In fact, she didn’t – he was sober enough to know she didn’t. If he failed to appear at breakfast, she would set off at eight o’clock, fiercely alone with the leaflet in her hand and the map in her pocket. If the sun was eclipsed by the moon, and the ridge plunged into unnatural darkness, Maria would still be following those dots, and she’d get to whatever summit or stack he’d seen in the sketch – he knew she would. He had promised to lead her, but he would be the follower.

He lay in his bed, and the wind got stronger.

He could be in a ship, way out at sea. He could be in any random room, and he felt such a long way from the place he called home, where he had caused such pain. He had been right to withdraw from the wedding, though, and at this moment, he belonged here. If his credit card could go on for ever, this is where he would stay – and who knows? He might become essential to the hotel in some way, and find his pub-cleaning skills were suddenly appreciated.

Nobody polished brass like he did, they would say.

Nobody took the time to get under the toilet seat, and bleach the urinals so thoroughly, giving the disinfectant time to act before the water cleared it – was there an award the hotel could win for sheer cleanliness? Would someone write a letter, astonished that public spaces could be so immaculate?

He remembered James again, for no reason.

They did litter duty together on Tuesday after school, and he remembered James climbing a tree to get at a crisp packet that had stuck in its twigs. He’d taken his blazer off, and hauled himself higher and higher as everyone cheered. He remembered Amy, and making love with his eyes closed and knowing the lies between them now formed a very high wall indeed – he couldn’t scale it or tunnel under it, and walking round it would take for ever. The lies prevented progress, and he was so tired of his own head, tired of his own imagination… the lies told and thought until they stiffened into truth.

To whom could he talk? If there was only a way of shunting backwards, and owning up to poor, dear Amy with all her special range of vulnerabilities and hopes. He would have liked to call her now, or text her a straightforward So sorry – except he’d chosen not to bring his phone. He’d left it on the bed beside the envelope. In any case, it would make things worse. You never knew what rage people carried inside, any more than you knew the real extent of their grief, or their joy, or their sheer hollowed-out emptiness.

‘But I’m still alive,’ he said quietly.