I swing the back entrance open and step into the dark corridor. My stomach turns at the festering smell of hours-old cooking on an industrial scale. It doesn’t matter what’s been on the menu, it always smells the same – a fart trapped in a lunchbox. Behind closed doors there is the racket of steel serving trays and utensils being manhandled.

In close to darkness, I ascend the first flight of stairs. I look down at the maroon vinyl beneath my feet. The sight repels me. I stumble down a step. Slugs. They’re everywhere. Just like last week and the week before. The place is disgusting.

They’ve petrified me all my life, but I have no time to be squeamish. One step at a time, I place my feet where I can find a space between the repulsive creatures. Only my elbows touch the walls to steady myself – I daren’t let my bare palms land on one of the many that have climbed the painted brick walls.

The final flight to the attic rooms is darker still, but I arrive at the top landing confident that I’ve not touched or trodden on any. In less than fifteen minutes, I’ll be descending these stairs again. I know I must be bolder then.

I rap my knuckles twice on the door. I hear the brisk trot of high heels approaching. The lock clicks. Light floods the stairwell as Miss Morgan opens the door.

‘Just the ten minutes late this week, Oliver,’ she says.

‘Sorry. Not feeling a hundred per cent.’ I wrap my arms round my gut, in the way no genuinely unwell person ever has.

‘Well, thank you for saving me the trouble of searching you out.’

As I step inside, I am assaulted by the cloud of floral perfume that always surrounds her. I follow her to the cramped room at the end of the landing. There’s one other music teaching room up here and a small kitchen.

‘I don’t know if I can stay long,’ I tell her. ‘I don’t feel right.’

She pulls out the piano stool and pats it. Grabbing at the hem of her navy skirt suit, which she’s worn for every lesson in five years, she lowers herself into the chair next to me. ‘Just relax, Oliver. There’s no pressure in this room. No need to play until you’re good and ready.’

She takes a sip of her rosehip tea. I’ve no idea how many cups of the bright orange stuff she drinks in a day, but there’s always one on the go. She’s often talked about its medicinal qualities, how it’s one reason that she’s still working at eighty when all of her friends are at home, dropping dead. ‘So tell me, how’s your week been?’

I shrug and run a weak arpeggio up the keys.

‘Play later maybe,’ she says. ‘Let’s chat first.’