He chose a seat, and closed his eyes. Meanwhile, elsewhere, Morris closed his – and he was hungry, too, for he had reached Birmingham and still hadn’t eaten. He’d got through the station barrier, but he wasn’t bound for Preston because he had no business there. He was wishing he was home in Newport and, like Michael, he’d lost all sense of purpose and direction. Yet again, his phone wasn’t ringing as he waited for a call he knew in his heart just wasn’t going to come. He was supposed to meet this man, Aziz, for just one hour – but unfortunately, Aziz had changed his mind.

Aziz had forgotten the arrangement he’d made just minutes before, so he didn’t call Morris to tell him he was no longer wanted. He didn’t call to say he wouldn’t be calling – for Aziz was a busy man with hardly enough time to call even his heavily pregnant wife who had been trying to reach him for an hour, in floods of tears.

His phone was turned to silent. Why? There was a good reason, and it was because the substance he was using was so pure it had just lifted him into a different zone, and inner-city Birmingham had become a paradise of dancing, weaving cars – his gums were tingling, and he was feeling finer than he’d felt all year. His own vehicle seemed to throb and hover, powered not by petrol but by smooth, loud music, and it felt like a boat. Lights were coming on, each one opening bright as a flower, so the thin young boy in the park was far from his mind. Aziz didn’t want a boy ever again, he was past all that: instead, he would go straight to the restaurant which overlooked the canal, and he knew that tonight would be the best night since they’d opened.

He didn’t need anyone.

Morris needed him, but they would never connect. Morris had found the park, and sat on the bench getting colder, even as Michael peeled that second-to-last tangerine. He sat, and his phone just wouldn’t ring. His hood was up around his ears, and he was at that stage when he had to calculate very carefully whether or not to stand and walk for warmth, or stay in his seat to save energy: not a deadly stage, of course, but an uncomfortable one, and what he longed for most was a burger, or a cigarette. A joint, a burger and a ticket back to his sister’s: all of that was obtainable for less than fifty pounds, which is what he didn’t have unless Aziz paid him the agreed seventy, plus expenses. He checked his phone for missed calls, and the cracked screen only reminded him of his sister’s boyfriend’s temper. Two sausage rolls! And he’d known they weren’t his.

He had known they belonged to Morris.