The hand comes from behind. The fingers smell like cigarettes and earth. I try to scream but my tongue just presses against bitter-tasting skin. I screw up my eyes, shaking my head and thrashing my arms and stomping my feet, but I’m all scooped up as we lumber across to the other side of the road, stumbling down a bank. My throat makes frog noises and my heart is on fire.

I’m sorry sorry sorry, Claire… I didn’t really want an ice cream.

I kick hard, and one leg breaks free, making me hop and stagger as I’m forced down to a parking area with trees all around. I’ve never been here before; I don’t recognise it. Crazy fragments of sunlight and sky and branches shatter in front of my eyes as I flail and struggle. I try to kick harder, but my legs are snapped tightly together again so I can’t move. My head is pinned back as I’m dragged towards a van I don’t recognise… Help me! But my words don’t come out.

I can hardly see now because my eyes are all blurry from tears. My feet are lowered down, but my mouth is still clamped shut – a hand strapped around my ice cream lips.

I’ll be good, I promise…

The back of the van is opened and that’s when I nearly get away. But I’m quickly shoved inside, my face smashing against the spare tyre. I yell out, but my lips are bleeding and my voice is too croaky and scared. The doors are slammed shut before I can see who it is, my screams echoing in the empty space. I feel around, thumping on the wooden panel separating me from the front seats. It’s dark in here and I can’t see a thing.

I want Claire. Oh God, oh God… I don’t want ice cream now.

Suddenly, the engine starts up and then it gets really bumpy. We’re driving away. I bang on the metal side of the van, but it hurts my hand. It stinks of petrol and fumes in here and I feel sick.

Help me…

It’s useless. No one hears. I don’t know where we’re going.

Shivering, I lie down, curled up like I do when I can’t sleep at night – when I’m too cold in winter or, if it’s summer, when it’s too light to go to bed. And then my mind starts flying to wonderful places. In this terrible bumping blackness, I see Goose and Claire running towards me with their arms outstretched, trying to save me, screaming my name.

They told me not to go off alone…

The van rumbles along. I’m being knocked and jolted and thrown about as we speed round corners. There’s nothing to hold on to except myself. We’re going so fast, I feel sick like when I read on long journeys and Mum tells me not to. It doesn’t seem real. Nothing seems real.

I really didn’t want an ice cream.

I cry, sobbing through snot and tears, eventually falling asleep on the ridged metal floor of the van. It’s not really sleep, though. It’s fear shutting me down.

When I wake, it’s all gone quiet. Am I free now? Are we here? Can I go? Why is this happening?

Then there are footsteps in time with my heart.

The van doors are flung open and the sunlight dazzles me. I can’t see a thing apart from a big shadow looming above me. Maybe I’m going to be set free. Maybe it’s all a joke.

I promise I won’t make a fuss ever again.

Something goes over my head. It smells like a dusty old sack. I am shaking as I’m bundled out, as if I am a puppy about to be thrown in the river. I scream and scream and scream, but I’m still carried away. There is no hand over my mouth, so I keep screaming, keep struggling, but it’s useless. We keep going like this forever, although I don’t know where to. I pray to God it’s home.

We must be going inside somewhere because the pinpricks of light seeping through the cloth suddenly go dark.

‘Where are you taking me?’ I ask in a deep and calm voice that surprises me. It sounds as if I am asking what’s for dinner, wondering if it’s my favourite. ‘Please don’t hurt me.’

No reply.

Wherever we are, it feels cool and damp on my skin now, not warm like outside. I’m shivering. Freezing to my core.

‘Where are my shorts?’ I ask, suddenly remembering. I must have dropped them. I don’t like it that I lost my shorts. I want my shorts! If I’m not taken back soon, then Claire will have lost her swimsuit too and I’ll get told off.

Still silence.

We stop, and I’m bent into a hard chair, hands firmly set on my shoulders. They feel warm, resting there for a second. My teacher sometimes does this. It means Stay sitting down, for heaven’s sake, Lenni. Have you got ants in your pants today?

I daren’t move. I know what hands on shoulders mean.

I hear my own breathing inside the sack. It smells like rum and raisin. I have a bit of raisin still stuck between my teeth. Then I hear clattering, like something unlocking, stuff being moved about and shoved. There’s a grunt, a wheeze, bad words that make me want to cover my ears. Then I’m pulled up by my arms, though not roughly. I don’t struggle.

I’m guided forward, listening to the sound of the chair scraping along too, as if it’s being dragged with us. It goes darker and darker and then I hear a door bang and that rattling again. I cough, bending forward as my stomach cramps and clenches. Warm stinky ice cream sick spills down my chin. I can’t wipe it away because there’s a drawstring around my neck. I’m crying hard again now.

‘Help!’ I yell, but it comes out as a bubbly retch. It tastes disgusting.

I’m put in the chair again, in the dark, in my sick-smelling bag, and those hands are on my shoulders once more.

Sit still or else.

OK.

Then there’s more banging and lifting and metal scraping.

‘Will you take me back to the beach now?’

The noises stop, as if it might be a possibility. In a flash, I’m up out of the chair and running – to where, I have no idea as I can’t see a thing – but I slam into something hard, falling on my face. My head throbs as I lie, crying, on the floor. ‘I have ants in my pants,’ I wail. ‘Lots and lots of ants.’ Then I’m hoisted upside down, like when Daddy carries me to bed on his shoulder as a game. I retch again but this time nothing comes up.

We’re going down some steps now and my back scrapes on a wall. I hear keys jangling, like when Mum goes around the house at night locking up. She thinks she’s being quiet, but I often hear her; hear her sighing as she peeks around my bedroom door to check on me. I always pretend to be asleep.

Then I’m upright again and I’m really dizzy, staggering and reaching out for something to hold. Except all I find is another hand. So I grab it.

Two warm hands clasping. It makes me feel better. Safer to know it’s there.

I’m led on a few steps and bent into the chair again. I wait for the hands to press on my shoulders but this time they don’t. I keep perfectly still anyway. No ants for me.

Then there’s a bang, a door shutting, and more clattering, though quieter than before. I hear footsteps in reverse, the soft scuff of shoes getting fainter. After that, I just sit and wait and think that if I’m a good girl, I’ll be able to go home soon.

But there’s only silence. Nothing but me with the sicky bag on my head.

I wish I could take it off.

Do I have to do everything for you, young lady? Mum said this morning. It was my silly beach sandals. The buckles got stuck so she bent down to help me, her hair falling over her eyes as she looked up at me, winking.

Ever so slowly, my hands come up to my throat, untying the stiff knot under my chin. It’s slimy from vomit but eventually loosens. I stretch the bag open, looking down to see my legs, all blue and mottled. They don’t look like me.

What if I get in trouble for taking it off?

I lift up the front a little, blinking. The light is dim but feels bright after the bag. I slide it off my head, looking around. My plastic shoes are all grubby and it’s horrid in here – a scary dark place with a mattress on the floor. There’s a table and another chair and stuff I don’t recognise. The walls and floor are made of brick and there are cobwebs everywhere. It’s really scary and there aren’t any windows.

I dash to the door but there’s no handle. I thump and scream and yell and cry out for someone to help me. Even after ages and ages and ages and ages and ages, no one comes.