He put his hands in his pockets and walked away, out into the noise of Rye Lane, towards the station. He was very aware of the way he was walking, as he went across the road. He couldn’t help noticing how much he’d adapted his walk over the years, and wondering when it had happened. These days, he walked like an estate agent. He could feel it. A commuter’s walk. His legs trundling along while his body stayed stiff above the hip, with his arms and hands disconnected, ready to take out his phone, not checking the street for the faces of friends. He walked his commuter’s walk down the street that had been home, but wasn’t now. He tried to close his heart to it, but his memory was triggered by the smells of fresh meat and fridges coming out of the mini-markets, and the stacks of breadfruit, scarred and leathery, and mop heads, and shelves of hairdressing. The past struck him hard, like being catapulted back through his life. He was nearly crying when he got to the station and he didn’t even know why.