As for the leaflet, he had laid it out on Maria’s dressing table to dry, and she’d been about to throw it away. He had saved it. It was torn, but he wrote his phone number carefully beside one of the pictures, and below that he wrote his name.

His name was Michael MacMillan, and he underlined it. Then he thought of Terry, who was in Bristol at the marina. He thought of Percy, which was short for Percival: he would be in a classroom, or on a playing field. His grandparents had not revealed their names – unlike Scottish Graeme, Sunita, Jo, Tim or Tom, and all those old colleagues at the council. There was Steve, and the HR woman – Jean. There were lots more whose faces had faded, but they could all be in the next carriage – they were following him, in a way. What about the wise Pakistani in Accrington, in a house with seventy people who had gathered around his father? What about the woman on the bench, way back where his journey started? Had she made it to wherever she was going, and met up with her daughter? An anonymous steam-train enthusiast had saved his life, and he’d met himself at the vending machine – that nervous boy, who might be telling his friends about the madman on the station even now. He would be checking vending machines for the next year, recalling his find for the rest of his life. As for Bromsgrove’s war dead, Michael couldn’t remember a single one of them. Not one of those brave, frightened young soldiers had lodged in his memory, unlike Maria’s six children. He could name each one: Roselle, the baby. Next to her was Roxanne, and then Miguel. Max was the oldest, and Lucas was one year younger. Nikko was the monkey. As for their father, his name was Jao.

He read his own name again: Michael MacMillan. He pushed the leaflet across the table, and weighted it down with the last tangerine.

‘Contact me, Morris,’ he said. ‘If you want to.’

The train rolled into a tunnel, and came out again. He thought about Elizabeth, and then Monica. He thought about Amy, whom he’d hurt so badly, and closed his eyes.

FAR EAST

33

When you land at Manila’s Ninoy Aquino Airport, your first impression may be negative. The walk through the terminal is a tiring one, and there are usually eight or nine long queues in the immigration hall. You inch forward, and the Filipino officer in the booth will only give you the most cursory glance, because he or she sees so many different versions of you every day. He or she isn’t likely to see you as an individual: sadly, you have come to seem the same as the last and the next. Your visa will be stamped into your passport, though, and through you will go. You have permission to enter the Philippines.