‘Billy is my son. He’s missing. You have to tell me if he’s here.’

‘Missing? Goodness. Have you told the police?’

‘Yes. Six months ago. Please! I need to know if he’s here or not.’ I lean over the counter and reach for the clipboard but he snatches it away, flattening it against his chest.

‘I’ve got a flier.’ I duck down and rummage around in my bag. ‘Here!’ I hold the appeal leaflet face out so he’s eye to eye with Billy’s photo.

The man gives the briefest of nods when he’s finished reading and our eyes meet as I lower the leaflet. There. He’s giving me the look. The ‘you poor bloody woman’ look I’ve come to know so well.

‘I wouldn’t normally do this but …’ He presses his glasses slowly onto his nose, lowers the clipboard and dips his head. He trails a bitten-down fingernail along the list and my heart stills when his finger stops.

Has he …

Is it …

He shakes his head. ‘I’m sorry. There’s no Billy Wilkinson on this list.’

‘Maybe he’s using a different name?’

He places the clipboard on the desk and presses down on it with his palms. ‘It’s a small hotel, Mrs Wilkinson, just thirteen rooms. We’ve got a couple in with a teenage girl and half a dozen families with young children. I’d remember your son’s face if I’d booked him in.’

‘Does no one else take the bookings?’

There’s sadness in his eyes now. Sadness and pity. ‘No. I’m really very sorry.’

The tension that’s been holding me upright for the length of the conversation vanishes and I slump against the desk, eviscerated. It’s all I can do not to lay the side of my face on the cool wood and close my eyes.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he says again.

I look up. ‘Did you check me in?’

He nods. ‘Yes. One night, paid upfront. Don’t you remember?’

‘No. I don’t remember walking in, or even how I got to Weston. One minute I was talking to a friend in Bristol and the next …’ I can’t explain what happened because I don’t understand it myself. I came to but not in the way you do when you wake up after a nap or a long sleep. And it wasn’t like the hazy slip into consciousness after a general anaesthetic either. I was awake but my mind was muddled, tangled in a jumble of sounds, images and thoughts that gradually faded away. And then everything was sharp, in focus, as I became aware of my surroundings. And it was terrifying. Utterly terrifying.

‘Boozy lunch, was it?’ the man asks, the sympathy in his eyes dulling.

‘No,’ I say. ‘We were drinking tea.’

‘Sounds like you should get yourself to a doctor.’