Martin sounds like he's about to cry again, and John watches him uneasily. He knows he doesn't want Martin to cry, but he isn't sure what he might say that would help. There's no phone — well, there might be one hidden somewhere, but there's loads of places it might be. Finding it would take ages. And even if they could call the police, he realizes with a little jolt, they don't know where they are. They wouldn't be able to tell the police where to come to.

"We have to think," he says, as much for his own sake as Martin's. "We just—we have to be smart." He turns away from the useless phone jack to scan the rest of the flat, his gaze soon alighting on the door. For a moment, his heart skips a beat — there are so many latches, they'll never be able to get out of here — but then he blinks, shaking his head a little.

It's like a riddle. The latches are on the inside. That means they're to keep things out, not in. Maybe there are more latches on the outside, but if there aren't... what's to stop them leaving?

Then he takes a closer look at the latches, and his blood runs cold. Because the ones on the inside, some of them high enough to be out of his reach, are still latched.

You can't do up latches from the outside. So whoever last shut that door has to still be here.

John turns back to Martin, motioning for him to be quiet, and then to follow him. Then he tiptoes over towards the door as quickly as he dares, stopping by one of the chairs at the little dining table. He curls his free hand around one of the wooden arms, then looks at Martin.

"Help me lift it," he says, his voice so soft it's barely even a whisper. "Quietly."