But as he flew down the stairs, out into the humid night, and hit the great river and charged along, he felt better running—feeling free, rather than jiggering about in a cab stuck in the sticky traffic or the tube inching forward. He couldn’t have borne it.

To his surprise, he realized he knew where he was going. Across the bridge at Embankment, through Trafalgar Square and into Covent Garden, passing hordes of Lycra-clad tourists looking confused and buskers looking tired, then cutting toward Bloomsbury with its pretty red mansions and well-trimmed squares. He felt the ground under his feet and felt, at last, the pull of the city—that it could be your city, that it was expensive, yes, and grubby, and strange, but you could belong too; skirt the crowds, find your corner; experience the whole world on your doorstep.

And even as he ran, Cormac couldn’t help but feel a little comforted, as he crashed across Tottenham Court Road, skirted the sofa shops, grabbed little alleyways he thought would get him through, passed the big hospital, and emerged, panting, utterly exhausted yet somehow exhilarated too, in Lissa’s great city, as she got closer with every step. Up now the great throbbing gristly artery of Euston Road, filthy black with traffic, Euston station squat and grim across the road. Not all of London was beautiful. He glanced at his watch. Ten to nine. At home it would have been bright daylight still; here the streetlights were coming on.

He couldn’t cross the road. Six thundering lanes of traffic were roaring without a break. He hopped from foot to foot at the traffic lights. Stop. Stoppp!!

Chapter 77

There was something almost motherly in the way the attendant on the sleeper train greeted Lissa and, worn out as she was, she almost started to cry.

“Have you had a nice day, hen?” said the woman, and it was a familiar accent to Lissa, and she bit her lip.

“Mm-hmm,” she said, as her name was ticked off on a list and she found her way to her own tiny bedroom on the train.

She sighed happily as she opened the door. A bed was made up with a fresh white duvet and white sheets, two pillows and a tartan blanket. There was a sink at one end and a shelf for her clothes and a bottle of water, and it felt at that moment like the ultimate in luxury. A place to shut herself in, lock the world out, and lick her wounds.

The window showed the dank black interior of Euston station. She didn’t want to see it. She turned away and opened her bag to finally—finally—get into her pajamas and forget about today altogether.

“I’M AFRAID YOU need a ticket, son,” said the woman on the reception desk at the train, now looking not quite as nicely at the large, rather sweaty figure in front of her.