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Isabel Eriksson has risen from a real nightmare. Through this book she is ready to move forward and tell the world who she is and what she’s had to go through. Here stands an incredibly strong woman who is in charge of her future, taking back her freedom from her imprisoner.

ABOUT THE BOOK

“My ears pop as the blood rushes to my head. I clench my fists. Stumble around the place. My legs almost give way. I look around. The place is grey, dusty and messy, like a small garage or building site. Or…a bunker.”

When Isabel Eriksson wakes up she’s not sure where she is. The first thing she sees is a metal roof with wooden beams. She’s got an injection needle in her arm. Next to the bed a man is sitting and staring at her. He tells her that he intends to keep her locked up.

Isabel realises that the only way for her to get out is to somehow make him release her. A psychological struggle begins where she has to play her cards right, or forever stay in the bunker.

Although this book is based on real people and real events, names, places and identifying features have been changed in order to preserve their privacy.

The neighbour told us that he had lived in the area for more than fifty years. The house where Martin now lives was previously home to a family who kept horses. The spot that Martin built on used to be a paddock. The neighbour was asked whether he had helped Martin with the build. He explained that Martin had started work several years earlier. Martin had cast the various sections within the foundations himself. The neighbour had helped to erect the walls. After that, he wasn’t allowed onto the site again.

SUMMARY OF INTERVIEW WITH MARTIN TRENNEBORG’S NEIGHBOUR

INTERROGATING OFFICER: So you were having these thoughts as long as four years ago?

INTERROGATING OFFICER: How many were you planning on locking up in this bunker?

INTERROGATING OFFICER: And during this time, what did you say to Isabel about the fact that she was locked in this bunker? How did you explain it to her?

INTERROGATING OFFICER: Did you tell her how long you were planning to hold her in there?

EXCERPT FROM POLICE INTERVIEW WITH MARTIN TRENNEBORG, REFERRED TO BY THE MEDIA AS ‘THE BUNKER DOCTOR’

ISABEL: I was very tired and worn out, so probably still drugged. Then he told me that getting me unconscious took him much longer than he’d bargained for.

EXCERPT FROM POLICE INTERVIEW WITH ISABEL ERIKSSON

PROLOGUE

As I open my eyes, my body feels sluggish and stiff. As though it’s struggling to keep up with the process of waking up.

I’m about to yawn and stretch when I’m struck by the realisation that it’s not my ceiling I’m looking up at. Above me is a corrugated steel roof resting on light wooden joists. I blink hard a few times. It’s cold here.

When I try to remember where I am, or what I was doing just before I fell asleep, or even what day it is, it just won’t work. It’s all so completely absurd and I really don’t understand at all. Not only that, I can’t think straight. It’s as though my brain has turned to cotton wool. Something, though, is definitely wrong. Very wrong. I tear my eyes away from the strange ceiling and take a deep breath.

I’m lying under my own quilt, wearing my jeans and a thin pink top, but in a bed that isn’t mine. When I roll over, I can tell straight away that I’m not wearing any knickers underneath my trousers.

My heart beats faster. That dress, yes. Images from my memory float to the surface, one by one, bursting like delicate bubbles while I try to take it all in and reconcile it with reality. The blue dress … I was wearing it because I was going out to dinner? It was going to be a nice three-course meal and I was going to … Then it hits me. Not I, We. I try to sit myself up but my body doesn’t seem to want to oblige. My mouth’s dry and my throat feels kind of thick. The smell of masonry dust is overpowering.

My seven-month-old toy poodle, who must’ve been lying curled up next to me, is suddenly very close, whimpering and trying to lick my face. Then she stiffens and stares out across the room. I say her name, to calm her down, and I’m surprised by how hoarse my voice is. Then I lift my head to see what she’s looking at and my whole body turns ice-cold.

There’s a man sitting there, on a stool, next to the bed. Instantly, the adrenaline courses through my veins and I swallow hard. He’s just sitting there, staring at me. More bubbles float to the surface and then burst.

I remember him from my apartment, was it … yesterday? Or earlier today? I’ve no idea. The thought that I must’ve been so drunk that I fell asleep flashes past, but that can’t be right either. And where am I? As I haul myself backwards in the bed to sit myself up and ask what the hell is going on, I feel a burning pain in my arm.

