It was the grief. It was the pushing against doors that were jammed, or swung open so you found yourself in rooms you didn’t want to be in – and they were passing houses again, for the other train had veered off somewhere, or derailed down an embankment and was blazing behind them as they shot forwards victoriously into some suburb, where people really lived. The rooftops spread, and all that stone and slate had been quarried and hauled, the mortar mixed for a town to rise even as the young man on the other side of the carriage watched something noisy on his phone. Michael could hear the inane, barking laughter of a cartoon, and the young man seemed riveted. Everyone was forced to share the squeaking nonsense – and he wasn’t six years old! He didn’t have the excuse a child might have. No, this man was in his early twenties – he was a robust, intelligent-looking Asian man, and a hundred years ago people like him would have been stuck in the mud of the Somme, with bullets sizzling in their chests. He’d have been caught in the open as the machine guns opened fire, and he would have fallen backwards, or sunk to his knees, astonished and breathless. Six hours of cold, slow suffering lay ahead, as he cried for his mother. Now, he couldn’t even muster the courtesy to wear a set of headphones – despite the sticker on the window: Please consider your fellow passengers! Once again, the train company wanted to look after everyone. It was aching for a little peace and goodwill, and once again it wasn’t working.

It was the nothing that wore you down.

The nullity of encounters like these wore Michael down, for he would not be on some touchline cheering Percy and James as they raced towards the goal. If he watched the boys and girls playing football or hockey, someone would notice him and think, Predator.

Percy needed protection, and would get it.