The bus was full of people. Sandy looked to catch someone’s eye and start up a conversation with a local, a person who would be able to reassure him when he reached his destination. But they all seemed exhausted after their flights; they sat with their eyes closed. Those who did talk weren’t speaking English. Whenever he went to Edinburgh or Aberdeen, Sandy had the same reaction of claustrophobia for the first couple of days. It was being surrounded by tall buildings, the sense of being shut in, of not being able to see the sky or the horizon. This was just the same but the buildings were even taller and closer together and there was a feeling that the city was endless; there would be no escape from it.

Coming into the city centre, he had the odd flash of excitement when they passed a street name he recognized, a signpost to a famous monument, but it didn’t last. He was here for work. This was one interview he couldn’t get wrong. He peered out into the streets looking at the people who were walking past. Perez’s woman, Fran Hunter, was in London at the minute. He’d feel happier if he could glimpse just one familiar face. Of course he knew it was impossible. What was the chance of seeing her among all those thousands of people? But it didn’t stop him looking.

Walking to his hotel he had to push against the flow of people hurrying to King’s Cross and St Pancras Stations. He felt he couldn’t breathe. If he stood still for a moment they would flatten him, walk right over him without hesitating, without stopping to find out what was wrong.

In the hotel the receptionist struggled to understand his accent, but the room was booked and he was given a plastic card instead of a key. It seemed a very grand room. There was a big double bed and a bathroom. He looked out over the Euston Road at the line of traffic and the pavements heaving with people. He was so high up that the only noise was a dull hum, a background roar like waves on the shore on a stormy day, the sound Mima had called ‘the hush’. He turned on the television so he couldn’t hear it. He had a shower and changed into the shirt his mother had ironed for him. She’d folded it carefully in his overnight bag and it was hardly creased at all. I should be nicer to her, he thought. She’s looked after me so well. Why can’t I like her more?