I manage to haul myself into a half-sitting position, and it feels almost as though I could do with a slap or two to get my head to clear. My eyes feel blurry and that’s when I see the cannula sticking out of my forearm.

Somehow, though, my consciousness has already clocked enough details for me to know that that isn’t the case, and the panic strikes me like a punch in the chest. With tear-filled eyes I do the first thing that occurs to me: I grab hold of the thing stuck in my arm and pull as hard as I can. The pain as the cannula is torn from my vein is instant and intense. I drop what I’ve pulled out on to the bed and a few drops of blood smear across the sheets.

‘That wasn’t very well done,’ says the man in the chair. The calmness of his voice brings a shiver to my core. ‘It would’ve been better to let me do it. After all, I am a doctor.’ His speech is slow, almost a kind of drawl.

The man sitting on the chair is American, and he lives in London. We were going to have dinner with some of his colleagues. I was wearing my lovely blue dress … My head spins and my breathing is getting faster and faster. I’m aware of Nellie pressing her little body closer to me. She’s trembling, and growling quietly. Then I disappear off again.

Chapter One

THURSDAY

INTERROGATING OFFICER: At what point did you decide you were going to drug her?

MARTIN TRENNEBORG: Hmm, that would’ve been on the Thursday, when we met for the first time.

EXCERPT FROM INTERVIEW WITH MARTIN TRENNEBORG

When I hear a knock on the door of the little studio apartment I’m renting in Östermalm, Stockholm, I’ve just finished freshening myself up after an enjoyable long walk in Tessinparken with Nellie. I look at the time, note that he’s exceedingly punctual, and then glance around the room as I make my way over to the door. It’s a lovely apartment on the first floor, decorated in a rustic style. The large windows look out onto an inviting courtyard and it’s very handy for the open spaces around Djurgården and Gärdet.

Nellie barks, but doesn’t run over to the door to greet our visitor – she’s quite a timid little dog. I’ve laid out a cosy rug and a chew bone for her in the kitchen.

The man at the door is well built and he looks calm and self-confident as he smiles and introduces himself. He speaks English with a slight American accent. When we were arranging to meet, a couple of days ago, he told me that he was originally from America, but now lives in London, where he works in stocks and shares, and that he’s in Stockholm on business for a few days. He’s neatly dressed in a white shirt, braces and a smart suit.

‘Come in,’ I say once he’s hung up his jacket in the hall, and I lead him towards the sofa. I’ve put my heels on and I’m making a concerted effort to make my movements as sensual as possible. Sitting on the sofa, I give him a glass of water and he eyes me up and down, then smiles – but it’s not a creepy smile.

He says that if tonight goes well he’d like to book a whole night on Saturday, because he’s going to a business dinner that he’d like me to come along to. All his Swedish colleagues will be there with their wives and he doesn’t want to be the only one turning up without company.

‘If you do come along, my date will definitely be the prettiest girl in the place,’ he says with a wink.

I reply with a smile and tell him that it’ll be no problem, then I ask him a few polite questions about his job.

We talk for a long time, about all sorts of things, including a fair bit about how the stock market operates, and he gives the impression of being respectable and intellectual. He thinks before he speaks, and when he does, the words emerge slowly, with a slight drawl. This is not a man in a hurry, I think to myself. He smells clean, I recognise his aftershave and he has a good posture.

‘It’ll be a three-course meal, and of course there will be lots of wine being served, but I was thinking maybe I could come here first?’ He tentatively puts his hand on my knee. ‘I can bring some nibbles and a half-bottle of champagne, so that we’re in the mood by the time we get there.’

‘Dinner is at nine, so I thought I might come round at six?’ He moves a bit closer to me. ‘Then, after dinner, we can go back to my hotel, The Grand.’

Three hours ahead is a bit early, I think to myself. Even worse, Nellie’s going to be on her own from nine at night until the following morning – I’ll have to book her into a kennel.

He doesn’t raise an eyebrow, just nods and then cocks his head to one side. ‘A half-bottle of champagne should do it, right? I don’t want to be too tipsy when we get to dinner. How would that look?’

I laugh politely, and his hand wanders from my knee up towards my thigh and I realise he’s had enough of talking. As I’m wondering what to do with Nellie on Saturday, we move over onto the bed.

