I loitered at the door while the man busied himself at the kitchen end, his back to me. Shelves were crammed full. Bottles of spirits. Jars of screws and nails. Vinegar and ketchup and tins. Stained pans. And more books, shoved into any space left. There was a rusty-looking oven on legs, a table and a stone sink with a crack in it.

‘Do you … Do you live here?’ I was shivering.

He was getting teabags from a box and his arm stiffened slightly, before taking two out. ‘Aye.’ The word was rigid.

‘No, I just mean – I didn’t know if maybe you just stayed here sometimes, that you had somewhere else …’ God, I sounded ridiculous.

He turned round and leant his palms on the sink behind him. ‘This is it.’

I’d normally say that it was nice, that I liked the curtains, the twisted wire picture frame that held a photo of my mate’s toothy baby cousins, but – I came in properly and looked around for something.

‘I like your rug. Yeah, your rug’s nice.’ A sheepskin – you saw them in all the village shops here – ancient-looking, like it had come off the back of a really raggedy, pissed-off old sheep.

He looked at me, surprised, and like I was an idiot, and nodded. He handed me a chipped brown mug, the same colour as the tea he’d made.

There was a chair that seemed to have been assembled from an old bench. Its back was fashioned from criss-crossing rope, strung on the frame like an Inuit snowshoe. The seat cushion was a blanket, folded up.

I sat down on it. Queasiness swirled in the base of my throat. ‘Do you have any sugar?’

He picked up a dirty, crinkled bag from one of the slatted shelves below the sink and passed it to me, along with a dessert spoon. God, he didn’t say much. I dumped a glen’s worth into my cup, trying to stop myself shaking.

A family of cacti stood on the table like a bristly version of the three bears. The little lumpen baby was set low in the pot, covered in fine white spines as if spritzed with frost. The big fat daddy had a ridged back sprouting dark orange spikes. And the rubbery middle-sized one had two furry eyes, which were getting bigger and glaring at me.

They were definitely glaring at me.

‘Um, excuse me?’

My mouth was a peat bog. I had my face in a pillow.

‘You need to wake up, I think.’ I opened my eyes to find him standing on the ladder, looking at me.

His bed. I was lying on his bed and had kicked the covers into bunches. And was sweating like mad.

‘Oh my God.’ I dragged my head up and wiped the saliva at the side of my mouth. ‘I’m really sorry.’ My brain felt like the underside of that sheepskin, stretched from ear to ear. ‘I don’t know how I—’