It was his duty as a good Sikh, too, a thought that shamefully occurred to him after all the other, more pragmatic reasons.

A man, even one with two wolves, coming across seven orange-suited strangers when he didn’t expect them, was entitled to be wary. It didn’t automatically follow that they had to be enemies, did it?

The figure pulled on the wolf-chains, and both animals sat on their haunches. They suddenly appeared more like big dogs than they did wild beasts, turning their heads up to take their lead from their master. Dalip was sure that wolves couldn’t be domesticated like that, even from pups, but the evidence confounded him.

‘Where do you come from?’ His voice was deep and resonant, curious and serious.

‘There … There was a door,’ Dalip looked at Stanislav for support, but the older man was still braced for an attack, and resolutely staring at the man and his wolves. ‘We ended up here, down by the coast.’

‘Where were you before that?’

‘London. London Underground.’ He had no idea if that made any sense to the man.

But it did.

‘I’ll share your fire,’ he said, and made a ticking sound with his tongue. The wolves stood up and they all walked into the camp. Everyone moved out of their way, wary of the wolves, not so much the man, which struck Dalip as the wrong way around. Now he was close, he could both see him and smell him. The wolf pelt on his back was old and scraggy, the muzzle and ears certainly had seen better days: but as a statement of intent it was unequivocal. Here was a man who had fought fierce creatures and won.

He watched their separate reactions with amusement – at least, the small grunt he made as he sat cross-legged by the fire sounded like a laugh – and waited for them all to return. Stanislav warily lowered his club, and poked the fire with the heavy end, stirring the embers into life. He put more wood on, which instantly started to steam and smoke.

‘What happened to your head?’ the man asked, and it took a moment for Dalip to realise he was being addressed.

‘My head? That’s my turban.’

‘Turban? Like the Mohammedans wear?’

It took a moment for Dalip to work out what a Mohammedan might be. ‘No. I’m a Sikh. From India.’

‘So you’re from India?’

‘No. I’m from London. My grandparents were from India. Rawalpindi. Except that’s now in Pakistan. They left during the Partition.’ He stopped and started again. ‘I’m from a Sikh family now living in London. All the men wear turbans.’

The man pushed his wolf ’s-head hood back to reveal a head of black hair, thinning at the temples. ‘Does that make you a man, then?’