Eventually we pulled into the driveway of a large modern house with red-brick walls and shining white-trimmed windows. It was mounted on a small hill of rich brown earth, ornamental boulders and topiary, all fenced by hardwood pikes driven in around the base. Next to these domestic fortifications there was a wide drive at the level of the street. There was another white van parked in front of the triple-door garage, and a BMW 5 series next to it. Sitting between the two huge hunks of metal on the snow-sprinkled tarmac was a child’s tricycle, the seat and handlebars dusted with white flakes. This last detail appeared so incongruous to me that I could not square it away with my fearful fantasies.

The large man waited for one of his companions to get out and open the door from outside. He ushered us up to the front door of the house and rang the bell. On the doorstep I smelt a whiff of chlorine. Through a window at the level of my ankles, I made out a peaceful oblong of blue tiles, lit from above with bright orange spots. A basement pool explained the building’s odd elevation. My mind was reeling. I could not imagine why they had brought us to such a place. Through the hall window I could see a pot holding black umbrellas. The driver and his side passenger stood just behind the two of us, so close I could smell tobacco on the former, and feel the warmth of his breath in the still cold air. With the odd combination of the menacing and the mundane, and the heightened state of my emotions, the trip had begun to seem like a dream. The intercom buzzed, and he said no word of greeting, just his name like a password: ‘Joe.’ I wondered if we were safer or doomed, knowing his name. The house had an open-plan interior, and the lounge gave directly on to the hall. On the living-room sofa a large man in a cheap suit sat reading the Sun. An espresso steamed on the table in front of him. The floor was strewn with building blocks, and at the centre was a small boy of about five, wearing red dungarees. He was mixed race, a handsome little heartbreaker with huge almond eyes, a king enthroned in his own little heap of chaos. He looked up as we entered, but quickly judged us irrelevant, turning back to his bricks. Then the door at the end of the room opened and Lisa came out. She had another much younger white child balanced on her hip. The baby’s sex was only discernible from the pink nappy. Lisa was rocking it and making short, professional shushing sounds as it grizzled away quietly with ambient discomfort. The sight of the child calmed me.

‘Here, take this off my hands will you, Joe? Needs a change.’

She handed the baby to the enormous man, who sniffed its hindquarters, making the wrinkles and scars on his mug deepen with disgust. ‘Phew! Fucking hell. Come on then, little monster, let’s get you sorted.’