‘It’s okay, Mum,’ the man on the phone says. ‘Just … sorry, hang on a second …’ There’s a muffled sound like a hand being placed over the receiver but I can still make out the low rumble of his voice.

‘Mum?’ His voice is clear again. ‘Is there a door or a window you could open? Tell me what you can see.’

I don’t want to move from the bed. I don’t want to open the pine door to my right or the closed gingham curtains at the far end of the room.

‘Please, Mum. As soon as we know where you are we can come and get you.’

We? Who is we? Who is coming to get me? I’m in danger. I need to run but I can’t move.

‘Dad’s here, Mum. Do you want to speak to him?’

‘No,’ I say and I don’t know why.

‘Are you sure?’ the man says and an image appears in my mind – vivid and sharp in the gloom – of a young man with tousled fair hair, shaved at the sides, and broad shoulders, lying on a bench, pushing weights into the air.

‘Jake?’ I venture.

‘Yes, Mum. It’s Jake. I’m at home with Dad. Liz just came round, wanting to talk to you. That’s when we realized you’d gone missing.’

I search for a memory, something, anything, to still my mind, to stop this terrifying free-fall sensation. Where is my home? Why don’t I remember?

‘Yes, I know, okay. Okay, Dad.’ The man is talking to someone else again. ‘I just asked her that. Mum, can you describe what you can see?’

I look back at the Lowry painting, at the boy standing right of centre staring into the crowd, looking for someone, then I look at the shiny pale pink bedspread, the mirror, the cheap pine table and the white tea tray.

‘I think I’m in a hotel room.’

‘Is there a phone? Can you ring reception to find out which hotel you’re in? Or is there a brochure or room-service menu anywhere?’

I slide across the pink bedspread and press my toes into the worn pile of the beige carpet, then inch my way across the room, keeping one eye on the door, and approach the table near the mirror. There’s a white china teapot on a tray and two cups and saucers. There’s also a dish containing tea, coffee, sugar and tiny cartons of milk. There are no brochures, no menus, no phone. Nothing else in the room at all other than my handbag and boots, with my socks tucked into the top, on the floor by the bed.

I touch the edge of the gingham curtain and tentatively pull it back. Outside is a low railing, a balcony and a stretch of grey-brown sea with a lump of land in the distance, an island shaped like a turtle’s back.