There came a laugh. ‘One last chance, señorita,’ he sang. Suddenly he was speaking perfect English with a Spanish lilt. ‘What. Is. Your. Real. Name?’

‘My name… is Rhiannon Lewis.’

And there came a buzz. On a deafening creak, the gates opened slowly inwards onto Spiky Plant Avenue. I grabbed my bag and shoes and raced down the track like The Little Mermaid on her brand-new legs. A white camera on one of the pillars swivelled as I entered, and once I was through the gates creaked closed behind me and met with a heavy clank.

The stony path wound through the forest and the deeper I went, the greener the trees became. Succulent cacti, tall boojum trees with curling branches like long scribbles into the wide blue sky. Palms with wide fronds, acid green cacti with fluffy white flowers up the stems and short craggy old men trees like something out of the Upside Down. I was so thirsty.

I came upon some wide steps leading up to a heavy wooden door. I knocked. A camera above swivelled my way. There was a scuffing sound, flip-flops on stone. Bolts sliding. The door opened and a tattooed brute with one arm in a blue sling stood before me. He was 60-odd but his hair was shockingly black, scraped into a ponytail, and his face smooth. He wore long grey shorts and in his good hand was a 10k gold dumbbell.

‘Rhiannon,’ he said gruffly, rolling the ‘R’.

‘Tenoch?’ I said.

‘Hola,’ he said, his face brightening. ‘Welcome to my little house.’

‘Thank you. I think,’ I muttered, stepping inside.

What followed was a tour of his ‘little house’ which was more of a mansion and an exceptionally tidy one at that, albeit it hideously decorated with animal skins, brown leather and gold accessories. I followed, achingly slowly because of his limp, though I didn’t ask about his injury, nor his gimp arm or any of the myriad keloid scars littering his skin. I was still too thirsty.

‘No visitors,’ he said. ‘No communications – emails, calls. Everyone and everything that comes into this house does so only with my permission.’

‘OK,’ I said. Glancing towards the kitchen in the hope that he’d read my mind and offer me some kind of cold liquid before I deadass fainted on the pristine earthenware tiles.

Thankfully the place was air-conditioned, and in the huge kitchen, bearing the largest oven I’d ever seen and two giant fridges, we stopped. ‘You can make your own meals,’ he said. ‘Pop Tarts, sandwiches, whatever.’

Saliva flooded my mouth. I hadn’t had a Pop Tart in weeks. ‘Bobby said I’m not allowed to eat Pop Tarts, I love them but—’

‘Eat what you like here, be who you want. There’s nobody for miles.’

He led me past the fridge full of sodas through an archway into a lofty seating area with a suite of sofas and wing-back chairs draped in cow hides.