“You’ve got money for the ticket?”

Just let me go.

“Yes, yes, plenty.” Davey showed his wallet. “See?”

“You sure there isn’t anything you want to tell me? ’Cos they’ll do it again, you know. They always do.”

“Not if I’m n-n-not there,” said Davey, and grabbed his rucksack.

“Alright, son,” said the policeman, resigned. “Off you go. Good luck.”

A blink, and he was on the tube. How had he got here? He remembered a barrier, a platform, a ticket machine, a handful of change, but couldn’t string them together into a coherent narrative. But he was going to Cornwall. Guided by a paper bag. Well, why not? He had to go somewhere. His contempt for himself had his stepfather’s voice. Only cowards run away, real men stick around and sort it out. He drowned it with vodka, and felt a giant wave of collective disapproval break over his head.

Another blink, and he stood at the foot of an escalator. The platform swayed beneath his feet. If he was on a ship, would the ground feel stable? Was this why sailors drank? The handrail’s speed was treacherously slower than the escalator and he had to keep letting go and grabbing on again, convinced each time that he would fall backwards into the chaos below. Staggering off the top step, he fell into a man in a suit.

“Jesus Christ, just fuck off, will you?” he snarled. Davey clung to the man’s shoulder, trying to re-orient himself. “Let go of me or I’ll fucking deck you.” His expensive aftershave was like a scented cloud. “Are you drunk? Police, police, I’ve got a lunatic here, police!” A privileged voice, used to being obeyed.

“No, I’m sorry, I’m sorry… ”Davey let go and stumbled away. The crowd parted, then refused to re-form around him, leaving him for the policemen to find. He began to run, realised how stupid this was, forced himself to stop again. High-vis jackets over black uniforms appeared at the bottom of the escalator. The crowd rustled with excitement…

Another blink, the smell of diesel, everyone with suitcases, whistles shrieking like birds. Was this the train station? A giant board filled with letters and numbers. Just when he’d got a fix on them, the display refreshed and he had to start all over again. Fast food smells coiled around his nostrils. Gulping desperately, he found the Gents, scrabbling in his pocket for change to get through the turnstile.

The steel toilet bowl looked dirtier than ceramic, even though it was probably more hygienic. The vodka tasted even worse coming back up than it had done going down.

By the basins, he took another deep swig from the bottle to cleanse his palate, aware of the basic stupidity of the action, but reluctant to disobey the stern signs over the taps: NOT DRINKING WATER.

“Where are you travelling to?”

A ticket-selling woman behind a glass screen, her voice coming to him via an intercom. There was a slight delay between the movements of her mouth and the arrival of the words.