I stepped out on to the landing, already planning my journey, when a sound reached my ears – Hazel was in the hall talking to someone. ‘… W-S-O-N. Yes, that’s right,’ she was saying. I quickly descended the stairs and she looked at me, startled, lowering her hand with the telephone receiver.

‘Who are you talking to?’ I said.

‘It’s …’

I looked at her, waiting for an answer. Then I took the handset and lifted it to my ear. ‘Hello? Who is this?’

A woman on the other end replied, ‘National Security Police.’ She sounded annoyed. ‘Who are you?’

I slammed the telephone down. ‘What are you doing?’ I demanded.

Hazel looked scared and retreated a step. ‘I wanted to help. I thought I could find some way to help get Dad out.’

For a second, I was speechless, chilled by the danger of what she could have said if I hadn’t stopped her. I took her by the shoulders, trying to keep calm. ‘You can’t speak to anyone about this! Do you hear? It’s very dangerous. It will make things worse for your father.’ I paused, doing my best to soften. ‘Hazel, I know you want to get your dad out, but you have to leave it to the adults.’

‘You’re not doing it, though,’ she said. It wasn’t bitter, nor was it an accusation, just a simple statement with the logic of a fourteen-year-old.

I wanted to explain but I didn’t have time. ‘Look, I know why you’re saying that. I do. But I’m doing all I can and I can’t tell you about it. Now, it would help me to help your dad if I can go out and leave you just to sit in your room and not do anything else.’

‘I’ll come with you.’

‘No, you can’t.’

She looked frustrated. ‘All right. But will you tell me what you’re doing?’

‘Later. Please, please, just stay in the house and don’t speak to anyone.’

After watching her retreat to her room, I went out on to the street, shaken by what she had almost done. I just hoped to God she wouldn’t try anything like that again.

Honeysette’s house was a solid-looking place, a few doors down from a row of bombed-out buildings where two vagrants were huddled at the back of the rubble, wrapping themselves in sheets and attempting to get a fire going from some broken wood they had scavenged. There was a lot of grey smoke but little flame. Compared to the thrilling colourful trips I had made to this city as a child, modern London often seemed like a flickering black-and-white newsreel.