A line of identical rectangular magnets feature a photograph far too similar to the one close to my heart. A man in a shopping trolley. I blink, the jet lag possibly causing unreliable vision. But no. The image is as clear as the one on my phone: Ronald McDonald behind, hands in prayer and grinning. The only difference is the man. My eyes scan further along the stalls. A bonkers, eerie nightmare is starting to unfold. There are more magnets, hundreds of them, all featuring images of men in shopping trolleys. Some are smiling, some sleeping, others seriously pissed off. I look for my guy. Is he here? Will I find the exact same picture that hangs on my kitchen wall?

The selection of magnets comes to an end with something even more unexpected.

Framed photos of these men in trolleys are on sale. Plus canvas prints; t-shirts in various pastel shades with the image smack-bang in the centre; tea towels; key rings; a tea cosy. A fucking tea cosy!

‘Is this a tea cosy?’ I ask the lady behind the table. ‘Seriously?’

‘Three hundred fifty baht,’ she replies.

Kids whizz past me with those plastic, flashing toys. Tourists lean across and barter with the sellers. My mission feels not only incomplete but also unnecessary; I’ve never felt so far away from Jack as I do right now. I’m invisible, as is he; both of us are ghosts, haunting two very different worlds.

I break free from all the merchandise and refuse to look back.

The mall is close by, across the main road.

I cross the footbridge. At the top of the steps, an older Thai woman is holding a baby, begging. Beside her sits a man cross-legged, barefoot, and the sole of his heel so worn away and infected that the bone is visible.

‘Oh, God,’ I gasp, trying not to gag, tears prickling instantly.

Was he here last time? Did Jack and I miss him, caught up within each other? Has this man’s foot been infected all this time? When did the cuts on his heel become a hole? An actual fucking hole? Why the hell hasn’t anybody helped him?

What is it the Lonely Planet advises? I can’t remember.

So like every other tourist, shopper, worker, human … I don’t stop. I don’t help.

The guide books say not to give money.

I carry on.

The golden arches are before me. I stand on the steps to see what I’d expected, but not what I’d hoped for. Ronald McDonald’s scary smile is beaming down upon a man in a shopping trolley. Only it’s not the man in my picture. There’s no yellow logo on his shirt. This one is brown striped, unbuttoned. He’s very skinny, his dark hair long and thin, and he’s lapping up the attention by flashing the peace sign, posing. A gaggle of tourists taking selfies consume the space.