Stefan said nothing now. Presumably he wasn’t sure what Michael’s point was going to be – or if, perhaps, he had made it. That was the probable reason for the silence, though Michael knew there could be others.

‘The graffiti was actually quite obscene,’ said Michael.

‘Were you able to move to another carriage, sir?’ said Stefan.

‘Yes, of course. I could have done.’

He might have used the connecting door and forgotten about the images he’d seen. There were four carriages, and the train was still at the station, changing crew, so Michael could have disembarked. Instead, he had paused to study the graffiti, and that was how he’d come to see the large penis rearing up from a pair of pineapple-sized testicles. The penis had lips, which were pulled back to release a fountain of what had to be sperm – the globules looked like teardrops, bursting. Suk my cock had been written under the image, and the artist had signed his or her name below that. Ejay! was the name, shouting out loud in thick, black ineradicable ink. Michael had stared and reread the words, wondering how long it had taken Ejay to create the work, and what other passengers might have been thinking.

The other table had no picture at all: it had simply been scribbled on.

‘I could have done that,’ said Michael. ‘I could have moved, but that’s not what I’m actually calling about. I’m calling to tell you that when I spoke to the guard a bit later, he didn’t seem to care. He told me that the train would be cleaned in the depot.’

Again, there was a silence. Michael could hear the very faint sounds of another operator taking a call.

‘You’ve got CCTV,’ said Michael, to Stefan. ‘I asked the guard if he was going to find out who’d vandalised his train, and he said it wasn’t worth it. “Ah,” he said. “They’ll clean it at the depot.” “But it’s vandalism,” I said.’

The guard had laughed.

He had been a small, slight Sikh gentleman. He had the gentlest, most sympathetic face under his turban, and he’d walked up the carriage slowly in a little grey suit, treading lightly, as if he didn’t want to disturb the passengers. Michael was used to Sikhs being very big, so this man seemed like a miniature – or even a little boy carefully made up to look old. He had told Michael that there was no point studying the CCTV film because the Transport Police wouldn’t do anything.

‘They would if it was an assault,’ said Michael.

He sat on the bench, as the delayed 09.46 prepared to leave, and wondered why he had said something so stupid.