But she wouldn’t listen. ‘I don’t want you to call me. I won’t cover for you. I won’t!’ Before hanging up, she hissed, ‘If you call again, I’ll tell them. I’ll tell them where you are.’

June stood there feeling shaken. Had Naomi guessed where she was? It wouldn’t be hard for her to figure out, though it would take their parents longer. Would Naomi give her away, betray her to their parents and the centre? She was angry enough, June thought. She’d merely wanted to let her sister know she was alright, let her know she hadn’t forgotten her. But it was stupid to think she could trust Naomi.

She put the cellphone back on the table, hoping the old man would be none the wiser. In the morning, it was gone and he didn’t speak to her when she came into the kitchen. Then she saw what he was eating for breakfast. Lettuce! This from the man who objected to her Italian salad. He had piled the leaves on a plate with toast and a fried egg. He stared at her boldly, daring her to object as he took bites of a lettuce leaf and a piece of toast by turns.

That afternoon, she walked several blocks to find the nightclub. She didn’t know what to expect, but when she went inside it didn’t look like a gateway to hell. It had cheerful fifties-style decor – red walls, padded booths, the sort of thing she’d seen in films of the era. Saccharine girl-group pop was playing, the kind of music Naomi liked.

Mustering her courage, she fronted up to the studded bar and asked about the job. The broad-faced bartender looked at her. ‘Ah, so you’re Junko. Good.’

She was told to come back at six. The club had an older crowd, and most of them seemed to be regulars, going by the way they greeted each other. A few patrons got rowdy as the night wore on, cheering and swaying and mock-waltzing with each other. June wasn’t used to dealing with drunk people; the only person she had seen drinking at the centre was old Mr Kumamoto who did the gardening. He sometimes hid behind the hedge to sink part of a bottle of whiskey. Once she saw that the club’s patrons were good-natured rather than threatening, she moved among them deftly, saying, ‘Look out, coming through!’

It wasn’t glamorous or well-paid but she found the time passed quickly. At the end of the shift, Ito, the bartender, asked her to come back the following night. Soon she was working five or six nights a week, knocking off at midnight after they kicked the stragglers out.