If he got down at the next stop, he could simply walk onto the moors until he was too tired to go on. He could drink the rest of the whisky, and stagger another half-mile – but would he die of exposure? This was hardly the South Pole where a man could tramp heroically out into oblivion. In a snowstorm, the deadly cold tricked you into feeling warm and sleepy – that’s what he’d read. The danger zone was when you wanted to sit down and rest for a moment, for you’d never get up again. He had heard about a woman in the wilds of America who’d parked her car because she needed to relieve herself, and headed into the woods to find privacy. Rangers found her body months later, and deduced that she’d stood up, lost her bearings and gone the wrong way. She never found her car, for the disorientation had got worse and she’d wandered further and further from it. She hadn’t plunged down a ravine or been attacked by bears; she’d simply got weaker, and more dehydrated… And she’d had time to write a note of farewell and surrender. The rangers found her curled up under a tree, and she hadn’t wanted to die as he did – if he really did. Because he did, but he couldn’t – so maybe he wouldn’t. He could not take the plunge, and yet he knew he had to try, because the options had so clearly run out and it was the one item left on his particular menu. It was the chef’s special, and the waiter had recommended it. There would be a waiter talking to Percy’s grandparents right now, in the bistro of that beautiful Yorkshire town. They would be choosing their wine, while he moved further and further into nowhere.

Michael closed his eyes to erase the scene, and when he opened them again he saw that the rucksack was moving. The bus driver had stopped again.

‘You’re sure?’ said the Asian woman.

She sounded anxious.

The engine was still running, and the indicator was ticking. The light had gone, so the bus seemed to have come to rest in a black box.

‘It’s down some steps,’ said the driver. ‘You’ll see it.’

The hiker laughed.

‘I can’t see anything!’ she said, and the driver laughed too.

Michael stood up as the doors opened, and hurried to the front. The rucksack was disappearing, and Michael watched it go.

‘Is this you too?’ said the driver.

He nearly said, ‘No. Sorry.’ The words were on his lips, for to get off the bus was suddenly a momentous, irreversible decision: there would not be another. On the other hand, he could make out walls, and he could see a parked car.

‘I think it is,’ he said brightly. ‘Thanks ever so much.’

‘This isn’t Bacup, love.’