A young guy appears from the back, the same one as the last time. He’s mates with Brian. At first glance he appears like a preppy, reassuring college kid with his collar turned up and his navy-blue wool jumper slung over his shoulders. In other circumstances I might have considered it.

I introduce myself as Brian’s friend, and he nods absently, as if this is not the first time he’s heard that particular line. He doesn’t remember me, says there are plenty of others who looked just like me. That doesn’t happen to me often.

He looks blankly at me and asks how I propose to pay for the room. I flash the card at him.

‘How long will that work, kiddo, before they find out?’

Kiddo. He’s only a couple of years older. Ok, maybe seven-ish. Still, not enough of an edge to take that tone with me, although the closer I look at him the less sure I am about everything to do with him: his age, the college-kid act, the whole ‘reassuring’ bit.

‘Are you sure that’s what you want? You know they can trace you here if we use it.’

‘I wasn’t planning on staying long.’

‘Oh no, and where were you planning on moving on to? There aren’t many establishments like us, you know, the no-questions-asked kind.’

‘How much for a few weeks?’

‘I’m sure we can work something out,’ the guy says, picking at his teeth, which are brownish-yellow at the tops where they meet the gums. ‘Did anyone follow you here? Anyone know your whereabouts, apart from Brian?’

‘Nope, and I haven’t even told him I’m here.’

‘Good.’

‘I have a couple of hundred cash.’

‘That’ll give you a bit of breathing space. Then you’ll have to earn your keep,’ he says, checking out my knees.

‘I’m a pro in the kitchen,’ I say, ‘well trained.’

‘I’m sure you are.’ He wipes his wet fat lips with the back of his hand. ‘Ok, let me show you to your new abode.’

As he stands I notice his trousers are hanging off him. He’s as skinny as a lanky streak of bacon with the fat trimmed off – one of Granny Mona’s favourite expressions, which brings her to mind, and with her, a faint thrum of foreboding.

He tells me to go on ahead as we climb a narrow staircase with trippy brown-patterned carpets and peeling, bubbled wallpaper on the walls. The stitches start to itch and I try to walk with my legs really close together. I wish he wasn’t so close behind me. The house is tall and has zillions of little warren-like rooms, some with the doors half open. There are sounds of loud breathing, snoring, music playing and other noises that I try to blank out. It smells of mildew and sour milk, thickly disguised with incense.