For some reason, they could not stop laughing, and then they started to wave. Up on the rock, Michael looked at the hands waving as Maria laughed with them – for she was excited, too. This was the second call of the day, he remembered – did that make it illicit? Was that why they were so, so excited? – because calls had to be rationed, and this was late and extra-special?

She hushed them.

‘Go on, Michael,’ she said. ‘They want to hear your voice. I tell them you are my bodyguard, and I say you’re looking after me.’

‘What shall I say?’

The children shouted with joy, and he realised they had seen him properly for the first time. Maria was angling the tablet so they had a clear view of his idiot face. She was offering the device to him.

‘Uncle!’ cried Lucas. ‘How are you? How are you?’

Again, his throat was constricted.

Yet again, words seemed so hard to come by, but he took the tablet from Maria and brought it closer. The children were laughing, and when he put his nose near to the glass they screamed. They were waving still, and he could feel an ache, and a fear that he hadn’t felt for years. On top of that came the realisation that he didn’t deserve what was happening, because he shouldn’t be here. He was wearing another man’s coat and another man’s boots. He should have been dead by now. Whatever he said next would have to be intelligent, or even profound – he wanted to say something appropriate to the occasion but he couldn’t find a single worthwhile syllable.

He put his hand up and waved, and this time it was the daughter who spoke.

‘What is your name?’ said Max.

He licked his lips.

‘Michael,’ he said firmly.

‘Hello, uncle.’

Inspiration came at last. ‘What are your names?’ he said slowly.

They told him. They introduced themselves and each other. They pushed to be closer to the screen and Michael could only stare in wonder. They told him their ages, in slow, hesitant English.

‘Where do you live?’ said Lucas, and Michael told him.

‘What is your age?’ said Nikko, but his sister shushed him, and there was more talk in their own language. Maria took the tablet from Michael, and held it steady for him.

‘We have had a long walk,’ he said.

‘Oh,’ said Max. ‘Good.’

‘Your mother and I. We have been walking – together. We have come many miles.’

He could hear his own robotic voice, and wondered why he was speaking so awkwardly, as if he had only just learned how to talk. It was as if his mouth had been sewn up for years.

‘The weather,’ he said. ‘It’s been quite… changeable.’