She had shaken her head. ‘You shouldn’t.’

‘Well, I do. George and I both do and… Carly, I couldn’t trust anyone else.’ There was no way I could leave Archie with a stranger.

‘What if…’ She had squeezed her eyes tightly closed.

‘We can’t live our lives by what-ifs.’

She had looked at me then with such a disbelieving expression on her face.

‘Okay,’ I had conceded. ‘I see the irony in that but I am trying. Try with me. You adore Archie.’ From the second she had first held him at the hospital and he had wrapped his tiny fingers around her thumb she was lost to emotions she just couldn’t fight.

‘It’s because I love him I can’t do it.’

‘It’s because you love him that you can.’

Now, Carly picks Archie up when I’m working at the insurance firm in town, processing policies for the fears that keep people awake at night – theft, death, illness, but I know these things aren’t the worst that can happen. Not by a long way.

‘Archie’s fine,’ I say over the sound of the kettle boiling. ‘I was mortified earlier though because all the other kids were already sitting in a circle when we got there. Sorry we’re late, he shouted. Mummy couldn’t get in the bloody bathroom because Daddy was doing a big poo. That child.’ I shake my head as though I’m despairing but we all know I’m not. Archie is the light of my life. ‘You must come and see him, Marie.’ I try not to sound critical that we see her so infrequently.

‘Yes. Sorry, I’ve been busy.’

‘Doing what?’ Carly asks. Marie was sacked from her last role for turning up drunk five minutes before she was supposed to go on stage. That was six months ago and she hasn’t worked since. She said it was the kick she needed to give up drinking and focus on the future.

‘This and that,’ she says vaguely. Her mouth gapes a yawn. There are dark shadows under her eyes. She’s not sleeping well either.

‘Something keeping you up at night. Or someone?’ Carly asks.

Marie doesn’t answer but her neck flushes red. She’s keeping something from us.

‘Marie, are you seeing someone?’

She doesn’t deny it, instead she busies herself splashing milk into mugs and fishing out teabags with a spoon. I don’t repeat my question. If Marie doesn’t want to tell us something, she won’t. She leads us through to the lounge, sweeping piles of magazines from the sofa onto the threadbare carpet. A stick of incense on a stand on the windowsill billows smoke. The scent is cloying. Momentarily it crosses my mind that she might be masking the smell of booze. I steal a glance around the room, searching for empty bottles stuffed into corners, lipstick-stained tumblers, but there’s nothing. My eyes meet Carly’s and she shrugs. I know she’s thinking the same as me. I set the chipped plate stacked with Tesco basic digestives on the table.

‘So—’ Marie beams a smile that doesn’t reach the rest of her face. Her lipstick has stained a patch of her nicotine-yellow teeth crimson.

‘I can’t do it this year,’ Carly cuts in. ‘I just can’t.’

The atmosphere, already heavy, thickens. I take a sip of my tea, trying to recall whether Marie had rested the teaspoon on the draining board before she fished out my teabag.

‘I know it’s difficult this year—’ Marie’s knee jiggles. She tugs her jumper down over her hands.

‘It’s difficult every bloody year.’ Carly pushes her hair away from her face. Her sleeve rides up, displaying the comma she has tattooed on her wrist.

She’s right.

Each year around the anniversary of our abduction Marie’s always desperate to rake it over. Unwilling to let the dying embers of our trauma crumble to ashes.

It wasn’t as bad as we thought, was it?

It’s made us into the people we are today.

It’s as though she wants to make it into something else, something different.

She can’t.

I don’t know why, perhaps it’s the only way she can handle it. We all cope the best we can, Carly not allowing herself to love anyone new, me with my routines.

‘But…’ Marie continues as though Carly hadn’t spoken. ‘It’s twenty years and I’ve been approached by a journalist—’

‘We’ve all been approached by journalists these past few months.’ That was a given; THE SINCLAIR SISTERS – WHERE ARE THEY NOW? I don’t like the direction the conversation is going in.

‘She wants us to go on TV to mark twenty years. It’d be live, of course, that only gives us a few days to prep—’

‘Absolutely not,’ Carly says firmly.

‘I know you don’t enjoy being in the spotlight, but I’ll take the lead. You don’t have to say much as long as you’re there,’ Marie says matter-of-factly. This would be her starring role, us her supporting cast. ‘Leah?’

‘There’s nothing worse I can think of than going through it all again.’

I can just say no.

‘You said yes last time,’ Marie says.

I shift uncomfortably in my seat. We were offered a book deal around the tenth anniversary. Carly and I weren’t interested but Marie had begged, said the exposure might kick-start her career and we so wanted her to succeed. My therapist at the time thought it might do us good to share our story. Take away the stigma and the shame that we feel; that I feel, at least. She thought if we spoke about it exclusively to one source it would stop the vultures picking over the rest of our lives. We could finally move on. The publisher introduced us to a ghost writer. All we had to do was meet him a few times while he recorded our stories on a dictaphone and that was it. Six figures each. We weren’t expected to write a single word ourselves.

‘The book deal was years ago,’ I say to Marie. ‘Things are different now. I’ve Archie to think about.’

Archie starts primary school next September and I don’t want to be playground gossip any more than I already will be. The headteacher is the same one Marie and I had when we were abducted. Some of the other parents will be kids I shared classrooms with, but the advantages of having him go to the same school that I went to is knowing the layout, the routines. If I needed to get to Archie quickly, I could.

‘I don’t want to stir up bad feeling,’ Carly says. ‘I don’t want the community to think we’re blaming them for not being vigilant.’

‘I agree with Carly.’ The locals look after their own. I don’t like the thought of them watching me on TV. I won’t make my life a media circus again. I’ve no reason to. ‘Besides, going over what happened again—’

‘It’s not just that,’ Marie pushes on. ‘The network wants to know what long-term effects it’s had on us.’

‘Nothing. We’re fine. Now.’ Carly lightly runs her finger over her tattoo as her voice cracks with emotion. I sit there, palms damp in my gloves.

‘I’m not fine,’ Marie says quietly. ‘My career is… well, I’m resting at the moment and honestly, I could do with the cash. Couldn’t you?’

It’s true my bank account could do with a boost. I hadn’t touched a penny of our advance until I met George. I paid for our house, although he insisted the deeds were in my name. He hadn’t wanted anyone to think he was after me for my money. I remortgaged the first time to start him up in his own architectural firm and then again because his income isn’t what he’d hoped for – no one is building with the economy in the state it’s in.

‘I make a living,’ Carly says. With the publishing advance she could have afforded a small house in our area but she bought a flat instead. It doesn’t have a garden. With the remaining cash she trawled the charity shops looking for bargains that she later sold on eBay. This is how she gets by, that and the small wage I pay her for childminding.

‘Well, good for you. I ploughed everything into funding that tour of the supernatural play.’ Marie had had high hopes but nobody had understood the plot. ‘The TV people have offered us a ridiculous amount of money if we can tell them something that’s not in the book.’

‘We can’t tell them anything they don’t already know.’

‘Yes, we can.’ Marie swallows hard. ‘We can tell them the truth.’

Chapter Five

Carly

Then

Tell me who you are, Carly screamed inside her head, but the man carrying her over his shoulder couldn’t hear her. He strode on, strong and purposeful. She tried to identify her environment from the sound his footsteps were making.

Crunching.

Snapping.

Carly was certain they were walking across dried grass. Twigs. The woods? She could hear the whisper of leaves. The creaking of branches. But not enough for a forest. They were somewhere overgrown, at the very least. The breeze was welcome against her sticky skin but she wished she didn’t have tape around her mouth so she could breathe a little deeper. She couldn’t hear the second man following them and her dread at being separated from the twins, combined with the bumping sensation – each tiny movement causing her head, hanging upside down, to knock against the man’s back – sloshed nausea around her stomach. Carly swallowed hard. She hoped she wouldn’t be sick, she had no way of spitting it out. Fear that she might choke became her overriding emotion. Her skin once again clammy as her heart raced so faced the world spun. If the man abruptly put her down, she would fall.

