He had once been in a pharmacy, and an elderly woman had tripped and fallen. She’d come crashing down because of a shallow step, and he had been the one to help her, and comfort her, and call for a chair. He had shown her love, because she had been so vulnerable, and terrified that she had broken a bone. She feared she’d ruined Christmas, which was only a few days away. She feared her family would be furious because she’d had such a stupid, avoidable accident. Michael had crouched in front of her and turned himself into a doctor, and a counsellor. He’d become a husband, or a son – he’d been Jesus.

‘You ought to go round to your GP,’ he’d said.

‘It’s nothing,’ she insisted. ‘I’m fine.’

‘You say that now, but it could be a fracture.’

‘It can’t be. It mustn’t be.’

‘Listen to me. Let me call you a taxi…’

He had been both husband and son, as loving as he had tried to be to his own mother – and it was funny how the taboo of touch simply disappeared. For some reason he had the right to put his hand on the old lady’s arm, and crouch so he was almost pressing against her. Years ago, some colleague in the council office had joked about how to deal with members of the public who were upset. You offered comfort, and that was the time ‘to slip it in, while they’re distracted’.

People had laughed.

Michael thought about it now with horror, ambushed again. When you were comforting someone, this colleague said – if a member of the public was upset and needed your support – that was the time to get your arm round them, and ‘slip it in’. He meant have intercourse with them, while they were vulnerable – that’s what he’d meant. Roars of laughter at the inappropriateness, the sheer daring of the wag that could joke about sexual assault – ‘to slip it in and do the business’.

Sex, again – like the smell of your own sweat. You could never get away from it, and the letters in your head never got written. They would be conceived after half a bottle of wine, and for thirty minutes they would exist, charming the violent world into something tearfully peaceful, for the recipient would no doubt read his prose and be transfixed in wonder. It is worthwhile, they would think. We are appreciated. Soon, the letter became a misjudgement and an overreaction, the outburst of a drunk who won’t let you go: ‘I love you. I fucking love you, mate.’

Where he lived, people got drunk in the street.