He crossed back to his own platform, and passed through Crewe just after twelve-twenty. He got back to his flat shortly before six. His room was still his room, and when he saw his own two hands setting his bag down on the bed, letting go of the strap, he stopped for a moment and stood motionless – catching his breath – for the note he’d left was unopened. His clothing was there, and his phone was on the bedside table exactly where he’d left it, next to his watch.

There was one message, from Maria.

All good??? it said.

He could hear a television coming up from the flat below. Now and then came the cough he recognised as Ryan’s. He texted back, All good. You?

Yes. Work tomorrow.

He put the phone down and opened the drawer of his desk. He took out all the letters and started to open them, one by one, throwing away the envelopes. Soon, the contents lay in orderly piles and he carefully punched holes so as to transfer them to a ring-binder. Everyone wanted his money, it seemed: the council, the water company, the various banks who’d sold on his debts – they were queuing up to prosecute him. There were letters from solicitors and bailiffs, and they threatened, so politely, to take everything he owned. In fact, there was only one thing they couldn’t take – and that was his life.

In the morning, he would have to talk to them.

There had been one encounter on the train south.

At Birmingham New Street he changed trains, and as the service was busy he found himself sharing a table with a young man who’d got on board just ahead of him. He was a boy, really, and he was hunched and slow, and as soon as he took his seat he put his head on the table. Michael found himself looking at a grey hood that was stained by grass, and fingers that were wrapped in a splint. There was an unpleasant smell as if he’d wet himself, and the part of his face that was visible was heavily bruised.

They travelled in silence for several miles, and then the door behind slid open. A clink of bottles followed, and a woman appeared pulling the refreshments trolley.

‘Tea, coffee,’ she said. ‘Anything to eat or drink?’

Michael said, ‘Yes. Thank you. Could I have a coffee?’

‘Of course.’

He couldn’t place her accent, but it sounded Eastern European. Her uniform was just a little tight, her hair drawn back from her face emphasising a nose that was long and sharp. The efficiency of her movements dazzled him, and he wondered if she was being timed. There was so little space on the trolley, for it was laden and she needed not only a tray and wallet for cash, but also the little machine for cards. She was a magician.

‘Anything to eat?’ she said.