‘Well, what is it?’

‘Eggs,’ I say, and I don’t care if the woman has heard me. This isn’t the time and definitely not the place for sulphuric treats from a specimen jar. Passengers are starting to catch each other’s eyes, gurning resignedly at one another, because of the delay; hoping desperately no one will have a panic attack and need talking down. Dad, of course, is not catching anyone’s eye but staring straight ahead with nothing but the feel of Orinoco’s paw to distract him from this sauna of horror.

Why we’re coming to London Bridge on a Saturday, I really don’t know.

‘Sorry.’ A tombstone suitcase shunted by a fidgeting foot whacks me on the ankle.

‘No problem.’ I have plenty to distract me, in this dark tunnel. Plenty of lovely places for my mind to wander to. Every time I think of Thursday night I get that delicious shiver of excitement in my stomach and I love this feeling, unexpected and delicious. My phone is in my bag, latent and waiting. I’m willing for a text to arrive; something cheeky, an emoji would do – a little red devil or a winky face. A sign Salvi wants to see me again. I have my bag slightly open on my lap and my phone angled so I would see if it lights up – not that it would in this tunnel – but there’s been nothing yet. Then again, it’s only been twenty-eight hours and twenty-two minutes since I left his flat.

I can wait.

‘Bloody hell,’ says Dad, in a general kind of manner, and as soon as the second word is out of his mouth the tube lurches into action then anticlimactically begins to trundle very slowly through the tunnel. At last we reach London Bridge.

‘Thank, Christ. Come on, then.’ Dad is standing up before I am, feeling for my arm, and we are suctioned off the train – minding the gap with the best of them – into the marginally cooler air of the platform.

‘All right?’ I say as we walk toward the lifts.

‘All right,’ Dad says.

The platform is busy. Our train has expelled a lot of people and we’re all heading the same way. Dad’s tapping cane seems to be annoying a few of them. One woman is stuck, revving, behind us; I can feel her aborted attempts to get past. She eventually takes a jeopardy-tinged swerve over the yellow line and scoots up the platform and out of sight.