The boy shrugged and gazed out of the window again. The train stopped but they weren’t at a station. Michael ate his own sandwich, quietly, and said no more. He finished the coffee, and couldn’t help but notice that the chicken sandwich remained untouched. He wondered if the boy was a vegetarian, or if his choice had been foolish: how could the poor soul eat spicy food with torn lips? It was possible that he simply couldn’t bring himself to accept a gift, of course, because gifts come freighted with obligations. He didn’t want to be in debt. All through childhood, thought Michael, we are told never to accept the approaches of strangers, for strangers will want something from us – the price will be too high. From Hansel and Gretel onwards, we’re told the same thing: never take the sweets.

‘If you come in my car, I’ll give you five pounds.’

‘Give me ten, mate – I’ll cum in your mouth.’

Michael closed his eyes, but for some reason the joke now seemed simply crude and ignorant. Why had it ever alarmed him?

He looked at the boy again, and the clothes made him feel sad. They suggested the cheapest of the cheap high-street stores – were they bought by his mother, still? Were they borrowed or interchanged amongst brothers and friends? Except he wouldn’t have friends. He would have ‘mates’, and Michael could almost hear them, because a pack always met up quite close to where he lived. You’d hear the mumbling and the sniggering – there might be a skateboard or two, or even a bicycle riding in tight circles. They always wore what this boy was wearing now: they conformed to uniform regulations as they must have done at school, but instead of shirts and ties it was now this: the costume of the unskilled, jobless poor.

The boy picked up the sandwich and took a bite. Sauce immediately ran down his chin, and he winced. It stained the bandage on his hand, so he licked his fingers quickly, and Michael thought of rats again.

He wanted to say something, but he couldn’t think of a single question or statement that would take them forward, and the train was obstinately still. They were simply stuck.

The boy smelled worse now – the stink of urine was strong. Had people urinated on him, perhaps? He couldn’t be incontinent, but he might have been so drunk last night that he’d lost control. Was he coming back from a wild party? Was he actually the son of some wealthy couple? Was he at university, even?

‘How old are you?’ said Michael.

The boy swallowed.

‘Sixteen.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘What?’

‘Your name. If you don’t mind me asking.’

‘Morris.’

There was a silence.