As soon as he’s taken his underpants off, I notice he has a slight defect on his penis, like a little extra lump right down at the base. I ask him what it is. A lesson my first ever mentor taught me was always to inspect clients and make sure everything down there is normal, and even if it feels like a whole lifetime has passed since my first client I’m still very diligent about following that advice. Suddenly he recoils slightly and looks a bit embarrassed, then gives a short answer about it being an old injury from his time in the Military. It’s obvious that he doesn’t want to talk about it, and since it doesn’t look like an STD, I leave the matter there and reach for a condom.

With him lying on top of me, in the missionary position, I feel the first – and only – weird vibe from this wealthy, calm, intellectual American. It’s the way he looks me straight in the eye throughout. No, ‘looks’ isn’t really the word. He downright stares into my eyes, all the time, in a way that is unusual and it unsettles me a bit. He has very intense green-blue eyes and the fact that he never looks away makes me feel exposed. Makes me feel more naked than getting undressed in front of any other client has ever made me feel. A thought flies through my consciousness, quick as a flash: Psychopath Eyes. I close mine, moan quietly, and try not to think about it too much, but then every time I open them, I’m confronted by his fixed, intense stare. Probing. So towards the end I mostly keep them closed, and think to myself what interesting little bedroom quirks people have.

Before long, he’s finished. We lie there for a little while, then we decide that he’ll be round at six on Saturday evening. He’s the perfect gentleman once more and he pays me several compliments. The thought of his intrusive, demanding stare soon evaporates from my mind. As I accompany him to the door he tells me how much he’s looking forward to our meeting on Saturday. I reply that I feel the same way.

He turns in the doorway and thanks me once again, and gives me a kiss on the cheek.

I head straight for the kitchen to let Nellie out, then install myself in a hot shower. The American turned out to be a good client, I think to myself, and I’m looking forward to the meal on Saturday. But as I wash myself thoroughly in the rich suds, I am briefly taken back to that unsettling feeling I got from his staring eyes while we were having sex, but I shake it off. He was polite. There’s no reason to give it any more thought. He is a client, the time he paid for is up, and as of now he has both come and gone.

I decide to have the next day off, and before I go to bed I arrange to meet a male friend of mine, a policeman, on Friday. I’ve known him for three years. It’s been a while since we met up so we’ve got loads to catch up on. Tacos and a bottle of wine or two … Watch a film, maybe a cheeseboard, and then talk for hours. It’ll be lovely. The decision not to go to work the next day feels like the right one. In fact, it’s a decision that seems to feel better each time I make it and I realise somehow that I’ve probably had enough of the escort lifestyle.

Chapter Two

SATURDAY

INTERROGATING OFFICER: So what happens on Saturday when you go round to her place?

MARTIN TRENNEBORG: Well, we have a pleasant evening, drinking champagne and I think I had a present with me too. And then … ahem … along with the champagne I’d brought some chocolate-dipped strawberries, which were drugged, so she falls asleep, you might say. And after that I take her out to my car just outside and drive her and her dog down south, to Skåne.

INTERROGATING OFFICER: Right. What was it that you drugged her with?

MARTIN TRENNEBORG: Something called flunitrazepam, would you like me to spell that for you?

EXCERPT FROM POLICE INTERVIEW WITH MARTIN TRENNEBORG

On Saturday morning I wake up in an enormous house in Djursholm. Friday hadn’t quite gone according to plan, but it had still gone really well. My friend, the policeman, got in touch – he couldn’t make it, and since I was pretty sick of working I decided to arrange to meet Björn, a guy I met on Tinder. He’s a young lawyer, well on the way to becoming a barrister, and living in this fantastic pad. I remember thinking there must be several apartments in the building, but it turned out the whole place was his. Björn is lively, intelligent and good-looking, and we ate and drank well before we ended up in bed together.

As I sit up in the luxurious bed I can hear clanking coming from the kitchen. When I come down, Björn has laid on a delicious breakfast for us to eat together out on the beautiful terrace, and we chat about maybe seeing each other again. He doesn’t know what I do – I told him I was a make-up artist – and, as usual, my guilty conscience is gnawing away at me for having to tell lies. I visualise what life might be like if I was to get together with Björn: if we lived together, in this beautiful house by the water. Some of the most expensive houses in Stockholm are in this very neighbourhood. Barrister’s wife … That has a nice ring to it, but I have to be honest – that genuine spark isn’t really there. I’d probably have had a more rewarding evening last night if my male friend hadn’t rearranged. We’ve decided to meet up on Tuesday instead. I’m looking forward to that.

