At 9.30 p.m., I open the front door and walk to the bottom of my drive. The lane is silent apart from the rustle of wind in the leaves and the faint hooting of a wood pigeon. I stand by the wall for several minutes, shivering in my short-sleeved polo shirt, staring into the darkness, waiting for the flash of headlights in the distance, then turn and walk back to the cottage. I’m halfway up the drive when I notice the plume of grey steam, puffing up from the ground and twirling in the night sky, obliterating the stars. For a second, I’m confused: the railway tracks run south of my cottage, not north. But then it hits me. It’s not steam from an old engine gusting into the air; it’s smoke. The thick, dense, choking smoke that billows from a burning building. And it’s coming from Green Fields.

The acrid smell of burning straw, wood and plastic grows stronger as I approach the peak of the hill, my palms clammy and my thighs burning as I grip the handlebars and transfer my weight from left to right, left to right. The frenzied barking I heard halfway up the hill becomes a cacophony as I skid around the corner into Green Fields, but, despite my frantic 999 call before I left home, there are no flashing lights awaiting me, no fire engine sailing over the brow of the hill, sirens wailing. The sanctuary car park is empty, apart from a single Fiat Uno, parked at a strange angle just outside the doors to reception. Whoever is responsible for the fire has either abandoned the car, or they’re still here. Instinctively, I glance up towards Sheila’s house, but it’s shrouded in darkness. She won’t be back from her holiday for another five days.