‘Well, look at you, Tommo,’ he says in a singsong voice. ‘Got a hot date tonight?’

Thomas smiles wryly and is surprised he doesn’t flush. ‘Maybe.’

Spence’s face lights up and he jumps up from his desk. ‘Bloody hell, mate. After all these years you’re finally on a date! Who’s the lucky girl? It’s a girl, isn’t it?’

Thomas pulls on his overcoat and looks away. ‘Fuck off, Spence,’ he replies with a grin.

‘Course it is!’ says Spence. ‘I can’t wait to tell Binks. That’ll shut her up once and for all.’

Thomas feels a twang of irritation and opens the flat door. ‘Just don’t say anything, Spence. It’s none of her business.’

‘Right, right, our secret. Who is she, Tommo? Do I know her?’

‘You know her very well.’

‘Fuck! I’m dying to know. Who is it? Tell me!’

Thomas hurries out the door. ‘It’s your mother, Spence.’

Thomas hears Spence laughing. ‘Fuck you! Make sure you do everything my asshole father couldn’t, you dirty bastard!’

Across the street Thomas sees a silver Toyota Prius parked on the side of the road. The driver is silhouetted by the light spilling from the grocery store. A man and woman stroll toward it and speak to the driver, but he shakes his head and they walk away. The driver turns and seems to be looking his way. Thomas crosses the road and looks in through the passenger side window. The driver is wearing thick black-rimmed glasses and a flat cap.

‘Taxi for Thomas?’ he says.

The driver nods and as Thomas jumps inside he activates the central locking and the engine kicks into life. Thomas has no idea where he is going. ‘It’s a surprise,’ Jack said.

They drive through the backroads for twenty minutes heading west and out of town, which is unusual but he doesn’t question it. He takes out his phone and messages Jack.

In the cab. See you soon. X

A few moments pass but Jack doesn’t respond. Thomas sighs and slips the phone back into his coat pocket.

The driver turns off a dual carriageway and onto a dark slip road.

‘Where are we going?’ asks Thomas.

‘We are almost there,’ replies the driver. His accent is foreign. Eastern European, perhaps.

Thomas shrugs and sits back.

The car slows and passes through an old iron gate that is covered in uncut and neglected trees and shrubs. Up ahead he sees an old building, a crumbling gothic manor house with turrets and battlements across the roof. It has church-like windows which are boarded up and others that are empty and black. The path to the house is overgrown with weeds and grass. The front door is slightly ajar, a greenish light seeps through the crack.

‘I am to wait for you both here,’ says the driver.