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The end could not be far away now. In truth, Viyan was surprised she wasn’t dead already, such was Leyla’s anger as she tossed her captive into the incinerator.

Viyan had expected her tormentor to slam the door shut, stab the controls, then stand back to enjoy her immolation.

But nothing had happened, an anomaly that fostered a fragile flame of hope in Viyan’s heart.

Was there some kind of problem? A fault with the machine?

Or had Helen somehow traced Viyan here? Were the police even now descending on the remote farm, intent on freeing all the captives?

Such a happy outcome seemed far-fetched and sure enough, Viyan soon divined the reason for the delay, Leyla’s harsh voice commanding her fellow workers to gather round.

As with poor Selima, Viyan’s death was not going to be a private act of punishment, rather a public act of retribution.

Her fear spiking, Viyan clambered to her feet, stumbling blindly forwards, her outstretched hands eventually finding solid metal.

She was surprised to discover how warm the surface was, momentarily alarmed that Leyla had in fact started the machine, but now sense prevailed.

The machine was quiet and lifeless, its exterior simply warmed by the spring sunshine.

It made the atmosphere cloying and uncomfortable here, the air thin and dusty, prompting Viyan to re-double her efforts, despite the sweat that already crawled down her back and clung to her brow, despite the lightheadedness that seemed to come and go in disorienting waves.

If she was to have any chance of escaping this fetid tomb, she had to act now.

Guiding herself by touch, the young mother made her way round the cylinder, until she eventually located the door frame.

Pausing, she found the handle, yanking at it with all her might.

Predictably it refused to budge, so moving her fingers down the frame, she teased the seal, searching for any small gaps, any signs of weakness, something she might work with.

Finding little, she moved up and over the lintel, down the other side, but her meticulous ferreting revealed nothing. She was trapped.

Cursing, Viyan leaned on the warm metal wall, sweaty, uncomfortable and dispirited.

The reality was that she’d been trapped ever since she had met Leyla.

How she rued ever listening to her enticing promises, her vision of England as a land of hope and opportunity.

When Viyan had first encountered Leyla, handing out bottles of water in the refugee camp on the Syrian border, she’d appeared like a guardian angel, dispensing water, food and smiles.

The pair had quickly become fast friends, Leyla discreetly slipping Viyan little extras for the children, candy from Europe and sweetmeats from Istanbul.

Viyan had come to cherish her presence, putting their family’s survival down to her kindness.

So when Leyla suggested a route out of their poverty and degradation, a way to earn good money to send back to her family, Viyan had demanded to know more.

She had no reason to smell a rat at that point, why would she?

Up until that point, Leyla’s motives had seemed pure and honourable.

It was true that Viyan had not accepted Leyla’s proposition straight away, nervous about abandoning her children to the care of her elderly mother.

But the worsening situation in the camp had forced her hand, Leyla insisting that she could be in the UK and earning good money in less than a fortnight.

Viyan was sorely tempted, Leyla convincing her that the operation was both well-established and legitimate, with a committed and spirited welcome party awaiting her on her arrival in England, care of the good-hearted volunteers at the Kurdish Welfare Centre in Southampton.

The reality had been very different. Viyan had never seen the Welfare Centre, nor did she meet Leyla again, until she dismounted from the filthy cargo container into the bewildering surrounds of the farm.

The traffickers, far from being sympathetic to the desperate migrants, were brutal and heartless, barely feeding their charges as they were transported in blacked-out vans across shadowy border crossings in Bulgaria, Serbia, Slovenia and more, before eventually arriving in a refugee hostel in Holland.

Perhaps the place was genuine, perhaps there were genuine asylum seekers there, but Viyan never got to find out, bundled into the Dutchman’s container truck, with only the shortest of breaks to use the bathroom and beg a slice of bread.

A day or two later, she had found herself at this hideous farm, imprisoned by her desperation, her vulnerability, her gullibility.

How she cursed herself now for her naivety.

For believing Leyla’s wicked lies. And yet, what reason did she have to question this kindly woman’s motives?

She was of Kurdish heritage, she was a charity worker, she even claimed to be a mother, mentioning a trio of beloved children whom Viyan now knew didn’t exist. Leyla had preyed on Viyan’s maternal love, playing on her fears for the welfare of her children.

She had assured Viyan that if she accepted her proposal that her family would prosper, that they would grow up happy, healthy, even wealthy, that it was her duty as a mother to put them first. She had sealed the deal by invoking their shared heritage, citing the duty of every Kurd to look out for each other in the face of relentless suspicion, hostility and persecution.

And it was that, her gross misuse of this sacred bond, amongst a plethora of other lies, obfuscations and half-truths, that had been the greatest betrayal of all.