Jean had not intended to spend £187.50 on Joe Jackson.

She had seen him before, obviously. Hammersmith Odeon, 1980. Peter had queued for the tickets and complained about the price, which she thought had been £4.50. She could no longer remember Peter’s surname.

The Palladium website offered PREMIUM STALLS EXPERIENCE and, after three glasses of wine, Jean decided she was entitled to one.

She bought a programme as well.

Joe was older. So was she. This seemed fair.

For two hours she was twenty-three again, except that at twenty-three she had been able to stand up without making a small noise.

Afterwards she went round the back.

There were about forty people there. Most were her age. One man had brought four albums in plastic sleeves. A woman in a pork-pie hat said she had seen Joe thirty-seven times.

“Thirty-eight after tonight,” Jean said.

The woman looked at her.

Eventually somebody came out.

He was thin, grey and unmistakably Joe Jackson.

“Joe!”

Everyone surged towards him.

He signed three things and said thank you a lot. Jean hung back. She suddenly felt embarrassed about the programme. What was she expecting? That he would see her and remember Hammersmith?

Then he did see her.

He smiled.

“You.”

Jean looked behind her.

“Yes, you. God.”

He came towards her.

“I don’t believe it.”

Jean didn’t either.

He put both hands on her shoulders and looked at her face.

“Hammersmith?”

Jean began to laugh.

“1980.”

“I knew it.”

She kissed him on the cheek.

Nobody saw them leave together.

The house was in Eaton Square.

Jean was impressed by this, although not quite as impressed as Joe appeared to expect.

“Very Lucan,” she said.

He stared at her.

“Lower Belgrave Street,” she said. “Butler’s shoe throw.”

He smiled and unlocked the door.

The basement was reached through the kitchen.

“Studio?”

“Sort of.”

He let her go first.

There was no studio.

His name really was Joe Jackson.

That was important to him.

He showed her his driving licence during the first week.

JOSEPH JACKSON.

“There. Told you.”

“But you’re not him.”

“I never said I was.”

“You did.”

“When?”

Jean thought about the stage door. He had said Hammersmith. He had said I knew it. He had allowed forty people to shout Joe at him.

“You knew what I thought.”

“That’s different.”

The room had a mattress, a chemical toilet and a small window at pavement level. Through it Jean could see shoes.

Joe brought food.

He liked talking.

He had been mistaken for Joe Jackson since 1979, although less frequently now. Once in Norwich he had got into a nightclub for nothing. In 1986 a woman in Guildford had slept with him.

“Did she know?”

“Eventually.”

He laughed.

Jean didn't.

The first Christmas was difficult.

Joe gave her a Walkman and three cassettes.

All Joe Jackson.

“Thought you’d like those.”

Jean threw the Walkman at him.

He took it away for a week.

People walked past the window.

Jean shouted until she discovered that nobody could hear her.

She learned the timetable of the square by its feet.

Trainers at seven. School shoes at eight. Heels. Brogues. Builders. Dogs.

A pair of red stilettos came regularly on Thursday evenings and went away on Friday mornings.

Jean invented a woman for them called Caroline.

Caroline worked in publishing and was having an affair with a married Treasury minister.

Jean hated Caroline.

Then Caroline stopped coming.

Jean missed her terribly.

Joe never touched her.

This surprised Jean more than anything.

“What do you want?”

“Company.”

“You lock me in a cellar.”

“Basement.”

“You kidnapped me.”

“You came voluntarily.”

“I didn’t voluntarily stay.”

Joe considered this.

“You’re very negative.”

After eighteen months Jean stopped asking him to let her go.

After two years she stopped asking what day it was.

Her hair became grey at the roots and then grey everywhere. One of her teeth came loose.

She listened to the tapes.

There was nothing else to do.

She knew every word.

Then words from outside the songs began disappearing.

She knew this was happening and tried to stop it.

Window.

Mattress.

Door.

Jean.

She said them every morning.

Window. Mattress. Door. Jean.

One morning she couldn't remember mattress.

The sewage backed up in February.

Joe tried chemicals.

Three days later a Pimlico Plumbers van arrived.

The number plate was SH17 TER.

Kevin had joined the company on Monday.

“Very fucking funny,” he had said when they gave him the keys.

Nobody else wanted the van.

The blockage was below ground level.

Kevin went downstairs.

He heard something.

He stopped.

There it was again.

Not pipes.

Singing.

He followed it along the passage.

There was a door behind a shelving unit.

Locked.

Kevin knocked.

The singing stopped.

“Hello?”

Nothing.

“Is someone in there?”

A voice said something.

Kevin put his ear against the door.

“What?”

The voice came again.

He fetched a crowbar from the van.

The woman on the mattress weighed perhaps six stone.

Kevin couldn't tell how old she was.

She covered her face when the light came in.

“It’s all right,” he said. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

She stared at him.

There was something wrong with her eyes.

“Can you tell me your name?”

She said something about stepping out.

“Your name. What’s your name?”

She shook her head.

“Who did this to you?”

The woman looked towards the ceiling.

Kevin took out his phone.

“I’m calling the police.”

She grabbed his wrist.

For somebody so thin, she was surprisingly strong.

Her eyes widened.

“Spastic eyes,” she said.

Kevin froze.

The woman smiled.

Then, very carefully, as though she had been saving the words for years, she asked:

“Will this be in the Sunday papers?”