Calm.

Carly thought of Leah and Marie. She had to keep her wits about her. The first opportunity she got, she needed to be able to run. To locate a house, flag down a car, find an adult who would help them. It was the thought of a grown-up taking charge that made Carly’s eyes burn with tears. She was only a child. Thirteen. She didn’t know what she could do. How she could possibly overpower a grown man, but she must. Right now, she was all the twins had.

She inhaled slower. Deeper. The smell of nicotine infused the man’s coat – and something else? Something earthy.

They still must be in bright sunlight because behind Carly’s blindfold her eyes flooded with red – the colour of staring at the sun too long.

The colour of blood.

The man slowed. Stopped. The hand holding Carly’s calves withdrew but she could still feel the weight of his fingers and it took her a second to realize she could move her legs. She bent her knees, drawing her heels back up to her bottom before driving her feet forward, her toes slamming into his chest. She braced herself to fall. Prepared to spring to her feet, stumble forward. To run whether or not she could see where she was going.

The man barely moved as she repeatedly kicked him.

He didn’t scream with pain, but inside Carly there were enough screams for the both of them fighting to be released.

A jangle.

A click.

A creak.

The hand returned to her calves and they were moving forwards again but this time it felt different. Instead of a crunch there was a clump-clump-clump. The sound of boots on a hard surface. The breeze kissing her skin wafted away.

They were inside. It smelled old. Musty. Unused and unloved.

Carly’s fear increased. She couldn’t pinpoint exactly what she was afraid of but she knew that without the possibility of someone stumbling across them – the potential of someone helping – the man could do whatever he liked.

The air inside felt thick and heavy. Somehow she knew they were alone in this building.

However much noise she made, there was no one to hear her.

Again, the man hesitated. Terror gripped Carly tightly as she imagined the next step forward would take them on a descent into a cellar. She’d had an unnatural dread of underground spaces since she’d watched Psycho with her dad last year, pretending to agree as she laughed along with him at how dated it was.

But Carly’s heart had hammered against her chest. She knew fear was amplified in the grey spaces between the black and the white.

The man’s fingers clutched at the back of Carly’s jumper. She was pulled away from his shoulder, which suddenly, inexplicably, now felt warm and safe and somewhere she wanted to stay. Her legs dangled helplessly until she was set down upon a soft surface. Not a staircase.

A mattress?

Vomit rose once more.

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.

Open!

Frantically she made her way towards it, as fast as she could.

Perspiration slicked her skin. She thought she could perhaps wriggle her wrists free of her binds if she tried but not until she was outside.

Not far now.

Her muscles trembled with effort. She moved more slowly, not covering the same distance as she had moments before.

Come on, Carly.

The twins cheering her name during sports day. The finishing ribbon in sight.

Jump.

It was so hard to breathe. She longed to tear off the tape, open her mouth wide and draw in air. Soon. Soon she would be free. At home. Snuggled on the sofa with Bruno and Leah and Marie.

Jump.

Dried grasses crunched beneath her feet as she landed. She’d made it.

She was outside, dizzy with effort. Dizzy with relief.

She heard two voices. Her muzzy head couldn’t make out what direction they were coming from.

Her head spun to the left; another building, windows smashed, spray paint colouring the brick. On its flat roof, a traffic cone. To the right; a clutch of bushes.

Which way should she go?

She needed to move.

Now.

Chapter Six

Leah

Now

‘What do you mean tell the truth?’ Shock jolts through my body. ‘You mean about me?’ I can’t believe Marie would betray me. Her eyes, the same green as mine, look at everything but me.

‘You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.’ The booming anger in Carly’s voice fills the room. ‘Telling everyone that Leah left the gate open won’t help anyone.’

‘I did leave it open, though.’ By some unspoken agreement afterwards we’d all claimed we couldn’t remember who closed the gate, that it must have blown open.

‘So? It doesn’t matter—’ Carly says.

‘But it does.’ It’s something I’ve never let go of. ‘If I hadn’t…’

‘If. If. If. We’ve all got a million ifs and not one of them makes any difference.’ Carly drops her head into her hands.

‘I didn’t mean tell the truth about the gate,’ Marie says but it doesn’t comfort me. The gate is the tip of the iceberg really in all the things I’ve done wrong. Got wrong. Under the surface lurk far darker secrets. As reluctant as I am to be on TV, it occurs to me that if we did share our side it might stop other journalists digging into the past, trying to create their own story. If anyone uncovers what I did a few years ago I could be prosecuted. Lose Archie. Panic is a heavy weight on my chest; I tap my fingers three times against my knee and try to breathe through it.

‘Leah?’ Carly slides across the sofa and drapes an arm across my shoulder. ‘You’re okay. You’re safe.’

‘I didn’t mean—’ Marie crouches before me and rests her hands on my knees.

‘What did you mean? The truth?’ I am desperate to know. If she didn’t mean me, then what?

‘We’re not doing it, Marie.’ Carly squeezes my shoulders. ‘I don’t want to and Leah… Well, just look at her,’ she says but not unkindly. Once more, I am the youngest, the one they need to protect. If only they knew what I was really capable of. Again, my breath catches in my throat. Sweat trickles off my top lip, coating my mouth with salt.

‘I’m sorry, Leah.’ Marie rests her head on my lap. I begin to stroke her hair, as I would Archie’s. The feeling calms me.

The silence settles around us, we are all lost in our individual thoughts. Twenty years is a huge milestone and the lead-up to the anniversary has been worse than usual. I’ve changed my mobile number countless times but journalists still call at all hours. Notes are pushed through the letterbox because I refuse to answer the door when I’m not expecting anyone. Business cards – Call me scrawled on the back – are left under my windscreen wipers. It’s awful, I know, and I’m ashamed to admit it, even to myself, but I long for something to happen that will deflect the attention away from us until next week slides by. A collapse of the government, a celebrity death. I know it’s horrible but still, it’s been a slow news month and the papers have pages to fill. How deep will they dig?

‘What did you mean, Marie?’ I ask again.

‘I don’t know really. Just a different angle.’ She pushes herself to standing and stamps her feet. ‘Pins and needles. Anyway, sorry I’ve upset you, Leah. Both of you. I just wanted—’

‘The cash?’ Carly says wryly.

‘It wasn’t only about money. I spoke to our publisher recently and book sales have picked up this year, interest is high again. Our royalty statements should be pretty healthy this time. I just wanted… closure, I suppose. Forgiveness.’

‘What do you need forgiving for?’

She shrugs. I study the emotions that pass over her face, she’s always been so hard to read.

‘Marie?’

She begins to cry. ‘It’s always been my fault.’ She furiously swipes her eyes with her sleeve.

‘It hasn’t!’ I stand to face her. ‘Look at me.’ I rest my fingertips on her cheeks. The dampness of her tears seeps through my cotton gloves. I had never heard her openly blame herself. I knew she carried it still – that was apparent from the whisky on her breath, the shiny red tinge to her skin – but I thought that was trauma. Shock. Not guilt.

‘It was down to me.’ She takes a long, juddering breath.

‘I can’t bear it if you blame yourself.’ I can feel my own tears building. ‘I hate that this whole thing has driven us apart. I need you, Marie.’ I rest my forehead against hers. ‘Sometimes I feel I’ve lost you,’ I whisper.

‘You’ll never lose me,’ she says. ‘But it was me that threw Bruno’s ball over the fence. If it wasn’t for that—’

‘Enough. This is precisely why we shouldn’t do the interview,’ Carly says. ‘We each think we’re at fault and maybe it’s time to let it go. All of it.’

Carly’s right. We all blame ourselves. Twenty years on and we all still blame ourselves. Marie for throwing the ball over the fence, me for not shutting the gate properly and Carly for taking us with her to look for Bruno. We’ve heard a million times that it wasn’t our fault. Our parents repeated it endlessly when we first came home, as did the police officers, the therapists we’ve tried and discarded over the years – but hearing something is different to feeling it. Guilt is corrosive. It eats away from the inside out. We paint on smiles and it looks like we’re coping but we’re not, not really. I don’t think we ever will. Two years, twenty years, it still feels the same. I know we weren’t the first children to be snatched and we won’t be the last, but the why – I can never get my head around the why. How different our lives would have been if we had never been taken. But I can’t allow myself to think that way. If I had a different life I might not have George and Archie.

