She had anticipated not recognising Victor but there’d been a part of her that had thought she’d see something of the young man she’d adored in the man he had become. And there was nothing. She wasn’t even one hundred per cent sure that it was Victor standing there.

‘It’s been a long time, Jodie.’ His lips parted in the semblance of a smile. ‘What? You don’t recognise me? Prison tends to have that effect, my dear. The daily fear wears you down and ages you.’

‘How do I know–’

‘That I’m Victor?’ His smile broadened. ‘I suppose you’re going to have to trust me.’

Jodie looked up and down the street. This was a bad idea. If she chose to go in, wasn’t she putting herself in a very precarious position. Victor looked old and frail, but maybe it was an act he was putting on. Her eyes narrowed, that peculiar hue to his skin though, that didn’t augur well.

When Victor stood back and waved her in, she took a final look around and stepped inside.

The door slammed behind her, her yelp of shock an automatic response. She turned and glared at him. A single bare bulb hung from the high ceiling of the narrow hallway. It provided little illumination, creating unsettling shades and shadows, and leaving the corners, where anything could be hiding, in complete darkness. Even in the poor light, she could see Victor’s gleeful smile at her discomfort.

‘Sorry. The door is rotten, it’s hard to shut.’ He indicated the stairway behind. ‘I’m on the third floor. No lift, I’m afraid.’

Jodie followed his slow ascent, trying not to breathe too deeply. There was a pervasive smell of damp and rot but there were others, more subtle but equally noisome, that made her stomach flip-flop. She needed something positive to cling to. After this, she’d confirm what she knew, and start planning for her future.

On the third floor, Victor pushed open a fire door. ‘Almost there.’

At the end of a narrow corridor, he stopped. ‘Ta-dah!’ He grinned, opened the door, and waited for her to step through.

The line of a poem she’d learned as a child popped unexpectedly into Jodie’s head. ‘Come into my parlour,’ said the spider to the fly. She could remember no more, couldn’t remember the fate of the poor fly, and felt foolishly grateful she didn’t.