Morris swallowed the last of the first sandwich, and went straight on to the second. He pushed it into his mouth and ate hungrily. Then he drank and wiped his lips, and started on the chocolate bar. He ate with total concentration and without pleasure – the eating was mechanical and fast. Michael didn’t want to stare at him, so he gazed at the wasteland outside, trying to ignore the reflection in the glass.

He said, ‘A hundred years ago…’

The boy made no sign of hearing or listening – but it didn’t matter. Michael wanted to tell him something.

‘A hundred years ago,’ he said. ‘You would have been off to France. I’d have been too old, I think – but a sixteen-year-old… I think conscription had started, but the other thing I read was that – this might surprise you – young men lied about their ages, because they were so keen to join up and fight. Twelve-year-old boys would walk miles, apparently, trying to find a… recruitment office that would take them.’

The boy sipped the chocolate.

‘And I met someone yesterday,’ said Michael, ‘who had three jobs. She made me think I need to find work, because… I don’t do much any more.’

The boy wasn’t looking at him.

‘What happened to your eye? Tell me.’

The boy creased his brow for a moment, then looked away. He was about to speak, when the doors closest to them opened and a friendly voice said:

‘All tickets, please. All tickets.’

The boy said, ‘Fuck.’

‘What?’

He went to stand up, but winced as he did so. Then he seemed to lose interest in the movement, and slumped back down. In any case, the guard was at the table across from theirs, waiting as a man and a woman delved into their pockets and bags: there was no escape. Michael produced his ticket, and waited for what was now inevitable.

‘Thank you, sir – tickets, please?’

The boy looked up, and the guard stared at him.

‘Stolen,’ he said.

‘What’s that?’

‘I had my wallet stolen.’

The guard looked at him more carefully.

‘Where have you come from?’

‘Birmingham.’

‘Birmingham? What kind of ticket was it?’

‘I don’t know. Just a… return.’

‘Any proof of purchase? A receipt, or…?’

The boy shook his head.

‘Where are you going to?’

‘Newport.’

‘Long way. Do you have cash, or a card?’

The boy’s head twitched again.

‘ID?’

‘No.’

‘Okay,’ said the guard.