‘A young boy’s,’ he says, staring straight at me. ‘Isn’t that what buyers want to see? A family house, somewhere that’s been lived in, enjoyed. Not some mausoleum.’

‘How did you get in here?’ I say, looking around incredulously. ‘How come you know so much?’

‘You mean you don’t remember?’ he says, closing the door and coming towards me.

‘Remember what?’ I say, my chest tightening as I think of the night of the burlesque, his arms pinning me to the bed. He grabs me and presses his face to mine. ‘Connor, please don’t do this, please, I beg you.’

‘Why do you keep calling me Connor, Iris?’ he says, letting go of me. ‘Surely you know who I am? How quickly people forget. One minute you’re a famous author with people falling in adoration at your feet, the next you’re yesterday’s man, forgotten, washed up.’

It’s then I hear the West Country burr, the sing-song cadence to his voice.

‘Geoffrey?’ I whisper, my throat tightening. ‘It … it can’t be?’

‘Oh, Iris,’ he laughs, shaking his head. ‘You are so funny. What are we going to do with you?’

‘Who –’ I say, gulping down my fear. ‘Who are you then?’

‘You really don’t remember?’

I shake my head. He comes right up to me again, his face inches from mine. Then he takes the balaclava off.

‘Still don’t remember?’

I shake my head, fear pinching at my skin. The man is in his late thirties with a shaved head, piercing blue eyes and an angry red scar running across the left side of his face. There’s something familiar about him, like I’ve seen him somewhere before, though I don’t know where or how.

He gazes into the space beyond my shoulder, his brow furrowed.

‘All those letters,’ he says, his eyes hardening. ‘You above everybody else seemed to understand me.’

‘I don’t know who you are,’ I cry, my throat tightening. ‘I’m so sorry but I don’t.’

‘He always took away the people I loved most,’ he says, his lip curling. ‘He always had to be in control.’

‘Who did?’ I say. ‘Who are you talking about?’

‘Him,’ he says, almost spitting out the word. ‘Our beloved Geoffrey Rivers. My dear old dad.’

36. Now

‘But Geoffrey didn’t have a son,’ I say, trying my best to keep calm. ‘He told me himself. He seemed sad about it, regretful.’

‘Sad that his little cash cow had dried up,’ says the man, sitting down on the bed.

‘What do you mean?’ I say, glancing at the door. I should make a run for it now, get out of here as fast as I can, yet something is stopping me. It’s a memory of candy-floss stalls and men on stilts breathing fire.