A grey cat with pale green eyes appeared in the doorway. It stared at me for a few seconds then clearly decided I didn’t pose a threat. I watched in wonder as it curled itself around my ankles, purring, its body vibrating as I bent to stroke its silky-soft fur. I suddenly felt light-headed. The urge to lie down was overwhelming. I leaned against the wall beside the front door and closed my eyes.

A sound made me look up. I shrank back.

A tall, grey-haired man with a long face and bent body eyed me up and down. He wore grey slacks and a short-sleeved white shirt which looked clean. He smelled clean too and his eyes didn’t jiggle; they looked directly at me. These eyes were a twinkly, light blue and right now they were wide with what I thought was concern.

‘Come in, child, come in,’ he said, stepping back and beckoning me into the house, his voice low and serious. ‘Dot, go and make her a glass of milk and something to eat.’

I didn’t move, just stared at him, trying to work out if he was evil or good.

‘What’s your name?’ he said.

I had to think for a moment. I hesitated. Should I tell him my real name? What if he knew Mother? What if they were friends? But then I pictured Mother in this room talking with these old people and the picture didn’t make sense.

He shook his head. ‘It’s fine. You don’t have to tell me. Come on into the living room. Let’s give those feet a rest.’

Numbly, I followed him into the house, flinching as he shut the door. He didn’t lock it, which I took as a good sign. He led the way into a large room with a green and orange-patterned carpet and matching curtains. The walls were white and they looked clean too. Clean and light. I wanted to tell the man – Harold – that I liked his house. Before I could speak, the old lady – Dot – rushed into the room holding a tray. I sat down on a squishy cream sofa, immediately relishing the lack of pressure on my feet.

‘Drink some milk, dear,’ Dot said, passing me a glass.

I did as she told me, spilling milk down my chin and onto myself and not caring. The cold, fresh milk felt wonderful against my dry throat and I smiled at her gratefully.

‘Thank you,’ I said.

‘Oh dear. Look at your poor feet. I’ll fetch something to clean those, shall I, Harold?’

Harold nodded, his eyes never leaving me.

‘You need to call the police,’ I said, taking a small bite of the sandwich that Dot had made me.

‘OK,’ he said, scratching his chin. ‘Can you tell me why?’