“I don’t have one. My father didn’t care for how I am, my brother was the same but more so, and my mother and sister weren’t going to put themselves in the firing line for my sake. I shook the dust off my feet a long time ago. Well, they strongly encouraged me to shake it off, but whatever.”

“You’ve never gone back?”

“Why would I do that?”

“I don’t know,” Aaron said. “Maybe it’s easier as a grown man, or at least different.”

“Perhaps my brother has matured into a thoughtful man who regrets his bullying ways, and my mother wants nothing more than to see her lost son once again. That’s possible, right?”

“Yes, surely.”

“Then it wouldn’t be hard for them to find me and say so. There’s not a lot of Joel Wildsmiths in the world; they could send their letters of regret and reconciliation to me at any time. Only, they haven’t, so I’m going to assume nothing’s changed, and not trouble to put myself through finding out for certain.”

“Right,” Aaron said. “Fair. I’m sorry it was like that. My father wasn’t easy and my mother had regrets, but my sister would fight tigers for me and that made a huge difference.”

“You sound like you’re very fond of her too,” Joel said, needing to shift the subject. “And a niece, was it?”

“That’s right. Violet is three, and shaping up to become a force of nature like her mother. Roger, Sarah’s husband, is the most placid man alive, and needs to be.”

Prodded further, Aaron told a couple of stories about his niece and sister—inconsequential stuff, just the trivial web of incident and amusement that made up family life, but told with immense warmth and clear fondness. Joel listened and laughed, and wondered how a man with so much love to give could be so lonely.

Well, he knew how. Aaron had told him.

They had walked up Charing Cross Road. By silent consent they swung right along New Oxford Street, dodging the crowds, heading towards Holborn.

“Is it more comfortable here?” Joel asked. “Out of Soho, I mean.”

“At least before we get into King’s Cross and Clerkenwell.”

“You probably see the streets entirely differently, don’t you? For me it’s just another bit of London, and for you it’s a place of crimes and gangs and murders and, uh, traffic offences.”

“It’s not that bad. But you get to know a lot of faces, I will grant.”

“And people know yours. I like to be anonymous in the crowd: it’s why I came to London.”

They walked up Theobald’s Row, feet in comfortable synchronisation. Joel was beginning to feel slightly less bloated.