The bushes are thick enough to shelter me from wind and rain, and from other people. In the deep blue of the night, I venture out to forage for food and packing material. I get dry boxes from the front gardens of houses I pass. The world has become a place where everything is delivered to the door and there is no shortage of boxes. Food is harder to come by. In the end, because I am desperate, I simply walk into the supermarket and ask for any expired sandwiches. The young woman at the till tells me that they aren’t allowed to give me any for health and safety reasons but that if I happened to take them, she wouldn’t stop me. I thank her, and take three packets and a wrapped slice of currant cake.

Then I think about Amit and the danger I led him into. For what? And at what price to me? I am unsettled now by this responsibility I seem to have for him and the uncomplicated way in which I completely failed him.

As I walked with him he replayed the encounter. He told me how he’d been allowed to wander freely through the house as Ebadi, interested only in ensuring he didn’t steal anything, lazily followed him. But Ebadi could tell from Amit’s voice, his uniform, his kind of school, that he was safe. I imagined how Ebadi would have relaxed when he was sure there was no threat from Amit. This genuine young man with eyes brimming with life.

‘But then I got talking to him,’ Amit said, those same eyes flashing now. ‘I asked him how long he’d been at the house.’

‘And?’

‘He’s only been there a few months, he said. He has a family in Yemen – a wife and two children.’

‘Okay.’

‘And I tell you what. That place is immaculate. There’s no dead body smell in there at all.’ He was eyeing me to measure my reaction.

‘The hall. The floor. Did you notice it?’

‘What do you mean?’ he said.

‘The grouting. Was it new? Did it look like it could have been recently done?’

He looked up as if searching. ‘The floor?’

‘I think it’s a new floor. It’s a long story but I think he’s just had it laid,’ I say.

‘Oh. I don’t think so.’

‘Did it smell damp or of cement?’ I said, pressing him.

‘No,’ he said. ‘It was normal. Clean. And there was one other thing,’ he continued, excited.

‘What?’

‘He was really nice.’

‘Amit …’

‘No, wait. He was. He asked me what I was studying and I told him English and History and French.’

‘So?’

‘So, he went over to a bookcase and gave me this.’ He pulled a small hardback from his pocket. I took it from his hand. It was similar to the school copies I’d had once: L’Étranger.