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clothes started to steam in the warmth.
    ‘Where are we?’ Zak asked.
    Michael looked around fondly. ‘St Peter’s House,’ he said. ‘The island itself—’
    ‘We’re on an island?’
    ‘Certainly,’ Michael replied. He walked up to a table on the other side of the room and picked up two large, white mugs – one for Zak, the other for Raf. Zak took a sip. Boiled water, nothing more. He made a sour face, which Michael noticed. ‘Drink it,’ the old man said. ‘Hydration is important. The island itself doesn’t have an official name – not one you’ll find on a map, anyway. Nobody lives here, but the locals on themainland call it St Peter’s Crag. One name is as good as another. Or did I mention that to you before?’ He brushed a strand of hair away from his forehead.
    ‘You said something about dry clothes,’ Zak reminded him. Even though the fire was warm, he was shivering.
    Michael looked at Raf. ‘Take him to his room,’ he said.
    Raf nodded. At the far end of the hallway there was an ornate wooden staircase ascending against the wall. Zak followed Raf up it, then down a long corridor with oak-panelled walls and thick, old-fashioned carpet. There were heavy wooden doors along the corridor at intervals of about ten metres, each with modern opaque white door knobs; and one at the very end. It was this door which Raf opened. He stepped aside to let Zak in.
    It was a small room, though a lot bigger than the one he had at his uncle and aunt’s house. In a far corner was a single bed with crisp, white sheets. Next to it was a clothes rail on which hung ten or twelve sets of Zak’s trademark jeans and dark hooded tops, with several pairs of new trainers on the floor underneath. Hanging on one of the stark white walls was a huge flat-screen TV – fifty inches, Zak reckoned, maybe more – and beneath that a glass table with a PlayStation.
    ‘It’s been modified,’ Raf said, when he saw Zak’seyes linger on the console. ‘Special strategy and reflex exercises.’
    ‘No
Modern Warfare
?’ Zak asked.
    ‘You don’t need a games console for that.’ Raf walked up to the screen and put one finger to it. It immediately flickered into life, showing a plain web browser. ‘You’ve got Internet access, but there’s a firewall stopping you from sending emails or communicating with the outside world. Save yourself some time and don’t try to hack it. You won’t be able to.’
    ‘What am I?’ Zak asked. ‘A prisoner?’
    ‘Some walls,’ Raf said, ‘aren’t there to stop people getting out. They’re to stop people getting in.’ Zak didn’t think it was a very reassuring comment.
    Opposite the flat screen there was another door, leading to a bright, modern bathroom. The lights flickered on automatically as soon as Zak walked in. ‘Take a shower,’ Raf told him. ‘Put on some dry clothes. We’ll come and get you in half an hour.’ Without another word, he turned and left.
    It felt good to get out of his damp clothes and feel the steaming hot water on his back, but it did nothing to stop Zak’s uneasiness. Where was this place?
What
was it? He felt a million miles from anywhere, under the control of these strange people. He couldn’t help thinking he’d made a very serious mistake . . .
    Zak tried not to think about how they knew exactlywhat size clothes he wore, but the clean jeans, top and trainers fitted perfectly. When he was dressed, he touched the flat screen just as Raf had done. It switched on and this time Zak checked the time on the top of the screen. 07.58. It had taken just under five hours for his world to change.
    He thought of Ellie. She’d be awake now – they all would, and they’d have seen what had happened. They’d know he was missing. Zak felt a pang of guilt. But then he thought about why he was here. About his parents. A scowl crossed his face.
    Zak reckoned he still had ten minutes before Raf came back to get him, and he wanted to know what was in the rooms along