thick windows with an old metal stool that was lying around. He had tried prising the windows out of their frames with a blunt knife he had found in a drawer. He had tried kicking down the door. He had tried throwing his shoulder against it. Nothing had worked. It might look like an antique but the caravan was made of sturdy stuff.
‘It’s a game,’ he’d tried to reassure Candace, who didn’t look in the least reassured. In fact, she looked terrified at this new violent aspect of his behaviour.
Harry made a silent vow that if they got out of here – when they got out of here – he would stop being so puny and ineffective. He would lift weights and get his dad to give him boxing lessons and he wouldn’t be made to feel frightened and helpless ever again.
There was a moment of sheer joy when he remembered that Barclay Jack’s phone was still in his pocket, but the butterfly signal remained elusive. He tried texting too, but it couldn’t be sent. The disappointment left him wanting to weep with frustration.
Harry was still hungry, but he was saving the last sandwich in the bag for when Candace woke, so he thought that perhaps the best thing he could do would just be to try to sleep. He curled himself around his sister on the one thin nasty mattress that was in the caravan. She was giving off so much heat that it was like lying next to a radiator. He tried to take his mind off the situation they were in with a reverie of comforting thoughts – buying a packet of tea in Miss Matty’s Cranford World front parlour (Dear Harry, do come in) or opening his A-level results (All A stars, Harry! Congratulations). He was in the middle of fantasizing about what it would be like to be the set designer for a National Theatre production of The Three Sisters (one of his favourite plays so far) when he heard the unmistakeable sound of a car engine. He leapt up and looked out of the grimy back window. A car drew up near the gate and a figure climbed out. He recognized the Scottish detective from earlier at the Palace. A kindly policewoman! She was joined by the second detective and the two of them walked over to the static near the gate and knocked on its door.
Harry banged on the window. He jumped up and down and shouted and yelled and banged some more. The field was big and the caravan they were in was a long way away from the policewomen, but nonetheless, surely they could hear him? Candace woke up and started crying, which was good, Harry thought – more noise to attract the detectives’ attention. But it was as if the caravan had been soundproofed.
The detectives knocked again on the door of the static and peered through the windows as if they were looking for someone or something. He saw one of them shrug. No, please, no, he thought, don’t walk away! He was screaming frantically at them, pummelling the window with his fists, but they were blind and deaf to him. For a glorious moment he thought they had heard him because the Scottish one looked around and seemed to be listening, but then they both seemed to notice something that was out of his line of sight and they disappeared.
They returned a minute later with a girl. They were supporting her, one on either side of her, as if she couldn’t walk on her own. They helped her into their car and one of them, the Scottish one, got in the back with her and the other one got in the driving seat and they drove away. Harry dropped to the floor of the caravan and burst into tears. He hadn’t known it was possible to feel so wretched. To have hope and then to have it snatched away, surely that was the cruellest thing?
Candace put her arms round his neck and said, ‘S’all right, Harry. Don’t cry,’ even though her eyes were big and wet with her own tears. They sat like that for a while, just hugging each other, and then Harry sniffed and stood up and wiped his nose on his sleeve and said, ‘Eat that sandwich, Candace, you’re going to need all your strength. We’re getting out of here,’ and when she’d obediently munched her way through it he said, ‘Cover your ears,’ and he