Yes, it was and always would be – but only because they were about to take disciplinary action, Mr MacMillan. You resigned because you were about to be sacked, sir – it was the easiest way out. And that’s why you don’t have much of a pension, and that’s why – after buying the toaster and the microwave and the big-screen television – you have nothing left, except debts. Here you are, with next to nothing, and you’re probably about to lose even that. You can’t say you haven’t been warned: the letters in the drawer implore you to stick to whatever payment plan you last agreed, or call the helpline. Why weren’t the station announcements urging you to do that?

‘Attention, please!’

What voice would they use for that?

‘Always try to pay your mortgage, because if you don’t – your home will be taken from you. Don’t make yourself homeless.’

Michael laughed quietly.

‘You’ll lose it,’ he said. ‘And who’s to blame?’

‘Mr Trace,’ said a voice, and Michael laughed again.

He touched his wallet, and there were his bank cards, safe and sound. Two had accumulated so much debt they were almost warm to the touch, but card number three still worked. He should have done the right thing, and cut it in half – but it was a lifesafer now, and here it was in his pocket, and it would get him through the next few hours. He’d tested it, withdrawing sixty pounds in cash. Three brand-new twenties had emerged, unused and fresh, and he’d felt like a child again, with money to spend. A letter of explanation lay on the pillow, sealed. And here is a curious thing: you have taped a fourth card to the inside of your shoe, with parcel-tape. Haven’t you? A debit card that expired last month, and you did that last night.

Michael was nodding again, and his mouth was forming the words.

‘Of course.’

‘Why have you done that, old friend? Lay down your burden.’