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Please. Is he safe?

The man ignored her. Lie down, he said again.

I need to know he’s not suffering. That’s all.

The man nodded. He’s not suffering.

And that was all he said. Over the weeks she asked for photos, for an item of his clothing, anything, but the man ignored her. Eventually, though, he could not ignore her any more.

Don’t ask about him again, he said. Ever again.

She carried on. How could she not? He was her son. The next time he came, she badgered him with questions until he turned and left the room.

He never answered. All she had were the man’s final words.

He’s not suffering.

She had turned the words over in her mind a million times. She always came back to the same two possible interpretations.

Seb was not suffering because he was alive and well and happy somewhere – maybe living in the man’s house, or in some foster care – or he was not suffering because he couldn’t.

Because he was dead.

And she was pretty sure she knew which one it was. It was inconceivable to her that the man would take the risk of having a three-year-old in his house, or of trying to find a foster home. People would ask questions. Far easier to get rid of Seb. All he had to do was dispose of the body, and that would be simple enough. He could put it anywhere – in a lake or a forest or even in his back garden. No one would report Seb missing, because no one knew he existed.

She watched Max try to balance the tinfoil ball. In three days, that was the fate that awaited him.

She blinked back tears.

Max placed the tinfoil on the top of the tower. It wobbled, then settled on top of the tower.

Max whipped around, his eyes wide in delight.

‘Mummy,’ he said. ‘Look!’

As he spoke, he pointed at the Duplo and the movement unbalanced the ball. It tumbled to the mattress.

Max giggled. ‘It fell, Mummy! It fell down!’

She grabbed him in a hug to hide her tears. She didn’t want to fill his final days with worry about his mum.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It did. Let’s build it again and see if we can make it stay on, OK?’

2

Max concentrated on the Duplo tower. She noticed he was holding his tongue between his teeth; that was new. It reminded her of Leo. He had done that.

Probably around this age, too, right at the end of his life. She had known what the man would do, and so when he had come for Leo she had refused to hand him over, holding him on the bed and shaking her head when the man gestured for her to hand him over.

He asked again; she refused again. He clenched his jaw and said, in a tone of forced reasonableness that she recognized, Give him to me.

She did not. And for the briefest of moments she thought he might leave, but then, with surprising speed, he marched to her and hit her hard on the head with the base of his hand. She was dizzy and faint, but some instinct made her hold on to Leo.

Then he pinched her nose and covered her mouth with his free hand. Her chest tightened and she started to panic.

The panic grew until she felt her chest was about to explode, and then her vision darkened.

When she came back to consciousness, he was gone.