When Cormac had finally sold the farmhouse for a painfully low price last week, he decided the time was right to go, even on what little information he had. The bags at his feet were the result of his guilt at leaving Annie at such short notice. He put a box under each arm and wrapped his freezing fingers around the rest. He said goodbye to the relieved boy in the blanket and waited five minutes for a gap in the masses before he pushed his way across the street to join Harry, who was in earnest conversation with Batman, Robin and a swaying Spiderman.

‘Ah, Cormac! Tell these youngsters here who wrote ‘The First Cut is the Deepest.’ Batman here thinks it was Rod Stewart and Robin thinks it was P.P. Arnold. Now I have told them, whilst there is no doubt Rod did a good version of it, P.P.’s was much better. However, the bloody thing was written by old Yusuf Islam himself, aka Cat Stevens, now am I right, my friend, or am I right?’

Cormac grinned to himself as he pointed out to the forty-something superheroes that looked twenty something from a distance, his big friend was always right, except on the odd occasion when he couldn’t actually remember the question he had asked. Harry shook his hand in puzzled gratitude for the endorsement. They left them just as Batman and Robin were wasting all their superpowers in a vain attempt to revive Superman, who was face down on the counter of the small stall. When they lifted him, his face was smeared in what Cormac was sure was thick dark blood. His fears were eased when he saw Spiderman scrape Superman’s cheek with a spoon and dress his giant hot- dog with it.

He stopped, for the second time in two minutes, to rest his aching arms.

‘Jesus, Cormac, will you give me some of those bags. You’ve got more presents there than Santa!’

He was grateful for Harry’s giant hands. The rest of the short journey, he walked, excitedly anticipating Annie’s surprise when she saw him at her front door. By the time they reached the Georgian terrace, his excitement turned to dread at the thought of what he was about to tell her. That he was leaving her in less than an hour’s time and he didn’t know when, or if, he would be returning. He would be in New York by tomorrow morning on a one-way ticket. They stood on the front step. He banged his fist on the door.

It was drowned by the thumping bass booming from the other side.

It was another five minutes before the door was opened and even then it was more by chance than any design. A lanky boy, with too much hair on his head and face, pushed past them and made it to the fence, before projecting the liquid contents of his stomach over the pavement on the other side. Cormac checked his watch, which told him it was 5:20 p.m. The boy wiped his mouth on his grey sweatshirt before making his way back towards them.