‘I’m sorry your journey was made uncomfortable,’ said Stefan – and there was no trace of irony. The man was humble and sincere.

‘It wasn’t really,’ said Michael.

Silence.

‘I just wanted to talk to someone about the incident. I mean… if young children had seen that picture, they would have been horrified.’

‘I’m sure it will have been cleaned off, as a priority,’ said Stefan.

‘That’s what the guard said. He said it would be cleaned in the depot.’

‘They’re pretty good.’

Stefan’s English was perfect.

‘I’m sure they are,’ said Michael – and he wondered which young children might have been horrified. Why would young children have been up so late, and wouldn’t the drawing have simply made them laugh – or put their hands to their mouths? Yes, it would have told them, subliminally, that the penis is a weapon – but they would have got over that soon enough and realised it needn’t be. They would come to understand that if some penises go unused for long periods of time, shrinking and withering as the pubic hair moults and sensation proves ever more unsatisfactory, then some penises do not. Some swell and splatter the world, for some penises are like spears, because what’s the best way of picking up a bird? That was a joke from school that clawed him back to boyhood. What’s the best way of picking up a bird, Michael? On the end of your dick.

He hated that joke, but it was lodged in his head.

You lift her up on the end of your dick, and carry her into the bedroom! That’s the best way, apparently. That’s how it’s done, Mr Trace – if a girl is what you want, sir.

‘Thanks for taking my call,’ said Michael politely.

‘Not at all, sir. Is there anything else I can help you with?’

‘Yes, please,’ he wanted to say. ‘Yes.’

Instead he’d said, ‘No. You’ve helped me a lot.’

Courtesy meant dignity. Perhaps Stefan ended the call feeling better, because progress had been made. He would have felt worse, probably, if Michael had sworn at him – though once again, how could you know? Call-centre people buckled on suits of armour, surely: they made themselves impregnable. It was Michael who’d ended the call feeling better, and he knew it was because someone had taken him seriously for almost two whole minutes. Now he sat on the station bench, trying not to look down, for the 09.46 had departed.

To look down meant seeing his own feet, which were planted either side of his shoulder bag, there on the earth’s crust. If he stood up too fast he’d go through, and slither down into the caverns of despair.

‘The Caverns of Despair’ was an image from a poem he’d written for his English teacher, who’d read it to the class:

Come with me, to the caverns of despair…