‘No, that’s fine – this is good for me. Have a nice evening.’

‘You too.’

‘Drive carefully!’

‘Oh, I’ll try to.’

He couldn’t prolong that little burst. The driver had to close the doors and continue: she had her other passengers to think about, and a schedule.

‘Oh! What time is the next bus?’ That would have been a forgivable extension, and might have given him the moment he needed to change his mind.

He didn’t think of it in time, though, and the doors were closing. The handbrake grated, and the wheels crunched over loose stones. The bus became a yellow lantern, and he watched it slalom carefully through what must be a small village. He watched it disappear and reappear. It climbed up the same road, but its headlights were dimming and then suddenly – as if the world wasn’t round at all – it reached an edge and tipped itself into oblivion.

He – Michael – walked forward.

There were a dozen houses at the most, though there may have been more down hidden lanes. Some of the front windows were illuminated, but there wasn’t a single street light. The wind now buffeted him, as it had done the vehicle, and his waterproof was no protection: he was instantly, violently cold.

He retraced his steps, and explored the other way. Overhead was a great spray of stars, but no moon. There were steps to his right, which the driver had referred to – they took him to an abrupt corner and another, steeper flight down. Seconds later, he was at the bottom, in a car park. There was a sign, lit up by two weak bulbs: The Golden Fleece, it said. Welcome.

21

Maria checked in quickly.

Her reservation was entirely in order, and the manager had kept a table for her in the bar. They stopped serving food at nine-thirty, so she had time to freshen up – it wasn’t quite eight o’clock. No, she didn’t need help, and she could manage her own bag. Within a few minutes the door was locked and she was sitting on the bed.

Single rooms were always a little sad, but she had a ritual to ward off that sadness: she opened the handbag she’d lost, and removed her wallet. Inside was a small concertina-shaped photo book, and the next moment the room was full: her husband, children and parents were in front of her. They looked up, and she said their names quietly. There was no disapproval or recrimination: there was only the simple reminder that whilst she felt so far away, they were even further. Nothing stood between them but time and temporary distance. She said a prayer, and thought about the woman she’d met in Preston whose name she had already forgotten – she said a prayer for her, too.

She put her tablet and phone on charge, and then she unpacked.