Mr Hogarth consulted the leaflet.

This must be it - 450 Brightwell St. The adjacent properties were marked 448 and 452 respectively, but this newly-painted door bore no defining numbers.

“Perhaps somebody removed them to paint,” he thought, trying the key in the door, which swung smoothly open.

Glancing round, he could see why the estate agent hadn’t bothered to accompany him; there was nothing here to steal. Still you’d think they’d want to ensure the property was secured on leaving, if only to deter squatters.

Not that this property would hold much interest even for a squatter. No shelves, no light fittings, no floor coverings. He went through to the back of the shop – no sink, no toilet facilities. And even though it was a two storey property, there was no sign of a staircase granting access to the upper level.

What good was this to anyone?

There was also a familiar smell of burning in this room, something that stirred unpleasant, if unidentifiable, memories for Mr Hogarth. And just faintly, he could hear an equally disturbing high pitched whining noise, gradually becoming louder.

No. This place wouldn’t do at all.

Turning to leave he found his way barred by a tall man dressed completely in white. The man smiled encouragingly, revealing perfectly even white teeth.

“It’s Mr Hogarth isn’t it? Sorry to have kept you waiting. Do sit down.” The man motioned him back into the room.

Mr Hogarth turned and saw that a chair had materialised in the middle of the room – a comfortable looking leather chair with a foot rest. That hadn’t been there before. What was going on here?

The man in white was advancing on him, a large syringe one hand. He gently pushed Mr Hogarth into the reclining chair with one hand, and raised his top lip with the other, whilst nudging a bucket to the side of the chair with his foot.

“It’ll soon be over, Mr Hogarth.”

The last thing Mr Hogarth saw, before the syringe pierced his gum, was a bucket brimming with small objects of varying shapes and shades of white, each with red fibres dangling from one end.

That was, in fact, the last thing that Mr Hogarth saw at all.

Back at the estate agents in the High St, the receptionist grumbled as she examined the key rack. Yet another client had failed to return the keys to this property. It was a good job, she thought, that she’d had several spares cut.

“Here you are, Mrs Anderson,” she trilled to the customer leafing through the property register, “450 Brightwell St, you can’t miss it. It’s right between the undertaker’s and the denture repair workshop.