‘It is time to let go. Twenty years of suffering is twenty years too much. That’s why I thought opening up might help. It wasn’t all about the money,’ Marie says. ‘Although God knows, I could do with it.’ She gestures around her tiny flat. ‘But it’s been a lot to carry, hasn’t it? Sometimes I feel I’ll snap under the weight of it all. I don’t know how you both cope, living in the same town full-time. At least I get to leave, go on tour.’

‘But you always come back,’ I say quietly.

‘I come back for you two,’ Marie says. ‘And it’s hard. Every bloody time I drive past that place. How can you bear it?’

‘I think it’s easier, staying. Everyone knows us and what we’ve been through but because of that everyone protects us – or tries to, at least.’

There was a shift in the town when we had finally been found. The streets, once filled with kids kicking footballs, racing around on bikes, were empty. In supermarkets mothers would tightly hold on to their children’s hands. Cars jammed up the residential roads around the primary school. Nobody let kids walk anywhere. There was a sharp decrease in independence for the kids. A sharp increase in fear for the parents. And guilt. Neighbourhood Watch groups were formed and Mum had said they were full of the ‘if only we’d all been more vigilant’ and the ‘there but for the grace of God go I’ brigade.

It’s all changed now of course, but nobody has really forgotten and it’s because the community felt they had let us down that they close ranks when reporters ask for snippets of ‘What are the Sinclair Sisters really like?’ gossip. If we moved away people would still find out who we were and we wouldn’t feel as… safe, I suppose, although I don’t think any of us have ever felt completely safe since before we were snatched. It wasn’t only our physical selves that were taken away but our innocence and our inherent naive faith that people were good and adults could be trusted.

‘At least here I know that no one will ask me out,’ Carly says.

‘I wish you’d meet someone,’ I reply. Carly, more than anybody, deserves to be happy.

‘I can get you not wanting kids,’ Marie says, ‘But… you must get lonely.’

‘Not really. I’ve got you two. And Archie and that’s enough for me. Imagine falling for someone and they turned out to be… bad. You never know who to trust, do you?’

I know what she means. Monsters walk among us and sometimes they look like you.

Sometimes they look like me.

The conversation stutters again. Carly wipes away tears that are streaking her cheeks. I want to tell her that letting George into my life was the best thing that ever happened to me. That she too can learn to allow someone in – but I think of the secrets I carry inside and outside of my marriage and I know that would make me a hypocrite. Who am I to give life advice when I am making such a mess of mine?

‘You should speak to someone, you both should.’ I’d tried to get them to see my last therapist. Francesca. I had connected with her in a way I hadn’t with those who had come before her. She seemed to genuinely care, spending more time with me than she was obliged to, making sure she understood our family’s dynamics. She even helped explain to George what was happening mentally to me a few years ago and because of this he tried his best to support me through it. Love me through it. Of course I didn’t tell her everything, I’ve never told anyone everything. I haven’t seen her for months but I know what she would advise us to do right now. ‘Francesca says—’

‘No offence, Leah,’ Carly says. ‘But we’re indoors and you’re wearing gloves. I love you but you’re the least sorted of us all.’

‘I don’t want to hurt you, either of you,’ Marie says. ‘I thought it might help. Really. Not just sharing what happened but talking about how we’ve felt, I suppose, since.’

‘We can do that without an audience,’ I say.

‘I guess,’ Marie says. ‘It’s just that with an interviewer present I thought we’d all be more… in control of our feelings, I suppose.’

‘Feelings. Everyone’s obsessed with feelings,’ Carly says. ‘I was coming out of Tesco’s last week when a journalist showed me a picture of the grave and asked me how I felt about it now. I told them I felt nothing. Nothing. I wish now I’d told them I felt glad.’

I tell Carly that I was shown the same photo too. The cemetery where one of our abductors was laid to rest. His plot a tangle of weeds. Unkept and unloved. No flowers, no sense that anyone ever visits. They probably don’t. I don’t say that, unlike her, I felt something when I saw it. In fact, I felt everything: sadness, remorse, anger, regret and relief. I had felt relief that he, at least, couldn’t hurt anyone again. But he hadn’t acted alone.

Our rare openness of a few moments ago vanishes. The air chills and I know we are all thinking the same thing.

‘He’s due out of prison again next year.’ Carly doesn’t speak his name. None of us do. I’ve tried but the letters twist and tangle and form a ball in my throat.

Him.

The air chills.

‘Let’s talk about something else.’ Carly lifts her mug and gulps coffee that must be cold. ‘Tell us how Archie got on with his first swimming lesson, Leah.’

‘Oh God.’ My cheeks colour thinking about it. ‘The instructor sat the kids down before they even got wet and asked them the things people worry about when they go swimming so he could set their minds at rest. One little girl said she worries she’ll swallow some water. Another that the pool would be too deep and she wouldn’t be able to touch the bottom. Archie said… no. Archie shouted, “My mummy worries about wearing a costume because her bum is wobbly and her legs look like orange peel.” Honestly…’ I shove Carly. ‘Shut up. It wasn’t funny. Everyone stared at me.’

‘Ooh, did the instructor want to see your bum as proof? Was he hot?’ Marie waggles her eyebrows.

‘I thought you had a new man, Marie,’ Carly teases her.

‘It’s early days. It’s complicated.’

‘Actually, the instructor wasn’t bad,’ I say.

‘Don’t let George hear that!’ Carly laughs. ‘You’ll ruin your perfect marriage.’

‘Nothing’s perfect,’ Marie says and the atmosphere that felt lighter moments before feels heavy once again.

Nothing is perfect. My marriage the least of all.

I start when I check the time on my phone. It’s almost time to collect Archie. An email alert tells me my parcel has been delivered. I jump to my feet.

‘I have to go, George will be…’ home to discover my secrets. I finish my sentence in my head. Really, he’s the last person I want to see after last night but I can hardly avoid him.

‘George will be what?’ asks Marie.

‘I just have to go, that’s all.’ My tone is sharper than intended, but then fear has the ability to harden; a soft stomach filled with knots, a tightening of the chest, muscles tense and solid.

The set of a jaw.

A clenching of the fist.

Chapter Seven

Carly

Then

Carly’s fist would often dangle a toy above Bruno the boxer’s head, until he’d hurl himself at her in a bid to reach it, his body slamming into hers, surprisingly heavy and solid. That’s the way her body felt now as she gathered her energy to jump again.

Heavy.

Solid.

As though her blood had been removed and replaced with stone. She was so tired it was almost impossible to move but she had made it outside. She had to keep going.

She was almost at the corner of the building. Strands of her blonde hair worked free from her scrunchie, trailed in front of her eyes. With the tape covering her mouth, she couldn’t huff it away. She wished again her hands were free.

Voices.

Louder now.

Carly took two quick jumps and stopped, shielded by the side of the building. She peeked back around the corner. The men were striding towards the front door, each carrying a twin over their shoulders as though they were weightless. As though they were nothing. The gold crosses the girls wore around their necks inverted like a sign of the devil as they dangled upside down. Not that her family were religious but the twins had discovered early Madonna.

‘I don’t know why you’re so fascinated with her,’ Carly had said just weeks ago as her sisters had chewed gum and loaded their wrists with bangles. ‘She’s been around forever.’

‘So had Marilyn Monroe when you plastered your wall with her posters,’ her stepdad had kindly pointed out. That was true so, instead of laughing at the twins, Carly helped them draw thick black lines under their eyes and crimp their hair when they played dress-up.

Now Leah’s hands – which had donned black lace gloves – were clenched into tight balls as she struggled to be free.

Marie was listless. Hanging limp.

Carly faltered. Her head urging her to move, her body crying out for a rest, and her heart? Her heart wanted to bound back towards the twins and reassure them it would be okay, but that was a lie.

Even then she knew that none of them would ever be the same again.

Think.

The men had disappeared in the building. In seconds they would realize she was gone. They’d know she hadn’t got far with her wrists and hands still tied. They’d expect her still to be blindfolded.

Carly had to move, but where should she go?

Her eyes scanned the area. There was a tank decorated with purple, pink and yellow spray-painted flowers, its gun pointing to the ground as though it was hanging its head in shame. Giving up hope. A water tower rose towards the sky. To her right was a larger building, ivy desperately clinging on to the crumbling stone columns that flanked its entrance. A sign that once hung straight and proud – NORCROFT ARMY CAMP – dangled vertically from a single rusted chain. She knew where she was now. An abandoned military training ground a few miles from town. She remembered Mr Webster, her teacher, projecting photos from his laptop onto the whiteboard of how the base used to look before it crumbled to dust while waiting for planning permission for a housing estate that never seemed to come.

Once during a sleepover at Nicola Morgan’s house her brother had shone a torch under his chin and told the terrified girls how he’d broken in one evening with his friends. He said they had seen with their own eyes the wailing, bloodied officers – soldiers missing limbs – who haunted the camp. It wasn’t until Leanne Patterson started crying that he backtracked and admitted that once you’d made it past the high, barbed-wire fences there was actually nothing worth coming back for.

No reason for anyone to come.

Carly drank in the sight of the small concrete building opposite, noting that the windowless and doorless structure looked like a face with empty eye sockets and a mouth eternally screaming. She saw how a beam of sunlight bouncing off the steel gate in the distance glowed fiery orange. She heard two birds chirping a conversation only they could understand, like Leah and Marie’s twin language.

Inconsequential details.

It wasn’t until Carly felt a hand on her shoulder, warm breath on her neck, that she realized she had lingered too long.

She hadn’t escaped.

She wondered if subconsciously she hadn’t wanted to.

The man lifted Carly from her feet, gently this time, none of the frenzied grabbing and pulling there had been before and she let him carry her back to her sisters, watching the rise and fall of his Dr. Martens boots as he walked.

This time, after placing her on the stained double mattress, he knelt next to her on the filthy floor and began to unpick the knots that bound her wrists.

‘What the fuck?’ the second man growled. Through the slit in his balaclava Carly could see the hairs of a thick black moustache tickling his pale pink lips.

The first man, Doc – as Carly called him in her head after his Dr. Martens boots – didn’t reply but continued working at the rope until it slackened. Her fingers tingled as she flexed them. Her eyes met Doc’s through the slits in his balaclava and for a split second she felt an unspoken message pass between them but she couldn’t quite decipher it. Nevertheless, some sixth sense told her not to try and fight him. She didn’t want to risk being separated from the twins again. Instead she knew that she should wait. That he wouldn’t hurt her.

The second man, though? Moustache. She wasn’t so sure.

Doc stood and brushed grey dust from his knees and this small act gave her hope. If he cared about dirt he wouldn’t leave them here in this grimy room. The sun barely filtered through the thick bars at the window. Sour air clogged her nostrils, making her mouth taste of wee. But he did leave, trailed by Moustache. As Moustache strode towards the door he scratched the back of his neck. His balaclava rose and Carly saw the tattoo of an eye. She shuddered. Even when he wasn’t facing her, he was still watching her.

She was left here for the second time that day but this time the door slammed shut although the men were still there, outside the room. Carly could hear their voices, one loud and angry, the other speaking more slowly and calmly.

Terrified, her eyes scanned the room. There were no other exits. No other way out.

They had to get out.

Carly tore off the tape that covered her mouth and before tackling the binding around her own ankles she reached across to her sisters.

‘I’m going to untie you both,’ she whispered, eyes darting fearfully to the door. On the back of the wood someone had sprayed a clown’s face, a shock of orange hair and a bright red nose, his mouth stretched into a macabre grin. She gently eased the tape from Marie’s mouth, millimetre by millimetre, not wanting to pull at her skin.

‘Now for your blindfold. Leah, I’ll get to you in a minute. Marie, are you okay? Say something,’ she whispered but Marie’s lips remained clamped together, too scared to make a noise.

Once she had uncovered Marie’s eyes, Carly could see they were glazed with shock. ‘It’s okay. We’ll be home soon.’ Carly started on the ropes tying Marie’s hands but her shaking fingers couldn’t unpick them.

‘Shit.’ She leaned forward and tried to work the knots free with her mouth. The rope was bitter and strands of thread stuck to her tongue. She was only making it worse. Frustrated, she began to try and rip the rope apart, grunting with the effort, until finally it began to give.

‘Quick. Pull your hands free.’

Marie shook her head fearfully.

‘Marie. Quick.’ Carly was as careful as she could be but had to yank the rope over Marie’s hands to free her, wincing as she saw the red welts left in its wake. Carly turned her attention to Leah. ‘Shh.’ Carly removed the tape covering her mouth. ‘It’s okay. I promise.’

Soon they were all untied.

Free, but not.

There was one last angry shout from the corridor outside and then the sound of bolts sliding closed.

One.

Two.

Three.

Three bolts for three sisters.

It was then the screaming started.

Chapter Eight

Leah

Now

While I’m fetching my coat from Marie’s kitchen I collect Carly’s denim jacket. I know she won’t stay here without me. There are often awkward silences when we’re all together nowadays and those silences can be deafening.

‘Sorry to rush off,’ I say to Marie. ‘And sorry about the TV thing. If you need some money?’

It’s a genuine offer although I’ve no idea what I’ll do if she takes me up on it. Each month end we’re practically stuffing our hands down the back of the sofa, fishing out a few meagre coins along with Archie’s Lego bricks and sweet wrappers, so we can afford milk. George’s architectural practice is floundering. My part-time job doesn’t pay much, it’s more for my mental health, to get me out of the house. It gives me the semblance of being able to function normally among other adults. I’m reluctant to increase my hours because I don’t want somebody else picking Archie up from nursery every day, even if it is Carly. I think being a mother is the most important job of all but I do feel I should be doing more to help financially. When Archie starts school next year I’ll be able to work nine to three every day, which will take the pressure off George.

‘Thanks but I’ll be okay. The theatres will be scheduling their next quarter shows after Christmas and I’m sure something will turn up. I won’t starve.’

‘In the meantime, get that new man of yours to take you out to dinner.’ Carly gives a hollow laugh. She doesn’t offer to lend Marie any money. One too many times in the past we’ve pushed notes into her hand, knowing that she’ll drink them. Knowing that we’ll never get them back.

‘Carly, do you want to stay and have a bite to eat?’ Marie puts a hand on Carly’s arm. Her bracelets jangle. She seems jittery at the thought of being on her own. ‘I’ve no plans tonight. I haven’t got much in but…’

‘I’ve got to go, sorry.’ Carly pulls a face, quickly hugs Marie and steps outside. I am left with my twin. Our relationship is strained but it’s still a wrench to leave her. It always is. ‘I’ve forgotten my mug,’ I say.

‘I’ll go and fetch—’

‘Don’t. You can give it back to me another time. Let’s not leave it too long. Come and see Archie?’

‘I’d love to. It would be good to hear how he’s getting on rehearsing for his first nativity. I could perhaps give him some tips.’

I kick myself for not mentioning Archie’s starring role in his nursery’s production. Carly must have mentioned it before I arrived. It was something he had in common with his aunt, it might have made the conversation flow a little more easily. ‘He’d like that. George would love to see you too.’

‘I don’t… I…’ Marie’s face reddens. ‘Perhaps we could take Archie to the park, you and me?’

‘Okay but…’ I hesitate, unsure whether to mention Marie’s last meeting with George; she had turned up on our doorstep late at night – steaming drunk and rambling about all men being bastards – but I have to. It’s obviously still playing on her mind. ‘It’s all forgotten, you know.’ The last thing I want to do is embarrass her, so I wrap her tightly in a hug. Her brittle blonde hair is rough against my cheek. ‘I love you,’ I whisper into it.

‘I love you too,’ she says. ‘I will see you soon. I promise.’ She offers her pinkie. ‘Cross my heart.’

I find myself smiling, linking my little finger through hers, seeing through the layers of her dark make-up down to the freckles dotting pale skin. Skinny jeans may have long replaced the white knee-length socks that had always bunched around her ankles but I see the child that still exists inside. I let my inner eight-year-old come out and play and we chant:

‘A pinkie promise can’t be broke

Or you’ll disappear in a puff of smoke

This is my vow to you,

I’ll keep my promise through and through.’

Carly rolls her eyes at us – ‘You two are so lame’ – falling back into her too-cool-for-school role. For the first time in a long time we feel united, slipping seamlessly back into our identities. I feel that as I leave Marie it won’t be for long. I turn to wave as I reach my car and she mouths she’ll see me soon.

And I believe that she means it.

Archie launches himself at me – you’d think it’s been four weeks instead of four hours since I last saw him – but I don’t mind. I feel much the same. Each time I say goodbye to someone my stomach gives a series of tiny flips like the jumping beans Marie and I used to hold in the palms of our hands. It doesn’t settle until I see them again. Rationally I know that Archie is safe at nursery. That I always collect him at one o’clock unless I’m working and then Carly is always there, but that doesn’t stop me worrying.

I zip up his coat, covering the Weetabix crusted to his Thomas the Tank Engine jumper that my wandering mind had missed that morning.

‘Let’s get you home, mister.’

‘Is Daddy there? He said he’d have lunch with me today.’

‘I know! He should be.’ The fact that George is popping home to eat with Archie means he’ll likely be working late tonight. I stretch my face into a smile as I strap Archie in the car, trying not to worry about what might be waiting for me if George is home.

As I drive, Archie chatters incessantly, his words falling out in a rush. ‘Mum, a policeman came to visit today.’

‘Why?’ I ask sharply, already fearing the worst as I grip the steering wheel. A child has gone missing. There’s been a stranger hanging round the nursery gates. That happened last term and I kept Archie home for a week. George says I have to loosen my hold on him as he gets older but I don’t think there’s anything wrong in trying to protect him. An image flashes into my mind of my mum at the police station when we were finally reunited. ‘I’ll never stop blaming myself.’ She had wiped tears from her cheeks. It’s a big responsibility having a child, isn’t it? As joyous as it is watching them grow, it’s also equally terrifying.

‘The policeman taught us about being safe when we cross the road,’ Archie says. ‘We have to hold our grown-up’s hand. That would be you or Daddy. And then look left and right and not step off the pavement until the green man says it is okay but I said I’ve never seen a green man and the policeman said he’s not actually a man at all so it’s silly he’s called one, isn’t it, Mummy?’

‘Yes.’ I take one hand off the wheel and use my glove to mop my damp brow. A routine visit, that’s all. Nothing is wrong.

‘And we can only cross the road when it’s straight and not on a corner because we are little and the cars can’t see us but, Mummy, cars can’t see us because they don’t have eyes. I think the policeman was a bit bonkers bananas, don’t you?’ He screams with laughter.

I think policemen are many things: brave, resourceful but also sometimes painfully slow. There’s a process they have to follow, rules. I get that, but sometimes the wait for justice can seem endless and sometimes you have to take matters into your own hands. I feel sick as I meet Archie’s innocent eyes in the rear-view mirror.

We drive past the cemetery. I don’t look. I can’t look.

George’s car is already on the driveway. The knot in my stomach tightens, along with my chest.

I lift a wriggling Archie from his seat and carry him in front of me like a shield. He kicks his legs, desperate to get down and walk.

‘Hello!’ I shout down the hallway that smells of strawberries thanks to the diffuser on the windowsill. ‘We’re home.’ My shoulders are concrete but I keep my voice bright and breezy. I’m not sure whether George knows so I brazen it out.

‘I’ll fix us some lunch…’ I trail off as I enter the kitchen. See the brown box on the worktop.

The open brown box on the worktop.

George stands next to it, a knife in his hand. I can tell from the set of his jaw that he’s angry.

He’s angry again.

Chapter Nine

George

Now

George is furious with himself. He knows it’s guilt that drives him home at lunchtimes as well as a desire to see Archie. He isn’t treating his wife well, and it pricks at his conscience each time he sees her, and yet when he does spend time with her, he can’t help snapping at her as if everything wrong is down to her and her alone. And there’s such a lot wrong, it seems impossible to think he can ever put it right. Does he even want to? He loves his son, he really does. And his wife? He thinks he must still – that’s why he still hasn’t made a final decision – but it’s a question he asks himself endlessly.

George is home earlier than usual. On the street is a car he knows belongs to a reporter. He stalks over to it and tells him again to piss off before he calls the police.

He shouts, ‘Hello,’ as he steps through the front door although he knows nobody will answer and not just because Leah’s car isn’t on the driveway – there’s something different about the atmosphere when Archie’s not present. Even if he’s asleep the space somehow feels lighter. Happier.

George hasn’t been happy for a long time. He hopes he and Leah will be able to talk calmly later. He had tried so hard to repress his anger last night but nevertheless it had spilled out anyway. He needs to apologize. Throughout their marriage it seems he is always saying sorry. It’s Leah’s day off but he can’t remember if she said she had plans today. They only half listen to each other nowadays. Hear what they want to hear.

He tosses his keys onto the worktop, his eyes skimming the kitchen. It’s tidy. Clean. At first glance you wouldn’t guess a lively four-year-old lives here. There are no Lego bricks strewn across the floor. No stick-man pictures clinging to the fridge with magnets. George frowns. He was sure there were displays of Archies ‘art’ on the baby-blue Smeg a few weeks ago. The only reason Leah would have taken them down would be to make the fridge easier to wipe clean and the thought of this makes his stomach plummet.

He can’t go through it all again.

George pops a cappuccino tab in the Tassimo machine and while the coffee bubbles into his mug he gazes at the photo of them all at Drayton Manor. He remembers it well. It was a couple of years ago and Leah was going through a good patch, which meant they were going through a good patch. After the event they never talk about – just before she fell pregnant with Archie – he had thought they’d never have any sort of normality again. That the woman he fell in love with had vanished for good, but then she had started seeing Francesca and everything changed. She’d visited so many therapists before but Francesca had been different. She hadn’t looked at them with sympathy in her eyes. Or with the horror he had seen before as Leah began to roll out the story of her childhood. Instead, she had said she wanted to focus on the future. To help them all move forward as a family. And she had. For a time.

The click of the machine pulls George’s eyes away from the photo but the image is forever imprinted on his mind. The three of them crammed on a tiny caterpillar rollercoaster. Archie’s arms thrust high in the air. George’s arm looped around his wife and son’s shoulders. But it’s Leah’s hands he remembers the most. Skin bare on the safety bar that rested against their laps. Her eyes clear and bright, no hint of concern about germs. No distress at touching the place other hands had touched. He remembers how proud he was that she hadn’t pulled out one of the antibacterial wipes she carries in her handbag and wiped the metal down. He remembers how much he loved her then, and now? His heart is torn in two.

George isn’t proud of himself. He never thought he would be that man. The one in four who supposedly have affairs. But she had caught him at a vulnerable time. Leah had turned him away once too often; her fear of becoming pregnant immense. Archie was an accident, although ultimately a happy one, but Leah spent the pregnancy is a state of constant anxiety about giving birth in a hospital. The germs. The risk of infection. Although they had hired a birthing pool and set it up in their lounge, Leah had known there was a risk that medical intervention might be needed, and she had been right. Archie was breech. The midwife wasn’t happy with the way Leah’s labour was progressing. George had had to drive them to the hospital, Leah sobbing all the way. Screaming when they entered the ward because he hadn’t brought the kit she’d assembled containing her antibacterial spray and hand sanitizer. Her gloves. It took Leah months to recover from the trauma. She kept Archie away from mums-and-tots’ groups because of the risk of illness and became so distressed when George had taken him anyway, that he had never tried again. Gradually, though, she’d relaxed into her role.

Being a mum doesn’t come easy to her, he knows. It’s not only the germs, it’s the constant fear that something might happen to Archie. Something bad. He feels this himself as a father. The nagging worry that the outside world is too big, too harsh for his precious boy. He thinks this is probably true for most parents, but of course for Leah everything is heightened because of what she’s been through. Still, he had hoped as Francesca gradually lifted some of the heavy burden of fear Leah felt that she would want another baby – George had always dreamed of having a large family – but she was adamant she could never go through it again. Her heart couldn’t take it, and as a result his heart was half-empty.

Was.

George takes his phone out of his pocket and calls Marie. It rings and rings and he pictures her in her chaotic flat, shifting junk as she hunts for her mobile. Running her fingers through her hair while she tries to remember where she last had it. Hair that Leah says used to match hers, but Marie changes its colour all the time. There’s no hiding from those green eyes though and sometimes when Marie looks at him, it’s like looking at Leah and then the guilt kicks in. She’s so much like his wife, and yet equally different. Her answer service kicks in and he rings off. Tries again but she doesn’t pick up.

The sisters have been through so much, he doesn’t want to come between them. It’s suffocating to think that he could make their relationship, or break it. That his actions will have such a profound effect on all their futures.

During a therapy session Francesca had told him he had a ‘rescuer identity’. A need to be needed. A desire to save and he believes that to be true. He remembers the first time he met Leah there was something about her that brought out his protective instinct. She had a fragility about her that made him fall instantly in love. It was weeks of gentle courtship before she began to open up to him, tentatively at first, but then her story rushing out as though she couldn’t possibly contain it for one more second. She had wept as he held her shaking body against his, but what she didn’t know was that he was crying, too, for all that had broken her – but he believed then that he could be the one to put her back together, and he thought that he had. However, since that terrible time with the police a few years ago and the questions and the suggestion that perhaps Leah should be committed for her own safety – for everyone’s safety – it feels so temporary. The good periods may stretch for longer with Francesca’s help but he’s always on tenterhooks, waiting for Leah to shatter again. Wondering if he has the strength to hold her together once more.

The doorbell rings. A cardboard box is thrust into George’s arms. He carries it through to the kitchen and slices through the brown tape. His shoulders tighten as he stares at the contents. This will set everything off again when Leah comes home. He can’t pretend he hasn’t seen this. The thought of another row is almost too much to bear.

They’d fought last night. He says ‘fought’ but there were no raised voices – he didn’t want Archie to hear his parents arguing and he never shouted because Leah was jumpy, easily frightened – but it was there in his body language. The furling and unfurling of his fists despite knowing he’d never use them. In the set of his jaw.

His anger.

‘Show me,’ he had demanded.

Leah had played with the cuff of her gloves. ‘It’s too sore.’

‘You’re lying.’ He knew she was wearing gloves again because she was slipping backwards, not because of some non-existent eczema. Why couldn’t she just be… the word normal sprang to mind. George felt instantly ashamed, and then furious again, and then helpless.

Why wasn’t he enough for her? Why wasn’t all of this enough for her? A home of her own. A family.

Her past was horrible and twisted and awful but she’d come through it, and yet it was still with her. In every guarded smile. In every single one of her bloody rituals.

He had known it was inevitable when the first journalist approached them several weeks ago.

The anniversary.

The fucking anniversary.

He’d be glad when it was all over and they could all move forward with their lives.

A fresh start.

George picked up his handset and rang Marie again.

This time she answered.

Chapter Ten

Leah

Now

George puts the knife down on the worktop next to the cardboard box and opens his arms just as Archie bowling balls into them. ‘Have you had fun at nursery?’

‘Yes! I talked to a real policeman!’

George raises his eyebrows and I give an almost indiscernible shake of my head. The police were nothing to do with me. Not this time.

‘Have you ever met a real policeman, Daddy?’

There’s a beat before George says, ‘Yes,’ but unlike Archie, there’s no excitement in his voice, just an underlying sadness and regret and again I think about all I have put him through since we have been married. The endless interviews. The detectives. The psychiatrists. The whispers that I should be sectioned despite me being adamant that I knew what I had seen. What I had witnessed.

Throughout it all he had never left my side, holding my hand. Promising me that he wouldn’t let them take me away. That he could look after me.

He believed me. He believed in me.

The lies came later.

My lies.

His.

Last week I found our bank statements and it is all worse than I’d feared.

‘We’re fine. We’re managing,’ George had said. ‘I’m working my arse off to get us back on track.’ That much was true, at least. He is always networking, trying to bring in new business. It’s not fair the burden falls to him. Especially when I can’t give him the one thing that he wants.

Another child.

He has always been the one desperate for a sibling for Archie. I’ve been reluctant to agree. Truth be told, I’d been horrified when I found out I was pregnant with Archie, as I’d been so careful. George has stopped asking me for another baby. I hope it’s because we can’t afford one right now, because the thought that he might still want a large family – but not want one with me – is almost too much to bear.

I look at him across the kitchen, my handsome husband with his mop of dark hair and blue eyes that look permanently worried. He is slipping away from me. For a split second I wonder how much money the journalist had offered Marie. What we would have to say to generate enough interest to rocket our bank account from red to black, but I dismiss it instantly.

There are things I will never tell no matter how high the stakes.

‘How’s your morning been?’ I ask George as I lift the box from the worktop. He puts Archie down.

‘Go upstairs and wash your hands while Mummy and I make you some lunch.’

‘Okay, Daddy. I’ll fly.’ Archie stretches his arms into wings and zooms around the kitchen twice before he thunders upstairs.

George takes the box from me and puts it back down. ‘What the fuck, Leah?’

I swallow hard. ‘You shouldn’t have—’

‘I knew you weren’t coping.’ George tips the box onto its side and out spills bottle after bottle of antibacterial cleaner, hand wash, disinfectant wipes. Disposable gloves.

‘I… I am…’ I’m coping because of the contents of the box, not in spite of them.

‘You’re not. You haven’t got eczema again at all, have you?’

I stare miserably at my gloved hands. ‘No.’

‘You need help.’

‘It’s because of the anniversary.’

‘I know.’ His voice is quiet. His expression despairing. ‘I know how difficult it is for you. All of you. But remember the last time? I can’t go through it again, Leah. I’m not putting Archie through it. If you need to go and stay somewhere—’

‘A psychiatric hospital? I’m not mad.’

‘I’m not saying you are but you need specialist—’

‘I’ll ring Francesca. Make an appointment.’

She had helped before. She was the one who came to the police station and fought for me when they wouldn’t let me go. She explained the truth to them, however implausible it had seemed. My pulse accelerates as I remember the disbelief etched on their faces. The suspicion. She managed to persuade them I was innocent.

That time, I was innocent.

‘George? I said I’ll ring Francesca.’

‘Okay.’ There’s such weariness to that one word. He doesn’t follow it with ‘when?’ or ‘call her now’ and I know what he is thinking.

‘I know she’s expensive but Marie says we’re due some large royalties. I can cover the cost. Soon the anniversary will have been and gone and everything will be back to normal, I promise.’

‘You can’t put a price on mental health,’ he says. ‘Do you want me to come with you?’

‘Thanks. I’ll see what she suggests.’ I flash him a smile that he doesn’t return.

After a silent sandwich – even Archie is subdued, picking up on our tension – George disappears into his study.

‘What shall we play with, Archie?’ I ask.

‘Are your hands too sore to play trains, Mummy?’ He studies my face.

My throat swells as he looks at me with concern. ‘I’m never too sore to play with you, Archie.’ Not a direct lie, but not the truth either.

Archie scampers upstairs, returning minutes later, his thick winter gloves covering his hands.

‘Now we’re the same.’

I blink back tears as I watch him struggle to push the carriages around the track, hating myself, and loving him more.

It is just Archie and me for dinner. George is heading out again. After we’ve eaten, Archie asks if he can go and watch George get ready. He loves it when George smothers his chin in shaving cream, a Father Christmas beard.

I settle myself in front of the TV, channel-hopping, trying to find something upbeat – there are far too many crime series on. Channel 4 is halfway through an episode of Come Dine With Me but I watch it all the same.

My mobile trills its old-fashioned telephone ring. Anxiety cackles in my ear when I see where the call is coming from.

Why is he ringing me? But I know why.

For a split second I think about not answering, but I know if I don’t he won’t stop trying. Each time I change my number I text him my new one but he rarely has cause to use it. Now he must have something important to say and he’ll be determined to say it.

I don’t want to hear it.

My toes scrunch inside of my slippers.

I don’t want to hear it.

The urge to run away is immense.

I don’t want to hear it.

I will myself to think of Archie upstairs.

Calm yourself.

I search the room for three things to ground myself with.

Chocolate-brown cushion with pops of orange flowers.

Green spider-plant on the windowsill.

The side lamp with its warming buttery glow.

Calm.

My phone falls quiet. I stare at my screen, waiting for the voicemail icon to pop up.

It doesn’t.

The ringing starts again, demanding attention. I mute the TV and peel off one of my gloves so I can swipe to accept the call but, rather than imagining germs, it is his words I can feel already crawling over my skin regardless of the fact he hasn’t yet spoken.

‘Yes?’ I don’t bother with hello. This is not a social call.

‘It’s Graham.’ His Scottish accent is broad although he hasn’t lived there for years.

‘I know.’ Although ‘Graham’ still seems too familiar. Chief Inspector McDonald is the name that flashed up on my phone. He’s retired now but I still can’t address him by his Christian name. Whenever I hear his voice I’m that eight-year-old girl once more, frightened and confused. Cowering in the brightness of the police station, the light and noise a stark contrast to the quiet darkness I’d been rescued from. My arms wrapped around my father’s neck – me on one hip, Marie on the other, while Chief Inspector McDonald – Graham – assured us, ‘I’ll find the bastards who did this, I promise,’ and my mother sobbed into a tissue, a bewildered Carly pressed against her side.

‘How are you?’ he asks although he’ll know how I am.

‘Fine,’ I say but we both know that I’m not.

We’re so horribly British, that it comes next, the idle chit-chat about the weather.

‘It’s brass monkeys out there, I can’t feel my hands,’ he says.

‘I know. I couldn’t spread the butter on Archie’s toast this morning because it was solid.’

We play I’m-colder-than-you tag for a few minutes more.

‘Leah.’ I know what’s coming even before he confirms that I am right. There’s no other reason he’d be calling me. Part of me thinks I should say it first, take some control, but my mouth is desert dry, the words stuck to my tongue. I hear his breath in my ear.

Please don’t tell me.

The sound of a chair leg scraping against the floor.

Please don’t tell me.

The spark of a lighter. A draw on a cigarette.

Please don’t tell me.

But then he does. He has to.

‘He’s out. He was released yesterday.’

He doesn’t speak again and I think it’s because I’m screaming but then I realize the sound I’m making is only in my head because I can hear Archie call, ‘Bye Daddy,’ followed by the slam of the front door.

Graham allows the words to settle for a moment more before he says, ‘Time off for good behaviour.’ He makes a noise that could be a laugh or a snort or something in between because we both know there has never been anything good in his behaviour, but still they keep releasing him.

He’s out.

I am gripping the handset so hard my knuckles are white and my fingers ache.

He’s out.

Last time he was released he had ignored the condition of his parole stating he couldn’t come anywhere near me, Marie or Carly. It was such a relief when he was arrested again after the police had uncovered what else he had done while he’d had his freedom restored. He’s been gone for a number of years since and, although I knew he wouldn’t be locked up forever, this still feels like a slap in the face but then it proves I was right, wasn’t I? I had seen him this morning as I’d pulled out of the petrol station.

Twenty years.

Happy anniversary.

Without thinking about how rude I am being, I cut the call. My fingers hover between the contacts in my favourite list. I ring Carly first.

‘Hey, Leah. What’s up?’ Her voice is thick with tears. It’s been a hard day for us all at Marie’s flat. For a moment I hesitate, not wanting to make her feel any worse.

‘He’s out.’ It’s all I need to say.

She sharply draws a breath.

‘Who told you?’ she asks.

‘Graham.’

‘Not Mum?’

‘Of course not.’ Our relationship with our mother is complex. ‘Do you think she knows?’ Would the police be obliged to tell her?

‘Dunno. Should I call her?’

‘Do you want to?’

‘Not really, no.’

‘Then don’t. Anyway, there’s nothing she can do and we need to tell Marie first. Speak to you later.’

I hang up, not waiting to hear her thoughts on his release. Her reaction will be the same as mine: outrage, sadness, fear.

Marie’s phone rings and rings. I will her to hurry up. Her answer service kicks in. I cut the call and try again with no luck.

She definitely said she didn’t have any plans that evening, that she was staying in.

In between bathing Archie and putting him to bed I try her again.

Still, she doesn’t answer.

My stomach churns with worry. When I was young I came down with tonsillitis unbeknown to Marie, who suddenly lost her voice, despite not feeling ill.

Twin instinct, Mum used to call it.

My thoughts cast back to that room – our prison – when I had thought she was going to die. I knew it then and I know it now.

Something is wrong.

Very wrong indeed.

Chapter Eleven

Carly

Then

Leah released another bloodcurdling scream and, before Carly could react, she tore over to the door, rattling the handle with both hands.

‘Come back! Let us out!’

Marie shouted, ‘Stop it, Leah. You’ll make them cross.’

Leah turned to Carly, her eyes wide and disbelieving. ‘They… they’ve left us here.’

‘It’s okay.’ Carly forced out the lie. ‘I’m going to get us out.’

‘How?’ Leah waited for an answer and when she didn’t get one she turned back to the door. Hammering on it with her small fists. ‘Help.’

‘Shh.’ Carly grabbed her wrists. ‘Stop that. Give me a second to think.’

Panic tightened in Carly’s chest, forcing her to draw in deeper breaths. The putrid smell was unbearable. Carly covered her nose with her sleeve while she stalked around the room.

It was small.

Oppressive.

Graffiti scrawled over the walls.

Ten frantic paces long and six paces wide.

One locked door.

One barred window. The tree outside tap-tap-tapping against the metal bars as pain tap-tap-tapped behind Carly’s eyes. She wondered if she had concussion from where she’d banged her head in the van. She’d seen that happen once on Casualty.

What would happen to the twins if she wasn’t here to protect them?

Carly pulled at the bars as hard as she could but they were concreted into place. Oddly they weren’t weatherworn or rusty, but shiny and new. It was a slow dawning. Carly realized with horror that they had been fitted recently, either for them or for someone who had been held here before.

This wasn’t random, it had been planned.

Why?

Had they been kidnapped for a ransom? Her stepdad was always featured in newspaper and magazines with his business. He and Mum were often out at work functions – ‘networking’, he called it. Drumming up business. She didn’t fully understand what he did, despite his patience in explaining it. His clients were all companies with money who paid him to build online campaigns to get the public to contribute to fund the manufacturing of new products. It seemed crazy.

‘Why can’t the companies just pay for their own stuff?’ Carly had asked.

‘Why risk your own money, if someone else is willing to pay? Besides, some of these big names genuinely can’t afford to pay for development in this economy but they can’t admit they’re in the red. If consumers knew there was any sort of risk of the company folding, they’d avoid them like the plague. Too worried about their guarantees being void or not being able to cash in gift vouchers.’

‘So it’s tricking them.’

‘Not tricking them, no. Creating a buzz is a win-win for everyone. The manufacturers get their product launched with minimal risk, and the consumers feel a real part of something. Everyone gets something out of it.’

It was confusing but it paid well. Their house was the nicest in their street. If the men demanded money Carly knew her parents would give it to them. That had to be it, didn’t it? But what if it wasn’t?

The girls had been brought here for a reason.

Carly just didn’t know what.

She closed her eyes.

She didn’t want to know.

