The second day, still disoriented by his return, Anton is standing in the kitchen, trying to get his bearings, when he is sure he hears the clip of a high heel in the hall outside. Quick as a whip, he’s out there, his heart going like the clappers, fully expecting to see her standing in her belted raincoat, shaking out her brolly or applying another coat of lipstick in front of the hall mirror. But there’s nothing. Not even the drop of post on the doormat.

Still. The fright he gets is enough to fire him out of the house, like a rocket, down the steps, the little gate clanging behind him as he hurries up the street, watchful for neighbours. They’ll find out sooner or later that he’s back, but he’d rather it was later. He keeps his head down, powering his way past the railings of the tennis courts towards the string of shops just off the roundabout. There’s a café he remembers, and he thinks about sitting there with the paper, coffee and a cream bun. But when he arrives, he finds the string of shops has gone. Demolished. In their place stands a giant box of a supermarket – Lidl’s yellow insignia across the blue band perimeter. He stares at it, bewildered.

‘Are you all right, love?’ a voice asks, and he looks down at a woman of his own age, some shopping bags tucked under her arm.

‘I’m fine,’ he snaps, then catches himself, apologizes for his rudeness and begins to cry. Great sobs pour out of him, the hacking of grief and fear in his chest. It’s the unfamiliarity of it all. He hasn’t cried like this in years – not counting the private muffled weeping into his pillow some nights – openly bawling on the street.

‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ the woman asks, concern making her shrill. And then she reaches out and clutches his arm, and it’s like an electric shock going through him, snapping him back to his senses.

‘Nothing. I appreciate your concern. Thank you,’ he mutters, and as he walks away he presses one hand to the place on his arm where she touched him, rubs it like it’s been bruised.

He buys himself a soft drink and a newspaper in a corner shop, then finds a small, deserted park with a bench and sits down. Litter is strewn in the grass behind him, but he doesn’t care. Fresh air is what he needs. Fresh air and to be left alone. Mark had warned him to stay at home that morning – a man would be coming to install the telephone – but Anton is not ready to go back to the house yet. Mark could arrange for the man to come again. And why isn’t Mark here, anyway? he thinks, with a flare of disappointment. If he cares that much?