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When Friday came and the course was over, I drove the six hours back to Rotorua at top speed. I got home at midnight and went straight to the barn.

She was lying on the bed but sat up immediately. ‘Where were you?’ she asked. Her face was tear-stained and her voice was subdued.

‘I tried to tell you on Sunday night, but you didn’t want to listen.’

She burst into tears. ‘I thought you were dead. It was like the last time when your father died, but I … I missed you.’

I moved towards her and held my arms out to her. She collapsed against my chest.

In the weeks that followed, we talked more than we ever had before, almost as if we were making up for the silences of the past years.

‘I was so angry with you. I accepted that you had taken my freedom. I gave up trying to escape. I fell for you against my will. You were always so kind and so considerate. The opposite of your father. But then, all I wanted was a baby. I didn’t trick you into it, I promise. That’s why, when I did get pregnant, it felt like a miracle. I’d never asked you for anything, not for years. A baby would make us a proper family. Someone to love unconditionally.’

That hurt me and I told her. ‘Look,’ I said, ‘babies get sick all the time. I could never take her to a hospital or a doctor. Would you want your baby to grow up here? Like this?’ I indicated the windowless room.

She looked around, a puzzled expression on her face, and I realized that this barn had been her home for longer than anywhere else. She had lived here for sixteen years, and once Dad was gone, she felt safe here. She was thirty years old. This windowless room, as nice as I had tried to make it, was normal to her. I regretted reminding her of how abnormal her situation was. Her escape attempts had been nothing to do with finding her home, but everything to do with finding her baby. I knew that keeping her captive was wrong, but she was no longer aware of it.

Gradually, we became close again until finally she let me return to her bed. She didn’t ask about having a baby and, as soon as I could afford it, I had a vasectomy, a relatively painless day procedure. Once again, I took away the chain and she was full of gratitude. I felt like a monster. That’s the word my mother used to refer to my father. I remembered that.

At work, I got through the digital cataloguing of accounts quickly. I wrote to the head office IT department and suggested improvements to the programme they had developed to make it more user-friendly. I taught myself how to use other software programmes, and then after I had turned down the offer of promotion to Assistant Head of IT in the bank’s head office in Wellington, I began to look for other jobs. I went from one to the other – a year in a small stockbroking firm, two years in an insurance company – but never far from Rotorua. In 2004, I became an IT specialist in the Rotorua Rabobank. This time, I had my own office. Things were looking up.

During the crash of 2008, the bank downsized and I took a pay cut but I was needed and kept my job. In 2009, after a massive credit-card fraud was perpetrated in America, I applied for a job in our cyber security department. I was successful. My earnings were now good enough to support Lindy and myself comfortably.

As I gradually rose through the ranks and found myself on interviewing panels, I tried to hire every Māori applicant I could. The casual racism of the past was now rightfully seen as shameful. Māori culture was being embraced by the Pākehā population. Now, the Māori language had been incorporated into our everyday correspondence and every email was signed off with Ngā mihi as well as Kind regards. I often thought of Rangi and his potential to take any of the jobs we were advertising. He had been naturally good at mathematics, something he only discovered when he applied himself to it. Times and attitudes had changed for the better.

I’d installed skylights on the roof of the barn so Lindy had natural daylight. I’d lined the walls with bookshelves at the far end of the TV area. I upgraded her bathroom. She didn’t ask for anything but she laughed with delight at every gift or improvement. When we walked to the hot pools in the summer, I didn’t need to use the chain any more. She put her hand in mine and we walked side by side. I applied suntan lotion to her soft skin so that she wouldn’t burn. We made love in the grass. She began to knit again.

It was all building to something, and one night in the spring of 2011, I did not lock the door. Then, for a whole weekend, I did not lock the door.

‘Why aren’t you locking the door?’ she asked me.

‘I trust you. I love you. You can come into the house.’

‘No, it’s okay, I’m happy here.’