There were things Morris knew, and things he didn’t. One thing he didn’t know was who Dorothy and Ken Trott might be, and why their names were written on a plate by his left shoulder. Morris hadn’t noticed the plate, and he’d never seen the Trotts who used to sit in this very park at this very spot. He’d never shared their pleasure in the roses, or been even loosely connected to the moment when they made a big decision: that on their deaths a certain amount of money would be left to Birmingham City Council so that this very bench could be dedicated not to the prostitutes who cruised around it every evening, but to their years of tender love. In memory of Dorothy and Ken Trott, who loved this view: that’s what was written just below Morris’s neck, as he sat getting colder, waiting for Aziz who didn’t want him. And he didn’t know that he’d been spotted until it was too late.

When the young man sat down next to him, he got the very strong sense that it would do him no good to run. He would do much better talking his way out of the park, and right out of Birmingham – for it was definitely time to go.

That was when his new friend spoke to him.

‘All right?’ he said.

Morris said, ‘All right.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Morris.’

‘Where you from?’

He paused, then decided to be truthful.

‘Just outside Newport,’ he said – and his mouth was dry, because there was someone else now, leaning on the back of the bench, and he could hear him breathing. There were three of them, in fact – and there was a boy his own age just down the path. They had surrounded him.

‘Newport?’ said the man quietly. ‘What’s a Newport queer doing in Birmingham?’

‘Nothing.’

‘No?’

‘Waiting. For a friend.’

The man laughed, and leaned in close. He spat, then, full in Morris’s face – and someone grabbed him by his hood. They wouldn’t let him fall to the ground: it was easier to keep him on the bench, for they could use their fists and their feet, and take it in turns. When they were ready, they rolled him onto the path, and stamped on him.

CONNECTION

17

Maria caught the 15.58 and it was on time to the second.

She reached Preston at 17.10 and she got down carefully, for the rucksack was heavy on her shoulder. She still couldn’t understand how she had left the bag on the table, for without it she felt incomplete. Why hadn’t she noticed, when normally she checked so carefully? She stood in the café doorway and saw a young woman waving. The next moment the handbag was in her hand, and she simply started to cry.

‘You’re so good,’ she said. ‘You sit here all this time – that’s so, so kind.’