He had all these conditions in place now, as the train plunged south through the soft green lowlands of border country, but he’d done nothing yet other than consider Ali Connor, who once was Alison. She’d made him smile with ‘Picture This’, hit the nail on the head, and he’d realised when it came that he’d have been disappointed if she hadn’t picked that very track to reply. Not that he’d been testing her in any way, or at least not consciously, but it was … what was it? A validation, perhaps, of a bank of memories so distant they’d almost morphed into myth; one of those glittering pieces of the mosaic that he’d forgotten, but still carried around with him anyway, waiting for the right time to rediscover it. And he found, to his great fascination, that what he meant to do now was send another song, back to Adelaide, and that the choice of song was a matter of utmost importance. Since he sat down on this train he’d been scrolling through the many hundreds of contenders on his iPod, playing some of them, enjoying all of them, but none of them was what he was looking for. He didn’t know, of course, what he was looking for. He wouldn’t know, until he found it.

‘Is anyone sitting here?’

Oh fuck. Dan glanced up, and there was a man smiling at him, sliding sideways into the seat opposite, which was patently free.

‘Nope,’ Dan said. ‘All yours.’

He turned his attention back to the library of music. Stevie Wonder, Patty Griffin, the National. More Blondie? John Martyn? The Killers? Jesus, so much fucking music. And what was it he wanted to say to Ali Connor, after all these years?

‘Erm … Daniel Lawrence?’

Oh fuck, fuck. He looked up and the man opposite was smiling again – grinning, actually – and staring. He looked about Dan’s age. Not Scottish. Slim build, dark hair, short back and sides, blue eyes. He wore a Harrington jacket and a T-shirt that looked as if it might have an image of Bob Marley on it. Dan couldn’t stand grown men with T-shirts bearing music legends, or tour dates.

‘Sorry?’ Dan said.

The man opposite offered a hand, which Dan took, and shook, still mystified, although there was something about this guy that rang a dim bell. Meanwhile the fellow himself was very much enjoying himself.

‘Bloody hell,’ he said. ‘Bloody hell.’

Dan said, ‘Look, I’m sorry …’ and the man laughed and said, ‘You don’t recognise me, do you?’

‘I don’t.’

‘Well, it’s been thirty-odd years. Dave Marsden. Rob’s brother. I once put a tent peg through your thumb?’

‘Christ Almighty!’

Dave nodded. ‘Insane,’ he said.

‘Dave Marsden!’

‘That’s me. I knew you straight away. Mind you, I see your mug in the music pages.’

‘Dave Marsden,’ Dan said again. ‘Oh my God. How are you?’