It was a small town, hardly any bigger than a village really. The high street was wide like a boulevard but with no trees. The houses were painted white but most were in need of improvement. A few cars were parked outside a small row of shops. Really an unremarkable town apart from having a name that didn’t fit. “Diva”, it said on the sign, “population: 4,305”.

The dog was still following at a distance as the man made his way along the street. He’d opened the book he was carrying and was trying to find a particular page. The writing inside appeared to be in code of some description, a western script but no obvious language. The man appeared to find what he was looking for in the book and stopped for a second, scanning some of the inscriptions. He closed his eyes and mouthed something slowly, deep in concentration. The dog took the opportunity to catch up, and sat next to him, looking expectant. The man looked along the street until he saw a number on one of the shops. 35. He walked further, stopping outside the house between a bungalow numbered 41 and a long-closed bookshop, 45. It was an unremarkable house of two storeys with a green door of peeling paint but otherwise just the same as the other houses, grimy white and slowly deteriorating. The remaining numeral on the door was a 3 but had slipped around to look more like an E. The gate squealed as he opened it. No movement could be seen inside the house as the man walked up the path to the front door. Glancing down to double check the writing in the book, he knocked loudly at the green door. After waiting some time, he tried the handle. It wasn’t locked.