How presumptuous he had been. Milton had long since accepted that he could not have the life that others had, knew that the comfort of a normal existence was not something that was available to him. He was an alcoholic, and there was an axiom in the Fellowship that alcoholics didn’t have relationships; they took hostages. The nomadic life that he had chosen was not one that could be shared. But his actions here hadn’t been just presumptuousness. They had been based in selfishness, too. What was he thinking? That he was going to play happy families with Sakura and be a father to her son?

He realised now, with blinding clarity and scalding shame, that that was exactly what he had thought. There had been other women through the years who had had feelings for him, and he had denied them all.

Ellie Flowers.

Matilda Douglas.

Sharron Warriner.

Each time, he had considered how his life might change and, however much that might have been attractive, he had decided against it. Death trailed in his wake. It always had, ever since he had joined the army, and more so as his career took him to the SAS and then the Group. It still trailed him now. This one moment of foolishness, of thinking that he could be the same as everyone else, would lead to Sakura’s death.

Milton stopped at a walkway, merging into the throng that waited obediently in lines three deep for the lights to tell them they could cross the road. He allowed the tide to carry him along, over the road and then left. On each side, smaller streets branched off like tributaries. He saw one street—he caught the name, Maneki-Dori Street, on a sign—and turned onto it. It was quieter than the main drag and, as he walked deeper and deeper, he turned again and then again until he wasn’t sure where he was. He had found his way into a grid of pedestrianised streets, narrow and busy with locals and tourists. A thicket of signs had been fixed to the walls on either side, and doubled-sided chalkboards were propped open next to the walls. The signs were in Japanese and English, and some mentioned Golden Gai. Milton remembered reading about the area on his previous visit: this particular network of streets was jammed with bars, many of them little more than a counter and a few stools. They were often barely six feet wide, and there were steep staircases that led to even smaller bars above.