Someone was behind Harold. He could feel it in his spine. He quickened his pace, but the person following him along the hard shoulder did the same, and although they were not yet close enough to become a shadow they would catch up soon. Harold scanned the road ahead for people, but there was no one. Harold turned to look behind him. The ribbon of tarmac stretched towards the horizon between fields of yellow rape, so hot in the afternoon sun it shimmered. Cars appeared to come out of nowhere and vanish as quickly. You couldn’t even see the people inside. But there was no one walking. There was no one on the hard shoulder.

However, as he continued he could sense in his skin, all the way up his neck and into his hair, that there was certainly a person behind, and that they were still following. Not wanting to stop again, he found a gap in the traffic and darted into the road, crossing fast at an angle, while also casting an eye to his left. Nobody came into view, and yet minutes later he knew that the person following had also crossed the road. He walked faster, with his breath and heart pounding. A sweat had broken out all over him.

He continued like this for another half-hour, stopping and looking back and seeing no one, but knowing he was not alone. Only once, when he turned, did he notice a low shrub quivering, although there was no wind. For the first time in weeks, he regretted he had no mobile phone. He took refuge that night in an unlocked toolshed, but lay very still in his sleeping bag, listening for the person he knew in his bones was waiting outside.

The following morning, and due north of Barnsley, Harold heard someone shout his name from the opposite side of the A61. A slight young man in reflective shades and a baseball cap dodged between traffic. Gasping for breath, he said he had come to join Harold. He spoke fast. His cheekbones were like pencils. His name was Lf. Harold frowned. “Ilf,” repeated the boy. And then again: “Wilf.” He looked undernourished and barely twenty. On his feet he wore trainers with fluorescent-green laces.

“I am going to be a pilgrim, Mr Fry. I’m going to save Queenie Hennessy too.” He lifted a sports bag and held it suspended. It was clearly new, like the trainers. “I’ve got my sleeping bag and everything.”

It was like talking to David. Even the young man’s hands were shaking.