Will she recognise me? My heart is thumping, and I don’t meet her eye, tipping the brim of my cap down low. I try to remind myself yet again that it was twilight when it all happened, and I had my back to her as I ran away, but still …

‘Hi!’ she says. It sounds like she’s smiling, but I’m trying not to look up. ‘You must be Susan? And …’

Her eyes flick to me. Susan says, ‘This is Malcolm. He’s part of the project as well.’

I still don’t lift up my face.

‘I’m Andrina. I’m Mr McKinley’s carer. Call me Andi.’ She’s still sounding pleased to see us. She beckons us into the high, wide hallway with a highly polished tile floor and a wide staircase. She stops at the first doorway and points to a bottle on a small table. ‘Hand-san, please. Mr McKinley’s ninety and he’s had a nasty cold recently.’

As we’re doing it, she takes out a device from her smock pocket and holds it up. Meanwhile, I’m looking around for the dog, and so far no sign.

‘Cap off, please, Malcolm. I need to take your temperature.’

Slowly and reluctantly, I remove the cap, but my face is still cast downwards. ‘Come on,’ she says. ‘Don’t be shy!’ She reaches out and gently holds my chin to make me face her and puts the thermometer to my forehead. As she does so, she looks closely at me.

Now if you’d asked me a few weeks ago if I thought that anyone could be psychic – you know, read minds and stuff – then I’d have said, ‘Obviously not.’ But since I began sharing dreams with Seb you could say I’m not so sure. And now, with this woman’s face centimetres from mine? I’m so convinced that I know what she is thinking that it is like she is talking to me.

I know it was you that night, you little tyke. I’d recognise that haystack of hair anywhere. And so you can make amends by visiting a dying old man and listening to his rambling stories.

She looks at the thermometer, then at me and shakes her head, tutting.

‘Oh lordy!’ she says, and pauses, looking grave. Then her smile comes back. ‘Only joking! You’re fine. Come on in. He’s looking forward to meeting you. Shoes off, please.’ She’s being jolly, but there’s something in the narrow-eyed look that she throws at me that puts me right on edge.

From behind the thick door I can hear classical music: the sort played by an orchestra, although it doesn’t sound very tuneful – not that I’m an expert. My heart is still thumping like crazy.

We pause, and she beckons us forward.