He caught the eye of the stranger who seemed to run the place and smiled. He seemed so very young. They all did. Some might have done national service, but they hadn’t fought in the war and he admired them their conviction, envied their innocence. They’d never had their moral universe tested and shattered. Never had to tuck that murky past in their pocket, put on their civvies and pretend it never happened.

He stood up, handing a copy of Tribune to the young man next to him.

‘Bit old, I’m afraid,’ he said, fishing for his wallet. ‘I recommend the chilli con carne.’

As if he came here all the time.

He put his hands in his pockets and set off for home, a quiet saunter on a sunny evening. He’d pick up some eggs and milk in the market, perhaps some veg and fruit if they were going cheap. It was the end of the day, after all. He was in no hurry. He’d do some marking and have a nightcap in the pub. He felt calmer now. Funny how his worries surged and drained, like a tidal river.

He paused at the corner of his street and waited. It was empty. He looked behind him. No one he recognised. The museum was shut now, the crowds gone. No Anatoly. He fumbled in his pocket for his keys, but the door swung open. It was on the latch, unlocked. That was not how he had left it this morning. He always made a point of pushing the door after he shut it, to make sure. He’d have to tell his neighbour, Make sure you lock up. His bike was leaning against the wall inside the hall and he could hear his neighbour practising. Bob Welham, a flautist, played with the LSO. He must be about to leave for the evening performance. Bob could wangle John into rehearsals at the Festival Hall in the holidays. John would sit in the stalls as the musicians went through their paces, cigarettes propped on their music stands, puffing between bars. John had no idea musicians smoked, though he supposed they were human too, even if the music they made was divine. Bob didn’t smoke.

‘Couldn’t blow the bloody thing if I did,’ he said. ‘Should have taken up percussion. Or the fiddle. They get through a whole packet, you know that, don’t you?’