Harold admitted he hadn’t. He told the actor the barest details about Queenie. He didn’t think he should mention the nurses he had imagined applauding as he arrived at the hospice. The actor appeared to be listening, although at the end of the story he asked again if Harold had a copy of the book, and if he would like the actor to sign it.

Harold agreed. He felt the book might be a perfect souvenir for Queenie; she had always liked reading. He was about to ask the actor if he wouldn’t mind waiting while he nipped out to buy a copy, but the actor spoke instead.

“Actually, don’t bother. It’s rubbish. I haven’t written a word of the thing. I haven’t even read it. I’m a serial shagger, with a serious coke habit. I went down on a woman last week and discovered she had a cock. They don’t put that sort of thing in the book.”

“No.” Harold glanced at the door.

“I’m on all the chat shows. I’m in all the magazines. Everyone thinks I’m this really nice guy. And yet no one knows the first thing about me. It’s like being two people. You’re probably about to tell me you’re a journalist.” He laughed, but there was something both reckless and grim about the gesture that reminded Harold of David.

“I’m not a journalist. I think I would make a very poor one.”

“Tell me again why you’re walking to Bradford.”

Harold said something quiet about Berwick, and atoning for the past. He was unnerved by the very famous actor’s confession and was still trying to find a place in himself in which to keep it.

“So how do you know this woman is waiting? Has she sent a message?”

“A message?” repeated Harold, although he hadn’t misheard. It was more a stalling for time.

“Has she told you she’s up for it?”

Harold opened his mouth, and reworked it several times, but he couldn’t get the words to come.

“How does it work exactly?” said the actor.

Harold touched his tie with his fingertips. “I send postcards. I know she is waiting.”

Harold smiled and the actor smiled too. He wanted the actor to be persuaded by what he had heard, because he wasn’t sure there was any other way of putting it, and for a moment it appeared that the actor was; but then a scowl crept over his face as if he had just tasted something not right. “If I were you, I’d get myself in a car.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Bollocks to the walk.”

Harold’s voice trembled. “The walk is the idea. That’s how she will live. John Lennon lay in a bed once. My son had a picture of him on his wall.”