Why did you assume that? When was anything ever that easy? You, of all people, should have known. And now Charlie’s dead.

He felt sweat prickling his face. He needed a drink, badly. He reached out and untied the knot in the garbage sack. In amongst the charred remains of his duffel bag he found his wrecked phone. He groped around for his flask. His fingers closed on something solid, and he pulled it out.

It wasn’t the flask, but his old Bible, the leather cover scorched around the edges. He stared at it for a moment, then tossed it down in the sand and reached back into the sack. Finding the battered old flask this time, he unscrewed the top and took a long swig of the warm whisky. It burned his tongue and he felt the glow immediately. It would take some of the edge off. But nothing like enough. He closed his eyes again and sighed.

When he opened them, the first thing he saw was the Bible lying there in the sand next to him. He picked it up and held it in his lap, gazing at it. He stood up, feeling the pull on his injured neck and his aching muscles. Still turning the Bible in his hands, he walked slowly towards the water’s edge.

He stared again at the book, and thought about the direction his life had taken. The choices and paths that lay before him now. He’d tried so hard to get away from trouble, and to find peace. It was all he wanted, to be a normal person, to get away from all this, to lead a simple and happy life. That was what the Bible meant to him.

But trouble had followed him, just as it always did, like a demon treading close behind him everywhere he went.

Would it ever stop? Was there no escape? He understood, in that moment, that there wouldn’t be. It seemed to be his destiny, somehow.

The surf hissed in across the sand, caressed the tips of his shoes and then edged away again.

And where was God? he thought.

He looked up at the clear sky. ‘Where are you?’ he shouted. His voice echoed off the rocks and across the cove.

There was no answer. Of course not. There never would be. He was alone.

Molten rage and frustration suddenly burst through him. He drew back his arm and hurled the Bible out to sea. It arced up high against the blue. For an instant it seemed suspended, as though it would stay up there forever. Then it came tumbling down, pages flapping, and dropped into the waves twenty yards out with a dull splash.

Ben walked away and took another long swig of whisky. Wandered aimlessly up the shoreline, feeling emotion rising high in his chest. In the distance were some houses clustered at the sea’s edge, with steps leading down the gentle cliffside to the beach. He heard voices on the breeze. A small group of people was ambling down the hill towards him. They were a couple of hundred yards away, but if he kept walking he was going to meet them. He didn’t want to be near people. He turned and walked slowly back the way he’d come, towards the inviting cover of the pine trees. The surf kept hissing softly in and out, as though it was breathing. The tide washed over his shoes and he felt the cold wetness on his feet. Something nudged his toe and he looked down.

It was the Bible. It had come back to him. He stared at it for a moment, stooped down and picked it up. Stood holding the dripping book in his hand. Drew his arm back again to fling it right back out to sea, further this time so the surf wouldn’t wash it back up onto the shore.

But something made him stop. His arm went limp. He stared at the book again. There was a strand of seaweed hanging from the cover. He wiped it away. Then he walked on, still clutching the soaking wet Bible in his hand.

Zoë could see that it was night through the cracks in the boarded-up windows. She leaned back on her bed and stared up at the ceiling.

Five days now since she’d been flown off the island. She had no idea where she was, but it was a lot colder here. Her captors had given her a heavy sweater to wear, and a pair of woollen trousers and thick socks. She spent most of her time just sitting there, helpless, resigned, trying desperately to remember.

It was coming back to her, slowly. As the days ground by, fragments of images kept returning to her, like a forgotten dream gradually seeping back into her conscious mind. Things that had been completely out of reach were there again now, little floating islands of memory slowly merging together into coherence. The smiling faces of a man and a woman kept coming back to her. Her parents, she thought. Trying to peer further into the mist, she saw a little white dog. He was hers. What was his name?

Bringing up these lost memories was like trying to catch a sunbeam in her hand. Sometimes a half-formed impression would dart into focus, she’d try to concentrate on it and it would be gone. But other things were sharp and clear. The villa, for instance. She could picture it clearly. But the name of the island was lost to her. And what had she been doing there?

In random flashes, she saw herself on a motorbike. Remembered the wind in her hair. Lights in her mirror, and the feeling of fear. She tried to piece it all together. She’d been chased. Then she could vaguely recall the horrible moment of falling. She must have come off the bike and whacked her head on the ground. She rubbed the bump. There was hardly any pain now.

She tried to piece together what had happened next. She could remember the house she’d been kept in when she’d first been taken, and how she’d tried to escape. She shivered, recalling the fair-haired man. She wondered where he was now. The thought of him coming back, walking into her room, terrified her.

She thought back to the journey here – wherever here was. The seaplane had carried her over islands and across the blue sea before the bumpy landing somewhere within sight of the mainland. She’d kept asking where they were taking her, but nobody would speak to her. A speedboat had come out to meet them, and taken her to shore with two of the men. They’d dragged her up the rocky beach to a deserted minor road where a van had been waiting. The men had shoved her into the back. She remembered how hard she’d screamed and kicked as they’d held her down, convinced she was about to be gang-raped and then murdered. But instead, they kept a grip on her arms as a third man took out a syringe from a black leather case. He’d stooped down and jabbed the needle into her. She’d cried out.

The next thing she remembered was waking up on a hard bunk in a cold room with no windows. Bare concrete walls and just a single naked bulb hanging from the ceiling. She’d been kept there for four days – four more days of going slowly insane with frustration and terror.

There’d been visitors to her cell in that time. One of them was a man who brought her food and water. She drank the water but left most of the food. A couple of times a day he’d let her out and walk with her to a stark, windowless bathroom at the end of a concrete corridor. He never spoke, never smiled.

Then there was the man in the dark suit. He’d been to see her three times now, and she dreaded his visits. He was tall and lean, about fifty, with slicked-back hair. His face was craggy, and when he smiled that cold smile his teeth were uneven and fanglike. He had the look of a wolf.

Wolfman just wanted to talk about one thing. Where was it?

All she could reply was ‘I don’t know.’ It was becoming like a mantra. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.

Wolfman obviously hated hearing it, even more than she hated saying it. The first time she’d seen the cold rage flash through his eyes, she’d thought he was going to start screaming and shaking her, like the fair-haired man had done. But Wolfman was more controlled. He just smiled and pressed on with the same line of questions. Where was it? What had she done with it? She only had to tell him what she knew, and everything would be OK again. They’d let her go. Take her home and make sure she got back safe.