I shiver again in these thin police-issue clothes, and suddenly whatever power there was in my legs has gone. My knees buckle and I’m falling against the door, but he catches me just in time. Everything becomes murky and then there is nothing.

I wake up and gather fragments of memory. There’s Seb half-dragging me inside his house, up the stairs – soft cream runners against dark, polished wood. Me, stumbling, being ushered like a drunkard to a bed and the sensation of my ‘cell’ clothes sticking to my skin as they are pulled away. The smell as the garments come away and how it stains the air. A towel is laid out on a chair through patches of vision. Then I feel warm air slowly wrapping my limbs. Then darkness and oblivion and finally sleep.

When morning tears open my eyes, I stall for a few moments, trying to remember where I am. My head is throbbing. I get up out of bed and partially draw the curtain across the low morning sun. From the clock on the bedside table, I see it’s just after eight. I open my eyes and listen for sounds because I don’t know anything about the life of the man whose home I’m in. I don’t know if there are any children in the house, or a partner, or friends.

There’s some distant clinking, like the sound of breakfast being laid. I look for the tracksuit I’d been given but I can’t see it anywhere. Seb must have taken it away for washing. He’s left me a change of clothes, laid on top of a white towel. Dark red trousers, blue-checked shirt, some new underpants still in the box, socks and a crew-neck sweater. These are his clothes, clothes in current use – not spares. I take the pants from the box. They are pristine in my stained hands. It has been years since I’ve worn pants; they aren’t necessary. The whiteness of the cotton stares out at me. I can’t wear his clothes without a bath.