He pondered a moment, struggling to breathe.

‘Good,’ he said, climbing on board. ‘Could I have a single to Bacup, please?’

If the driver was surprised by Michael’s nervous uncertainty, she didn’t show it. She pressed a few digits on the ticket machine and told him the fare. He produced his second twenty-pound note – still so clean and pure – and she didn’t grumble as she hunted for the change. She counted the coins carefully, and when she handed him the notes she actually smiled at him. For a moment he wondered who would be getting her children’s tea, for it was after seven o’clock and she looked like a mother. If her husband was out of work, perhaps he was doing the cooking? He hauled his mind back to the moment, and said, ‘How long’s the journey?’

‘We get into Bacup at about ten past eight.’

She spoke slowly.

‘When do you start? Have I time to do something?’

‘To do what, my love?’

‘To find a shop.’

‘No.’

‘Oh.’

Michael smiled.

‘So you were waiting for the train?’

‘We connect with the train, yes.’

‘I’d better get out of the way then. I’ll make us all late.’

She laughed, and he was grateful. She had heard what he said and even acknowledged its casual merriment – she liked him. The engine was on, but Michael noticed that she didn’t pull away until he was actually seated: she waited as he chose a place at the back of the bus, and he could feel her giving him time to settle safely. There were only five other passengers, three of them travelling alone. The other two were teenagers, who were sharing a pair of headphones. There was an elderly man, a middle-aged woman and the backpacker, who’d now found a space for her rucksack and seemed to be checking her paperwork again. She was holding it close to her face.

The doors had closed, and he didn’t know where he was going.