After Björn has given me a lift home I take Nellie out for a long walk. It’s a warm, sunny day; summer has yet to finally release its grip on Stockholm and I find myself laughing out loud, getting great pleasure out of seeing my gawky young dog playing in the grass and chasing colourful butterflies. A little while later, we come to a riding club I’ve never seen before, only about a fifteen-minute walk from my apartment. There’s a girl having a private lesson in one of the paddocks and I stop and watch for a while. The horse’s taut muscles rippling in the sunshine are fascinating and seductive, and I’m struck by an intense desire to have a horse of my own again when I notice the familiar, musty scent of the stables. A bit further on, three people are having a showjumping lesson and I end up staying there even longer. I pull a long straw from the grass, start chewing it and prop myself up against the fence, my arms perched on top of it. The turf flies from under the horse’s hooves as both horse and rider ready themselves and then leap over the obstacles.

The other life is pulling at me. The one where I can be honest about what I do, all the time. A life on horseback … I feel a great longing, deep inside. The only thing standing between me and that other life is a conscious decision. I can certainly afford a good horse. Nellie – who until now has been staring in awe at what I imagine to her must appear to be enormous dogs – starts whining; she probably thinks we’ve been standing here for too long. I bend over and absentmindedly stroke her behind the ear.

Maybe that’s what I should do, I think to myself. Buy a manageable-sized stable, break in a few horses each year, and maybe combine it with a day kennel? Obviously the income it would generate wouldn’t be anything like what I earn now, but I do think it would bring me a different kind of happiness. Now Nellie’s standing up on her hind legs, with her front paws patting against my legs, whimpering again and wagging her tail. She makes me laugh.

‘Okay, poppet, let’s go,’ I say, promising myself to investigate this option more thoroughly. At that very moment, one of the horses whinnies happily behind me and I take that as a sign. The weather, the horses, Nellie and the freedom I’ve got to decide my own future make me happy, and then when everyone I meet as we walk on seems to be wearing a friendly smile, I realise that I’m walking around beaming myself.

On the way home I stop off at a sushi bar and order teppanyaki duck with rice. You never know what these dinners will be like and besides we’re going to share a little bottle of champagne beforehand. I sit down in the warm sunshine and tuck in, with Nellie curled up in my lap. I give her a few tastes, which she gobbles down hungrily while squinting into the sun. Even though it’s hot, you can smell autumn in the air. Right here, right now, I am happy.

The phone rings, a number I don’t recognise. It’s the American, just calling to check we’re still on for tonight, at six.

‘I wonder,’ he says, suddenly sounding a little unsure, ‘whether maybe we could spend the night at yours, rather than back at my hotel? This restaurant where we’re eating is only five minutes from your place.’

That would be great, I think to myself – not least since I still haven’t had the chance to make arrangements for Nellie. So that’s what we settle on. When I get home I log in to Facebook, click the feeling free emoticon and update my status: What’s next?

Since we’re going to have dinner in a fancy restaurant, I’m dressed up a bit more than the last time I met the American. I’ve gone for a beautiful blue evening dress, one that glitters gently in the right light. It’s sexy, but classy. Short, but not too short. Figure-hugging in all the right places, yet not too revealing. Underneath I’m wearing a pair of new black nylon stockings and some sexy underwear. I’ve cleaned the apartment, done the washing up, dimmed the lighting and lit some tea lights. An expensive scented candle fills the room with an unmistakably sensual air. The vase in the middle of the table is bursting with gorgeous pink flowers I picked up on the way home and the whole scene is sound-tracked by some unobtrusive background music. I walk past the mirror in the hall a few times to reassure myself that both my hair and my make-up are just right.

When, as the clock strikes six, there’s still no sign of my client, it does occur to me that he might have got cold feet and decided not to come after all. Clients usually make sure they arrive on time, but we’ve already met once so he’s probably just been held up.

At twelve minutes past six the doorbell rings and there he is. Once again, he’s very well dressed; his demeanour is calm and composed. Inside, he thrusts a gift towards me. It’s perfume and the wrapping is covered in tiny white and pink flowers that he says he has picked himself. I’m moved, foolishly so. Clients do occasionally give me presents, everything from jewellery to flowers, but always bought – perhaps that’s their way of showing me how wealthy they are. But picking the flowers himself? I think that’s really sweet and I tell him so. He smiles and passes me an envelope containing my cash fee – sixteen thousand kronor (about nineteen hundred pounds) for the night. I count it – just to make sure – then put it away.

