When I came to the town, lockdown had already begun. The virus, not usually fatal but highly infectious, haunted the place. The streets were quiet with just the odd car growling by; only a skeleton bus service and small numbers of pedestrians; people dashing guiltily out to the shops or health professionals walking to work.

I managed to rent a room in a gloomy boarding house like a set from a bleak kitchen-sink British film. They should have turned me away, of course, as they didn’t know where I’d come from, who I was or with whom I’d been in contact. I suppose money was tight in lockdown. Anyway, the landlord made no difficulty. If he had known that I’d been in prison, he may have been less accommodating.

The room was shabby, worn and old-fashioned but clean enough and comfortable. There was an over-firm sofa that folded out as a bed, a kitchen recess with a cooker, sink and a tiny fridge. There was even a shower and a toilet. I spent my first day cleaning every surface, using just soap and water, since that was all I had.

When I had finished I clattered down the uncarpeted wooden stairs, let myself out the front door, tugged a cloth mask over the lower half of my face like Dick Turpin and headed for the shops. These were places of fear, strangers avoiding each other like sworn enemies, hiding behind their masks and sweating into latex gloves. I filled a couple of carrier bags with a few basics. There was no point in getting a lot since I had so little ...