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There is a room; hidden underground, where I like to sit and read, safe from anyone and anything, whilst the world above me turns to smoke and ash.

I reach it by a trapdoor, that is hidden under a thick carpet, and which takes all my strength to pull up. Once through it, I climb down a long wooden ladder, cautiously feeling each step below me before putting my foot down on it, as it is pitch black, at least at first. But as I go further down, eventually there is a glimmer of light, and when I reach the bottom, I am in an underground tunnel, with oil lamps that occasionally flicker although I can feel no wind, and which lead far into the distance.

I set off down this corridor which is cold and damp, and smells of earth. Every so often there is a door in front of me, each one can only be unlocked by a unique key, I hold these on a ring which I carry with me, attached to my belt. Each key is hefty and looks as if it belongs to a church or another Holy place, and I have to turn them with all my strength to open each door.

After unlocking countless locks, there it is, the final door standing in front of me, which I open, and on the inside of which are bars which I push across the inside of the door, so I can sit inside and feel safe, knowing that nobody can reach me.

In the centre of the room there is a large, armchair, identical to the one my late father owned, and where he would sit to listen to his CDs of Bach and Handel and read detective novels, whilst the world outside fell in on itself. It is comfortable and well-used, and I can see the discoloured ring on the arm of the chair, where he used to place his evening cup of coffee, which if I try hard enough, I can still smell.

All around me are vast bookshelves which reach up to the ceiling and hold myriads of books; Victorian novels in hard covers, old sermons, art books with gorgeous illustrations and maps showing that once men and women could escape their borders and explore the world.

The room is completely silent, apart from the sound of me leafing through reproductions of Goya’s sketches. My overwhelming emotion is the feeling of being secure, the number of doors, the locks and chains and endless corridors between the outside and me, surely keeping me safe from the demons that howl in the city above my head.

And yet the longer I remain there, the more scared I feel, because despite the obscurity of my hiding place, I am certain that they know that I am here and when the time is right, they will pull aside the carpet, lift up the trapdoor, swarm down the ladder and march down the corridor, effortlessly smashing down each door as they come to it, until they reach the room where I lie cowering behind the final door, with nothing but a battered chair and some old books to protect me.