I struggle to place his American accent. Maybe that’s because he’s been in London for so long, I think, and then I lead him over to the fridge so that he can put the bowl of strawberries in there until he’s opened the champagne. I grab a couple of glasses. He tells me how beautiful I look and then we sit down on the sofa and start chatting away while we sip on the bubbly. I’ve always liked champagne but I have to keep reminding myself not to drink too quickly. We’re going to be here for near enough three hours and there isn’t going to be any sex before dinner.

He doesn’t give any hint of being nervous as he tells me more about his job, giving me plenty of tips if ever I were to look at investing in shares. At one point he gets his phone out and shows me a few websites – really exclusive escort agencies in London, ones he thinks I should work for if ever I decide to live there. He seems to be very well informed about which ones are best. As we chat away, my thoughts turn to the evening’s dinner. I’m looking forward to it, wondering what they might serve and what the American’s colleagues will make of me. Will they know I’m an escort? When I ask him about his colleagues and their wives, his answers are short and snappy, almost irritated. I ask him again – maybe we should get our story straight about how we met or something like that, so that his colleagues don’t get suspicious? But he just gets annoyed again. It’s obvious that he doesn’t want to talk about it and I don’t want to seem nosy so I settle for the little he does say. His response makes me feel a bit uneasy, but it’s easy enough to shrug off. Apart from that, he’s a nice guy. Que sera, sera …

It gets to nearly eight o’clock, by which time we’ve been talking for almost two hours when he says it’s time for the strawberries, and that he might feel like a nap after we’ve had them. I think it’s a bit late for that, dinner being only an hour away, but he does look a bit tired and I know that even fifteen minutes’ sleep can work wonders if you’re feeling a bit fuzzy.

He picks up our glasses while I grab the bowl of strawberries from the fridge. I put them on the bedside table on his side of the bed and snuggle up so that I’m sort of half-lying down alongside him. I’m relaxed and really looking forward to a great meal in sophisticated company. He looks at his watch a few times and seems to be getting more and more nervous as the dinner approaches. Maybe there’s some crucial deal at stake?

When he picks up a strawberry and dangles it in front of my mouth, it feels like a scene from a sensual film and I can see that he wants to feed me. I take a bite and it tastes like chocolate-dipped strawberries always do – heavenly. He eats one himself, then feeds me another. We carry on talking. I realise that I am actually a bit peckish so I devour the strawberries at the same rapid rate as he offers them. Every now and then he takes one himself, but I end up having by far the lion’s share. At one point it does occur to me that maybe I should feed him one too, but quickly realise I haven’t the energy. In fact, I’m starting to feel …

This isn’t like me. Where did this tiredness come from? I’ve hardly drunk anything, not even a whole glass of champagne, in over two hours.

‘Me too,’ he whispers. Then he pats himself on the chest. ‘I want you to lie down here,’ he says.

I cannot resist. The tiredness has found its way into every part of my body and it now feels like I wouldn’t be able to stay awake even if I wanted to. Somewhere, an alarming sensation flashes past, the feeling that something is very, very wrong, but I don’t manage to grab hold of it.

That makes all the other thoughts disappear. I lay my head on the American’s chest.

For a couple of seconds, I’m aware that I’m sitting in the front seat of a car, with Nellie on my lap, and I’m wrapped up in my duvet.

Without knowing how it’s happened, or how much time has passed, I realise that I’m standing up. The floor is cold. Dusty. Dry. But I still don’t recognise my surroundings. Where am I? Am I dreaming?

The American is standing there in front of me, between me and an open door. That’s weird, because I just heard a heavy door slam shut. The feeling of unreality is about to take over again.

‘What’s going on? Who are you? I’m so cold,’ I manage as I take a stumbling step towards the man.

‘Martin,’ he replies slowly, as if talking to a foolish child. ‘You already know this. Maybe it is a little bit cold in here, but your shivering is mainly down to the rush of adrenaline. You really should lie down and get some more rest – you shouldn’t be standing up, wandering around. Not yet.’

