He stamps his feet and scowls at me. I take a deep breath, then take my hand away and walk back down the passage, passing the open door of the bedroom. I can hear Joe’s footsteps on the stone floor behind me as I stop outside the door at the end of the passage, close to the entrance hall. I try the handle and it opens immediately. I put my hand out behind me to keep Joe back, not sure what I’m going to confront.

It’s very dark in the room and it smells of stale mothballs. Stepping carefully inside, I can make out the frame of a bed in the centre. I approach it and see that the bed is covered in animal skins. It looks disgusting but I need to see if it can be slept in. I fold back the sheets. A cloud of dust rises, catching in my throat. This is old dust, ancient body particles. I try not to think about the person who once slept here, clothed in animal skins.

Yet to my relief I see that the mattress is clean and soft, and the animal skins, though not what I’m used to, will at least be warm. We can sleep in here tonight. I replace the skins then look around the room. There’s a shelf on the wall beside the bed. A set of beads is threaded across it. I look closer. It’s a necklace made of tiny pearls. It looks out of place in this house, a piece of beauty and femininity among the animal skins and the stench and the dirt. Next to the necklace is a metal candle holder, the candle long since melted, and a small leather-bound book. I take it down from the shelf and open it. It’s written in what looks like Arabic. As I turn the pages I see that someone has added little pencil drawings alongside the printed words. Foxes and birds and faceless women.

‘Daddy,’ says Joe behind me. ‘We go find him now?’

‘Not yet,’ I say as I push the skins to the edge of the room with my foot. ‘We just have to be here for a little while longer. We need to sort out this bed and make things habitable and then …’

I stop and turn to look at him, through the fog of dust, and my heart hurts. He is standing in the doorway, his hands clasped in front of him. He’s still a baby, not even four years old yet, and I’m expecting him to understand things that even adults can’t.

‘I’m sorry, Joe,’ I say, placing the book back on the shelf. ‘Mummy just wants to make everything perfect for you and –’

My words are interrupted by a banging noise. It’s coming from outside.

‘Daddy,’ cries Joe, his eyes shining.

My body goes rigid. It can’t be. He can’t have found us. Not here.

‘Shh,’ I whisper, scooping him into my arms and edging out of the room into the passage.