After Louisa had gone, the constable returned, waving a set of handcuffs in Silas’s face. ‘Come on, lad.’

To his horror, the journey to the town hall was to be made on a public bus. He was led to the back, his neck prickling from the curious stares of the other passengers. Pushed down onto the bench, he dropped his head and studied the straw around his boots. The constable sat tight against him, as if afraid he’d make a run for it. His humiliation was complete. It couldn’t get worse than this. He’d never bear it.

At the town hall, he was walked down to the bowels of the building and wished that he had paid more attention to the outdoors, even just a glimpse of the sky or a tree or a chimney stack might have lessened the dread of another windowless room. His new prison wasn’t much bigger than a coffin. A shelf bed took up most of the space. He had a blanket and a bucket. There was no pretending this was a cellar in an ordinary house. He was in a proper cell now, but at least he had it to himself. The thought of sharing a cell filled him with terror.

He had been confined for three or four nights when he received a new visitor.

It had frightened him how quickly the monotony of the days caused him to lose track of time. Louisa had been to see him twice more, bringing bread and fruit and ham. Otherwise he’d be sustaining himself on the milk porridge, meat hash and weak coffee that was delivered daily by the young lad who also had the job of removing Silas’s waste bucket. Silas had attempted to communicate with him, had said hello, told him he knew another boy about his age who was called Adam and what was his name? ‘Joseph,’ the youngster whispered, clearly terrified of him. He wanted to tell the boy his side of the story, but how could he expect to be believed, a foreigner locked up in a cell with a bucket of piss for company?

Now, he could hear the key in the lock and Joseph appeared with a chair which he placed just inside the door. He sidled away, ignoring Silas’s inquiring look.

A woman about his mother’s age came into the cell and looked around nervously before settling her eyes on Silas. She wore a spotted green silk dress with a white lace collar and cuffs and her pale hair was netted. A simple, but expensive rig-out, even Silas could see that. His mother had never owned such a dress.

‘Good morning, I’m Mrs John Gunson,’ she said in a voice so soft he could barely make out the words. She sat on the chair.

Silas brushed his fringe away from his eyes and waited. He didn’t want to say anything that might incriminate him further.

‘Do you have parents, Silas, that we might contact?’

‘No!’ He’d startled her. ‘Sorry, but no. They’re not bothered about me.’ This sounded self-pitying and was not what he meant. ‘I mean, I got my landlady to write to ’em, after the flood, just so as to say I was alive, but I never ’eard back.’ He was impatient now. Was this why she was here? ‘It doesn’t make no odds. They don’t need to know. I don’t need ’em.’