I continued to watch her as we walked, but she didn’t look at me. She just stared straight ahead, her eyes fixed on the boot of the car. Someone had tried to cover the licence plate with plastic, but it was starting to fall away. I could see the last two digits – one and eight. You don’t cover your licence plate unless you have something to hide.

I looked around again, storing away every little detail. We were somewhere remote. I could hear no sound except for the hum of the engine, the clinking of the camera, the clip-clop of the heels. There were no road markings, no street lamps. If it hadn’t been for the car lights, we would’ve been in complete darkness. We were on a back road somewhere, probably in the countryside. We followed the car for what seemed like an eternity, but it may have only been for a few seconds. That’s the problem with dreams – you can’t tell how much time has passed.

The car stopped abruptly and we stopped too. There was complete silence.

This was the kind of place where you could hear a pin drop, the kind of place where nobody could hear you scream. The driver’s door opened. The radio was on low – a Cure song was barely audible through the speakers. A man got out of the car. He was wearing denims, a black jumper and a balaclava. I let out a frightened gasp.

I quickly covered my mouth to mute any more sound that might come out. I was shaking all over, but I tried to stay perfectly still. He looked around and glanced straight in my direction. But it soon became obvious that he had neither seen nor heard me. He was oblivious to both of us. He took a torch from his pocket and flicked it on, a blue beam illuminating the ground in front of him. He took another look around, then opened the boot and pulled out a heaving bin bag. He swung it over his shoulder and hurried across the road, struggling a little under the weight. In his haste the bag tore and an arm dropped out, pale and limp, the fingernails painted bright red.