Tentatively, as fear clawed at her, she called his name, ‘Harry? It’s Jo. Are you here? Is everything okay?’ She cast quick glances down the three short aisles of the shop, and even behind the deep freezer that stocked ice cream, ice lollies and frozen peas. There was no sign of him and no reply either. She called his name again, a little louder, and took her phone from pocket, in the event she’d have to make an emergency 999 call for an ambulance.

When she peeped over the top of the counter, half expecting to see him lying splayed on the ground, her heart sang with relief to see that there was no one there. But the relief was quickly replaced with confusion. Where on earth was he then? It was very unlike Harry to leave his shop unguarded at any time.

She called his name a third time, before hearing an almighty crash from the stockroom. Quick as a whippet, she climbed over the counter, sending community notices, posters and ‘For Sale’ index cards fluttering to the ground, and pushed open the door to the stockroom.

‘Harry!’ she shouted.

The room was in darkness and she reached for the light switch. No lights came on, but there was another crash. This time, even louder.

Her panic was almost at fever pitch now. Was he injured? Was there a burglar in this dark room who had taken him hostage and was riffling through the stock in search of something worth stealing.

She was about to dial 999 and get the police to come and check the room for her when she felt the weight of another human bundle into her, pushing her out of the way, before disappearing back through the door into the shop.

Her nerves in shreds, she followed the figure into the light and was stunned to find a man, perhaps in his late twenties, holding a broom handle in his hands, which he was very much pointing in her direction.

‘Take what you want from the till,’ he said, in a northern English accent. ‘But there’s not much there. It’s been quiet.’

She looked at him, raised her hands to show she was unarmed, and then looked at the broom handle. ‘I’m not here to rob you,’ she said, slowly, although her heart was still thumping. ‘I’m here to see Harry, and to buy some bread and bacon. Where is Harry? And who the hell are you?’

The adrenaline flooding her veins was making her tetchy now. Angry even. How dare this person wave a broom handle in her direction as if she were a common criminal? He was the interloper. The outsider. The thing that stood out on the lane, where everyone knew everyone and all their business.

It struck her then who he was and as she watched him – clearly terrified at her arrival in the shop – she felt all the anger and fear drain from her body.