She hadn’t gone. He heard her sucking in a long breath, as if she had burnt her hand. Suddenly her voice shot out so loud and fast it hurt his ear. He had to hold the handset slightly away. “Queenie is still alive, Harold. You asked for her to wait and you see, she is waiting. Rex and I checked the weather forecast and they have slapped happy sun shapes all over the United Kingdom. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

“Maureen?” She was his last chance. “I can’t do it. I was wrong.”

She didn’t hear, or if she heard she wouldn’t allow the gravity of what he was saying. Her voice kept coming at him, rising in pitch: “Keep walking. It’s only sixteen more miles to Berwick. You can do it, Harold. Remember to stay on the B6525.”

He didn’t know how to say what he was feeling after that, so he hung up.

♦

As Maureen had told him to, Harold checked into the hotel. He couldn’t look at the receptionist or the young porter who insisted on leading him to his room and opening the door on his behalf. The chap drew the curtains over the windows, and showed him how to change the air conditioning, and where he would find the en-suite bathroom, as well as the minibar and Corby trouser press. Harold nodded but he didn’t see. The air felt chilled and hard.

“Can I fetch you a drink, sir?” asked the porter.

Harold could not explain about himself and alcohol. He merely turned away. With the porter gone, he lay fully clothed on the bed, and all he could think was that he did not want to keep going. He slept briefly, and woke with a start. Martina’s partner’s compass. He groped his hand in his trouser pocket, and pulled it out and tried the other. The compass wasn’t there. It wasn’t in the bed, or on the floor. It wasn’t even in the lift. He must have left it in the phone box.

The porter unbolted the main doors, and promised to wait. Harold ran so hard that his breath cut into the cavities of his chest like blows. He swung open the door of the kiosk, but the compass had gone.