The boy turned to face me. He couldn’t have been more than fourteen.

His gaze was searingly familiar.

Perhaps they know it. Perhaps that’s why they always try to hide their eyes, darting to and fro, behind their hair or beneath half-closed eyelids. This boy had pulled his cap down way too low over his forehead.

‘Yes, you,’ I said, waving him over. ‘Come here. Shut up and come over here.’

He didn’t move.

‘Do you want me to tell everybody why you’re here, or would you like to come a little bit closer? So that we can maintain a certain level of… discretion?’

Hesitantly he took a step towards me. Stopped.

‘Come here,’ I said, in a slightly more friendly tone of voice.

Another step. And another.

‘Sit down.’

The boy leaned back against the reception desk and slid slowly down onto his bottom. He wrapped his arms around his knees, not looking at me.

‘You’re on the run,’ I stated quietly, not bothering to ask. ‘You live in a care home for young people. You’ve had several foster homes, but it all goes pear-shaped every single time.’

‘Bullshit,’ he mumbled.

‘I’m not really interested in having a discussion about it. A fourteen-year-old like you, travelling alone… Or perhaps you’re part of a fairytale family who just decided to take a trip, as the weather was so nice? Can you show me who you’re travelling with?’

‘I’m not fourteen.’

‘Thirteen, then.’

‘I’m fifteen, for fuck’s sake.’

‘In a year or two, maybe.’

‘In January! A month ago! Do you want proof, or something?’

Furiously he pulled his wallet out of a pair of jeans that were way too big for him. It was made of nylon in a camouflage pattern, and was fastened to his belt by a chain. As he pulled out a credit card I noticed that his cuticles were so badly bitten they were bloody.

‘Wow,’ I said, without looking at him. ‘Credit cards, no less. All grown up. We’ll say fifteen, then. And now you’re going to listen to me. What’s your name?’