My jaw trembles and the corners of my mouth sink towards the floor; my right arm hurts and the inside of my elbow is bruised black and blue. The panic returns as it dawns on me that he must have drugged me. The door behind him is the only way out of this nightmare and he’s not planning to get out of the way.

‘You …’ My voice cracks and I have to stop, clear my throat and try again. ‘What have you done to me? You can’t keep me here. You have to let me go!’

Martin gives her an angry look, then looks over at me again. How can he be so calm? Doesn’t he understand what he’s doing?

‘Noooo … sooooorry,’ he says, drawing the words out. ‘I’m not going to let you go. It took longer than I’d bargained – to get you unconscious, I mean,’ he goes on, as if that were the most natural thing in the world. ‘I’m planning to keep you here for a couple of years or so.’

My ears pop as the blood rushes to my head. I clench my fists. Suddenly I’m reeling around the place and my legs almost give way. I take a look around: the space is grey, dusty and messy, like a small garage or a building site. Or like a shelter, a … a …

The implications of what Martin has just said now hit me head-on: he has kidnapped me. Somehow he has managed to drug me and brought me to this place, a specially built bunker. And he’s planning to keep me here. To have me as though I was just some pet. For a couple of years?

I can’t breathe properly and my head is in turmoil. I can’t stay here with him in captivity. It’s not happening, I need to get out!

On a shelf close to me there are two long screws so I reach out to grab them, raising my hands and making a noise like a crazed animal, and I notice my upper lip has curled up, showing my teeth. Who the fuck does he think he is? Anger. Boiling with rage, I gather as much strength as I can from the fury.

My steps, though, are not as purposeful as my intent. My body isn’t playing along and it ends up being a bungling attempt at attack, which he easily deflects simply by grabbing hold of my wrists, hard. I realise that I don’t have any strength at all to resist with. He easily pushes my arms down and wrestles the screws from my hands, despite my best efforts. It hurts when he uses brute force to prise open my tightly clenched fists. Almost as much as it hurts to realise: This man has drugged and abducted me. Locked me in a bunker, God knows where, and he’s planning to keep me here. No one knows where I am, or even that I was going to meet him. Or had I mentioned it to anyone? Now my head’s spinning again and the last drops of energy I have managed to muster desert me. I collapse in a heap on the floor, exhausted, sobbing; trying to understand. The next thing that pops into my head is: Fritzl. And that guy in America, the one who had three young girls locked in his house for years – he kept them as sex slaves. I wrap my arms around my knees and start rocking gently back and forth. With the tears streaming down my face I look up at the man who has kidnapped me. The fear rips at my back with long claws. I’m completely terrified. What is he planning to do? Rape me? Torture me? ‘A couple of years’ – those were his exact words. Then what? Murder me, once he’s tired of me? Has he held someone else captive before me? And if he has, what happened to her? The panic feels like a huge flock of birds flying around my insides, violently crashing into each other and squawking away.

‘Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!’ I hear someone wail. I realise that it’s me and bite hard on the inside of my cheeks to try to put an end to the chaos inside my body. I haul myself backwards on my backside, as far away from this monster as possible. After only a couple of metres I can go no further and the tears are threatening to drown me. I curl up into a ball to make myself as small as possible. My teeth are chattering.

But Martin is standing over me, perfectly calm and with a cold, dead look in his eyes. ‘Don’t do that again,’ he tells me.

Deep down I realise there is probably no point, yet still I start screaming for help, as loud as I possibly can. I scream and scream and scream and scream that I am here, that someone has to help me; that I am going to die. At this Nellie loses it altogether and barks so persistently over there on the bed that it sounds like she too is crying out for help.

What finally gets me to stop is that Martin doesn’t react at all, nor does he make any attempt whatsoever to get me to stop. On the contrary, he looks almost entertained by it. I go quiet; I snort mucus down my throat and try to dry the tears that just will not stop. My throat is on fire …

‘It’s no good,’ he says, when Nellie has finally gone quiet. ‘You can scream as loud as you like – no one’s going to hear you. And if you do try to escape again, I will chain you to the bed and give you nothing but bread and water.’ He seems to be mulling that over, consulting with himself while drumming his fingertips against his bottom lip. ‘Well, I’d have to come and unchain you when you need to use the toilet, of course.’ Then he laughs. ‘But then again you didn’t have any complaints about your nappy on the journey down.’

With those words, he turns around and leaves. The door slams behind him and I hear a series of clicking noises.

CONTENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR