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He didn’t reply. She was worried he would pass out with the pain, then this really would all be over. She tried again.

‘The fire, Carl. Remember? He’s going to burn us in the fire. He’s going to kill my kids, Carl. And then he’ll find Allison!’

Dots of colour appeared on his cheeks, a pink flush that slowly spread over his face.

‘Allison,’ he said. He took a deep breath. ‘Allison.’ He lifted his head and gazed down at his feet.

‘You can do it,’ Mary said. ‘Get your foot free.’

He kicked up his right foot, weakly, but it was enough.

The strap was slack.

‘It worked,’ she said. ‘Thank God – thank you – for that.’

A Makeshift Crutch

Using his one good foot, Carl pushed himself an inch or two up the bed until the strap across his chest was sufficiently loosened for him to wriggle first one arm, then another, free. He rolled onto his side and reached under the bed to loosen the buckle that tightened the strap.

Once it was gone he swung his feet off the bed. He winced as his shattered ankle caught on the mattress.

He tried to stand, but collapsed back onto the bed.

‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘I can’t even hop. It’s too painful.’

Mary lay on the bed, the straps still holding her tight. ‘There are slats under the bed,’ she said. ‘You could use one as a crutch.’

He nodded. ‘As a splint, too.’ He levered himself up onto one foot, lifted the mattress and reached down to pull out a slat. He laid it on the bed, then pulled out another. He sat on the bed, his bad leg stretched in front of him, and positioned the slat alongside it, then took the strap and wound it carefully around his calf and the slat.

He exhaled slowly.

‘That,’ he said. ‘Fucking hurts.’

‘There’s ibuprofen in the bathroom cabinet.’

‘I think this may be a bit past the over-the-counter medication stage,’ he said.

‘Can you undo my straps?’

He looked at the straps, then bent over and peered under the bed. ‘The ratchet’s under the bed,’ he said. ‘I think I can get under there, but my ankle—’

Before he could reply the sound of the back door opening echoed down the corridor. Carl rolled away and picked up the other slat, holding it out in front of him like a sword, and started to get to his feet.

There was the clatter of something heavy – firewood, Mary assumed – on the floor.

They waited, holding their breath.

‘He’s in the kitchen,’ Mary said. ‘Go now. Get out of here.’

He bent over. ‘I’ll undo your straps.’

‘There’s no time! Get out and find help. Take your car.’

‘He has the car keys,’ Carl said. ‘And I won’t get far on foot.’

‘I don’t care!’ Her situation was hopeless, that was clear to her now. All that mattered was that Otis and Sally were kept away from this madness. That was what she needed from him.

‘Otis and Sally are on the way. Go onto the lane and wait for them there.’