I reach into my handbag and pull out a flier, then shove it through me and go round the corner to the window again. The curtain twitches, just at the edge of the frame, and I catch a flash of pale pink flesh before it vanishes again.

There’s a creaking sound and I rush back to the door. It opens an inch or two and a male voice hisses, ‘Keep your voice down would you? The neighbours hate us as it is.’

The door opens wider. ‘Well, are you coming in or not?’

Chapter 15

I’d expected syringes and drug paraphernalia on the floor, or at least the stench of weed, mixed with urine and shit. I’d also imagined piles of rubbish, fast-food boxes, split bin bags, dirty walls and stained mattresses. Instead the walls are white – grubby but not soiled – and decorated with posters and murals. Mark would call it graffiti. There’s a frayed sofa too, an armchair and a low table holding what looks like some kind of screen-printing equipment. A guitar is propped up in the corner of the room along with several piles of books and half a dozen blank art canvases. Two men are sitting on the sofa. One’s reading a book about Andy Warhol; the other’s asleep, his head tipped back and his mouth wide open. I should be terrified, shut in a room with three men I don’t know, but I’m too shocked to feel fear. I thought I was about to walk into a drugs den and instead it’s as though I’ve walked into a student flat.

‘He was up late working,’ says the large man in the red hoody who hissed at me to come in. ‘He’s off to a festival soon. T-shirts,’ he adds, gesturing towards the screen-printing equipment. ‘He does them all by hand.’

I feel myself gawp. ‘Squatters work?’

‘We all work,’ says the man with the book, looking up, and my cheeks burn. Did I just say that aloud? ‘Jay busks and—’

‘You don’t work,’ says Red Hoody who must be Jay. ‘You’re a student.’

‘I use my brain,’ says the man on the sofa. ‘It’s work, believe you me.’

‘I’d offer you a cup of tea,’ says Jay, ‘but the council shut off the electric last week. We’ve still got water though, if you want some?’

‘No, thank you.’

He’s holding Billy’s flier, crumpled up in his hand, but no one has mentioned my son since I walked in. And there’s no sign of the bike.

‘Have any of you seen Billy?’ I gesture at the flier.

Jay shakes his head. The art student shrugs. Sleeping man snorts in his sleep and wakes with a start. He stares at me through glassy eyes, then seems to jolt into himself. ‘Who are you?’

‘Claire Wilkinson. Billy’s mum. I think you might know him.’