Caleb turns onto Bridge Street, passes the Town Hall with its imposing columns and walks past the shops, all closed for the night now. The few hardy souls also out and about are striding purposefully in the freezing cold. He passes TK Maxx and presses the button to cross Bourges Boulevard, picks up pace a bit as he walks past the Magistrates’ Court and turns down another double subway. I am recalling what it’s like to be a pedestrian in central Peterborough: wherever you are, you’re always on the wrong side of a dual carriageway. He skirts the Lido and walks more slowly now, loosely, as if he’s recovering and eager to be home. He goes down Bishop’s Road, past the long-stay car park and the children’s playground that is only accessible to the small inhabitants of the houses opposite by crossing a busy main road, then takes a left down Star Road. The name Star Road rings a bell with me for some reason – something that makes me feel uncomfortable – but I brush the feeling away and concentrate on Caleb. Just past the Panj Tani Store, he turns a couple more corners and ends up on a street that forms a long row of new builds, tiny little semis built to resemble the run-down Victorian workers’ houses of the neighbouring streets but with none of the residual charm. The houses are clean and smart, though, and unlike the older, crumbling houses nearby, none of them is boarded up.

As he turns into this street, his posture relaxes and gait lightens, almost imperceptibly. Home: whatever that word means – even in our darkest moments, like the one Caleb has experienced this evening, it means something, a reflexive feeling of comfort; this is where my belongings are, the things I have gathered around me that reflect who I am. This is where I reside.

So, this is where Caleb lives? I may not be able to read his thoughts but I am going to find out about him in other ways. Only now am I realising how lonely I have been, how desperate I am for a connection with somebody.

The first thing I find out about Caleb is that his name isn’t Caleb.

As he turns the corner into his street, a woman’s voice calls out, ‘Andrew!’ The voice is high-pitched, with a twanging, musical quality. ‘Andrew!’ That’s my first clue.

The voice has come from the same junction but on the other side of the road. ‘Andrew!’ He turns to acknowledge it. That’s my second clue.

He turns back immediately and keeps walking, lowering his head as if he is hoping the woman might think herself mistaken.

‘Andrew!’ He stops. His shoulders drop. He turns slowly. There’s no doubt about it. He definitely isn’t called Caleb.