The man in front went to the back stairs and opened the big door, pocketing the key that I’d left hanging in the lock as I clattered backwards down the steps. He held it open for me and I ducked under his arm, turning to see the two men manoeuvring John through the doorway. There was the sound of a match striking against a rough surface and then a soft light was filling the old parlour. The man in charge was holding a big fat church candle near to his face and it made everything look all eerie and off balance. I didn’t know why he didn’t just flick the light on. I was pretty sure the system must still work because Cordy had been there herself not more than a few months before and never said they were having difficulties. Then the other two were pulling out little torches from zip-up pockets. There were circles of yellow light spinning and flashing on the flagstone floor and up over the beams in the ceiling. It was like being in an air raid. I was trying to get my bearings, stumbling over to where the kitchen table should be, reaching out for a chair for John, wondering if the phone would still work, whether these people were going to help me or make things worse.

I half squealed when I saw the others. A man and a woman, arms around one another, thick black hair and eyes white as winter moonlight. Beside them sat a small, thin-limbed little man, thick glasses and a goatee beard. His face was like a caricature: like somebody had doodled some vague features on a scrap of paper. He gave me a look that was almost apologetic, flashing something between a grimace and a smile. His teeth were the sort you’d see in a dug-up skull – three or four missing at the front and the others all crooked, as if they were trying to plug the gaps. He was wearing a thick sheepskin coat and a silly hat with ear-flaps. It took a moment before he glanced down at what he was holding in his hand and then back up to me.

I didn’t say a word. Just stared at the little black gun in his hand.

‘The cleaner, apparently,’ said the man in charge. ‘And I presume this is her husband. If poor timing were an Olympic sport they’d be medal contenders. He’s sprung a leak. Not long out of hospital. I’m going to mentally file this under “unforeseen circumstances”.’

He said something in a language I didn’t understand. Directed it to the two who were sitting next to him. The woman raised her head. Gave me something that might have been a smile.