‘Is Lesley still here?’ I shouted. ‘And, you know, the kids?’

He took out the casket of chips, shued them and put them back into the oil. They spluttered. ‘Nope.’

‘She’s gone?’

He shrugged. ‘Ask Hilda.’

‘Hilda?’

‘Her friend, Hilda.’

He dwindled away, telescopic now. I gripped the counter; his face swung back.

‘Where does this Hilda live?’

‘Round the corner. Above Lots o’ Fun.’

I just made it to Lots o’ Fun. It was a video arcade—or, as they put it, a Family Entertainment Centre. Above it, there were some flats. I went up to the side door. There were only surnames on the bells—not even an H for Hilda.

I staggered into the arcade. It had a violent carpet, all blacks and oranges, worn grimy round the machines. The place was nearly empty but there was a lot of noise going on, bleeps and clatters, perhaps it was inside my brain. There was an alarming sound and one of the machines disgorged coins, as if it was having a haemorrhage.

A man sat in the Change booth. He was wizened like a gypsy and was reading Amateur Gardener. I grasped the counter, to steady myself.

‘Have you seen a lady called Hilda?’ I asked. ‘She lives upstairs.’

‘Upstairs?’

‘There’s flats upstairs,’ I said.

‘Are there?’ He put his fingers on the page, to keep his place. ‘Never looked.’

‘What’s the world coming to?’ I cried. Where’s your neighbourhood spirit?’

‘Uh?’ He hadn’t heard. ‘Hilda what?’

‘Don’t know.’

He scratched his nose. ‘What’s she look like?’

I paused. ‘Don’t know.’

He went back to his magazine. ‘Well, then.’

I thought I might faint soon, so I found my way back to my coach. Its curtains were still closed. The car park was still packed. All the people looked exactly the same ones as before. Time had ground to a halt. As I climbed the step, a group of people stopped and looked at me. A man called cheerfully: ‘Can we all join in?’

I closed the door. Now I was home, I felt much worse. I staggered down the aisle, knocking against the seats, and fell on to my blankets.

When I woke it was dark and my throat was on fire. This was hell, I knew it now, and I was already dead. I lay, throbbing and burning, in my big metal coffin. In my bones the marrow had frozen; my body was shot through with icy needles. I was trembling so hard, the change in my pocket rattled.

I must be dying, because flashes of my past came to me, pulsing behind my eyeballs—the cracked concrete where I played with my Dinky cars, the lino in the bathroom, the shadow of the fire-tongs against the wall, where they frightened me. It frightened me, that I heard my money jangling.

Remember that song, Poetry in Motion (Johnny Tillotson)? I used to think it was all about a tree, not a woman; Oh-a-tree in motion, see her gentle sway, way down on the ocean, never to move my way. Wasn’t I a wally? I was only young.