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An arm pushes the trapdoor back, and then a woman steps up into the loft. I’ve seen her before, I realize; at the farmhouse with the baby. Which settles the question of where I am, if not why. She hesitates when she sees me.

‘You’re awake,’ she says.

It takes a moment to register that she’s spoken in English. Strongly accented and a little halting, but fluent enough. Feeling rough stone behind me, I find I’ve backed myself up against the wall. One hand has gripped the sheet into a sweaty knot.

I make myself let go. She stops a little way from the bed, which I’ve realized is just a mattress lying on the floorboards.

‘How do you feel?’ Her voice is low and quiet. She’s wearing a sleeveless shirt and well-worn jeans. There’s nothing threatening about her, but the sluggish computer of my brain seems stalled. My throat hurts when I try to speak. I swallow, try again.

‘My foot…’

‘It was badly cut. But don’t worry, it’s all right.’

Don’t worry? I look around. ‘Where am I?’

She doesn’t answer straight away, struggling either to understand the question or formulate her answer. I repeat it, this time in French.

‘You’re at the farm. Where you came for water.’ Her voice is more fluid in her own language, but there’s still a hesitancy about it, as though she’s vetting herself before she speaks.

‘Is this… it looks like a barn?’

‘There’s no room in the house.’ Her grey eyes are calm. ‘My sister found you in the woods. She fetched me and we brought you here.’

I have a fleeting image of a girl’s face, then it’s gone. None of this is making sense. My head is still so muzzy that I’m not sure how much of what I remember is real or delirium.

‘How long have I been here?’

‘We found you three days ago.’

Three days?

There are vague impressions of pain and sweat, of cool hands and reassuring words, but they could just be dreams. I can feel panic bubbling up in me again. I watch anxiously as she takes a twist of tissue from her pocket and unwraps a large white tablet.

‘What’s that?’

‘Only an antibiotic. We’ve been giving them to you while you were unconscious. You’ve been feverish, and the wound’s infected.’

I glance at the tent made by my foot under the sheet, all my other fears suddenly relegated.

‘How bad is it?’

She picks up a bottle from by the bed and pours water into a glass. ‘It’s healing. But you won’t be able to walk on it for a while.’

If she’s lying, I can’t tell. ‘What happened? There was a trap…’

‘Later. You need to rest. Here.’

She holds out the tablet and glass. I take them, too confused to think straight. But there’s an air of quiet reserve about her that’s strangely calming. She could be a year or two either side of thirty, slim but with a fullness of breast and hip. The dark hair is cut straight above the nape of her neck, and every now and again she tucks one side back behind an ear in a gesture that seems more habit than affectation. The only striking feature about her is her eyes, which, above the tired-looking shadows, are a dark and smoky grey.

I feel them on me now, solemn and unreadable as I swallow the tablet. I wash it down with water, first taking only a sip, then gulping it as I realize how thirsty I am.

‘More?’ she asks, as I finish. I nod and hold out the glass. ‘There’s fresh water in the bottles by the bed. Try to drink as much as you can. And if the pain gets bad take two of these.’

She holds up a bottle of tablets. On cue my foot begins to throb, the pain only a shadow of its former glory but there all the same. I try not to show it, but there’s something about the calm grey eyes that makes me think I’m not fooling her.

‘How did you know I was English?’

She answers without hesitation. ‘I looked in your passport.’

My mouth is abruptly dry, regardless of the water. ‘You went in my rucksack?’

‘Only to find out who you were.’

Her expression is grave without being apologetic. I try not to glance over at the rucksack, but my heart is thumping harder in my chest.

‘I have to go now,’ she tells me. ‘Try to rest. I’ll get you something to eat soon.’

I just nod, suddenly anxious for her to leave. I wait until she’s gone, the trapdoor lowered behind her, then drag my rucksack over. Relieved of its weight, the rocking horse nods backwards and forwards. I open the rucksack and plunge my hand inside, feeling nothing except clothes. Then, just when I’m convinced it’s gone, my fingers encounter a crinkle of plastic.

I don’t know whether I’m relieved or sorry.

The package doesn’t seem to have been disturbed. It sits heavily in my hand, its solid weight like an accusation. I should have got rid of it when I had the chance. Too late now. I wrap it in a T-shirt and tuck it back at the bottom of my rucksack, covering it with the rest of my clothes. I check that my passport and money are also still there. They are, but as I put them back my fingers touch a square of glossy card.