Each day he had seen the young samurai, Taka-san, who appeared to be Hiroko’s house guard, enter and leave through a small gate in the garden wall. That was his way out. It was pointless asking if he could leave – he was a prisoner both of language and circumstance. They simply bowed and responded ‘Gomennasai, wakarimasen’ to everything he said, which by their expression and tone he presumed meant ‘Sorry, I don’t understand’.

After the now familiar breakfast of rice, a few pickled vegetables and wheat gruel, he went for his daily walk round the garden. When Uekiya bent over to tend some already immaculately pruned bush, Jack made for the gate. He checked Jiro and Hiroko were inside the house before pulling on the latch, and silently slipped through. The gate closed with the tiniest of clicks, but Uekiya heard it and shouted after him.

‘Iye! Abunai! Abunai!’

Jack ran.

Not caring about the cries of alarm or where he was headed, he darted down a dirt road and weaved in between buildings until he was out of sight of the house.

Quickly taking his bearings, Jack saw that the village sat in the bowl of a large natural harbour with mountains rising up in the distance. Surrounding the village were countless terraced fields dotted with farmers tending rice beds. Despite the pain in his arm, he dashed past the stunned villagers and headed downhill towards the sea.

Jack turned a corner and unexpectedly found himself in the middle of the village square. Ahead was a large cobblestone jetty where men and women were gutting fish and repairing nets. In the harbour beyond, myriad fishing boats dotted the waters. Women dressed in thin white slips dived from the boats, disappearing and reappearing with bags full of seaweed and shellfish and oysters. A small sandy island lay in the centre of the bay, a red wooden gateway dominating its beach.

A hushed silence descended upon the square and Jack became aware of hundreds of eyes studying him. The whole village appeared frozen in time. Women in vibrantly coloured kimonos knelt motionless by sellers in mid-purchase; fish, half-gutted in the hands of fishermen, glinted in the bright sunshine; and a samurai warrior, statue-like, glared stonily at him.

After a moment’s hesitation, Jack tentatively bowed. The samurai barely acknowledged his greeting, but moved on, ignoring him. A few women returned Jack’s bow, bemusement shining in their eyes, and the villagers resumed their daily activities. Only too aware that all were still eyeing him with suspicion, Jack crossed the square to the jetty and made his way down to a small beach.

He scanned the boats, seeking a foreign ship. But to no avail; every vessel was Japanese and crewed by Japanese. Despairing, Jack huddled down next to a small fishing boat and stared blankly out to sea.

England was two years and four thousand leagues away. The only home he knew and Jess, the only family he had left, were on the other side of the world. What hope did he have of ever reaching her? What had been the point in running? He had nowhere to go. No money. No rutter. Not even his own clothes! With his blond hair, he stood out like a sore thumb among the black-haired Japanese.