Think.

Tap-tap-tap, said the tree.

Hurry-hurry-hurry.

Carly raced back to the door. Twisted the handle.

‘It’s still locked,’ Leah said.

‘I know that.’ What Carly didn’t know was what they – what she – was going to do. Panicked, she ran her fingers down the side of the door, feeling for the bump of the hinges. Could she unscrew them somehow and remove the door? There didn’t seem to be screws visible and Carly wondered if the door needed to be open in order to see them. She rattled the handle again.

Think.

Desperately, she scanned the room. The mattress took up much of the floor space. Broken glass littered the grubby grey floor; the fluorescent tubes had been wrenched from the ceiling and smashed. There was a heap of rubbish that looked like the bonfire her stepdad had mounded in the garden last year. Carly remembered the strike of the match, the flames that licked higher and higher until the guy the girls had made was alight. His legs, his torso. His face.

Was that what the men had planned for them?

She couldn’t breathe. The thought… The thought of being trapped in this room, toxic smoke filling the air, filling their lungs. The relentless heat.

They would burn.

Suffocate.

Die.

Carly stumbled over to the window as though smoke was already seeping into her lungs. She grasped hold of the metal bars, thankfully cool and not scorching hot. Lifted her feet from the ground.

Come on.

She wasn’t heavy enough to yank them from the window.

‘Girls. Come and help me.’

Leah slipped her arms around Carly’s waist, hanging from her like an infant monkey. Carly’s shoulder sockets screamed with pain, her clammy palms slipped, as the sisters tumbled onto the hard concrete ground, into a puddle of stagnant water that had pooled under the window. It stank.

‘I want to go home.’ Leah clung to Carly, the tips of her fingers digging into the already-bruised flesh of Carly’s arm.

‘We’re going to go home.’ Carly stood, and helped Leah up. Both of their skirts were sodden. ‘Why didn’t you help us, Marie?’

‘We can’t get out,’ Marie stated the simple truth.

Leah began to cry.

‘It’s okay, though.’ Marie stroked her twin’s hair, the way she had calmed Bruno the night fireworks lit up the sky behind their garden. ‘It’s a game. Isn’t it?’

Marie’s eyes met Carly’s and there was both question and fear in them.

‘Yes,’ said Carly eventually. Marie had the right idea. Leah was born only twelve minutes after Marie, but she’d always seemed much younger – the one they needed to protect with her endless worries. It was better to lie and calm her. ‘It’s a game.’

‘But I don’t want to play.’ Leah sobbed harder.

‘If we don’t all play, we can’t all stay together,’ Marie said.

‘What do you mean?’ Leah wiped her nose with the back of her hand.

‘I mean…’ Marie hesitated. Indecipherable emotions slid across her face – she had always been so hard to read – before she masked them with a half-hearted attempt at a smile. Forever the fearless one. Always trying to make her twin feel better. ‘We have to be good. Brave. We’re together, that’s the main thing.’

‘Might they split us up? Who are they? Don’t let them take me away.’

‘I won’t,’ Marie said firmly. ‘Cross my heart.’ But Leah still looked terrified until Marie curved her little finger into a hood and offered it to her twin.

‘A pinkie promise can’t be broke

Or you’ll disappear in a puff of smoke

This is my vow to you,

I’ll keep my promise through and through.’

‘See, it’ll be fine!’ Carly took a deep breath to steady her voice. ‘Marie’s right.’ She glanced at Marie. ‘We’ll treat it like a game. A mystery. We’re good at solving those, aren’t we?’ It wasn’t too long ago they’d created invisible ink. If only lemon juice could help them now. ‘Let’s make a plan.’ She crunched over the broken glass and perched on the mattress. It was filthy but safer than the floor. She patted the space either side of her. The twins huddled against her. ‘Right. I don’t know who took us, or why, but there’s two of them. Doc—’

‘A doctor?’ Leah asked.

‘No, but I call him that because of his boots, and Moustache is the other one. They haven’t hurt us yet so I don’t think they will.’ Carly crossed her fingers behind her back.

‘Look.’ Leah pointed with a shaky finger. On the wall, in jet black aerosol, the words, You’re going to die.

‘That isn’t aimed at us,’ Carly said. ‘Look how many other things have been written.’

‘Run.’ Leah read another.

‘I meant names and stuff. It’s vandals. Some of the kids at school have been here. Nobody is going to die.’

Think.

They fell silent.

Think.

Suddenly it came to her.

A plan.

‘Marie, we need you to pretend to be ill.’

‘Why?’ asked Marie.

‘Because you’re the best at acting.’ Marie had a confidence Carly could only wish for. Last Christmas she’d played Annie. Mum had styled her red hair into a mass of ringlets and she’d stood centre stage, belting out ‘Tomorrow’ without a hint of self-consciousness.

‘I know I’m the best. Acting is easy. You just pretend. I meant why should I look ill?’

‘That way I can call the men and they’ll think you’re really sick. If they’re worried you might die they’ll have to take you to hospital. There’ll be police there.’ Carly thought but she didn’t know. There were always policeman chatting up the nurses on Casualty.

‘No,’ said Marie. ‘It’s better we stay together. Besides, they won’t hurt us.’ She tried to form it as a statement. Carly knew she was trying to reassure Leah but there was still a tinge of doubt to her voice. This was the first time in her eight years Marie had caught a glimpse of how harsh the world could be and Carly didn’t blame her for not wanting to accept it. ‘They didn’t mean to scare us, did they, Carly?’ Marie raised her eyebrows and tilted her head towards her twin.

‘Of course not, but—’ Carly began.

‘There you go, then. I won’t leave Leah.’ She linked her fingers through her sister’s. ‘Or you,’ she added as she caught sight of the expression on Carly’s face.

‘Marie—’

‘No, Carly! Besides, they wouldn’t believe it if I was suddenly ill.’

‘It wouldn’t be much of a stretch.’ Carly gestured to the piles of rubbish littering the graffiti-daubed room. ‘It’s filthy here – there’ll be germs crawling all over the place, probably enough to kill us.’ Carly shuddered.

‘We could die of germs?’ Terror was thick in Leah’s voice. Her eyes rapidly scoured the floor as if searching for germs scurrying around.

‘Not really.’ Carly wished she could take back her words. Leah had a tendency to worry about everything.

‘Nobody’s going to die,’ Marie said. ‘It’s a game. That’s all. Pretend. We stay quiet and don’t make a fuss and we’ll be home before we know it. Right, Carly?’

‘Right.’ Carly tried to lift her mouth into a smile but she couldn’t. In truth she didn’t know if they’d ever go home, and even if they did, the thought of what they might have to endure between now and then was utterly horrifying.

Carly felt sick. Dizzy. The lump on her head throbbing.

Think.

She was all out of ideas and worse than that, her bladder was uncomfortably full. Again, her eyes travelled across the room, hopefully looking for a toilet.

‘I need to wee.’ She stood.

‘Are you going to knock on the door and ask?’ Marie said.

‘Don’t go out there without us, Carly,’ Leah begged.

‘I’m not. I’ll…’ She was hot with humiliation. ‘I’ll go over there, by the corner. You two face the wall.’

The twins did as they were told. Carly’s fingers reluctantly hitched up her skirt and dragged down her pants. At first she couldn’t go, too scared the men would come in and see her exposed. She closed her eyes and pictured the waterfall they’d visited a few years ago in Wales. The roar of the water, the surge of the current. Hot splashes splattered her legs as she released a stream of urine.

‘I’ve finished,’ she said quietly.

‘It stinks of wee now,’ Leah said.

‘It stank of wee anyway.’ Carly was horribly embarrassed. She needed to find something to soak it up with. Careful to avoid the broken glass, she crouched down beside the pile of rubbish. There was a large cardboard box she could tear apart. Carly pulled it towards her, expecting it to be light and empty. Instead it was heavy and full. Sealed with brown tape.

Carly felt dread settle heavily in her stomach before she’d even opened the box.

Before she had seen what was inside.

She somehow knew it would be bad.

Very bad.

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