‘You have to stand back, now. If you don’t come to an arrangement with us, you will lose your home – stay well behind the yellow line.’

Michael’s head was in his hands again.

‘I always do,’ he said quietly. My flat is lost, and it doesn’t matter, because I don’t need one any more. I’m in a tight spot, you see. There are two cards I can’t use, because I abused both. They were violated, so I only have one left. That is how I bought my ticket to Crewe, and I will never return to the flat where even the curtains tell the world, or anyone interested, that only the worthless live here – only those who will be found several days after their deaths, perhaps, when Ryan finally notices there are more flies than usual, gathering in the hall.

Michael could give the boy with the bike his watch, except that he was at the far end of the platform – and Michael wasn’t wearing it, anyway. It was with his phone. He was surprised to find tears in his eyes. His hands were over his face properly now, the orange peel still on his lap. He was shaking slightly, and the 10.13 had arrived – early, perhaps? The driver had put his foot down, eager to get ahead: it had sailed in from nowhere, like a magic train. It was getting ready to leave, and a whistle blew so cheerfully. People had to stand away now, and let the doors close, for it couldn’t wait for ever – it was full of people itching to get to the future, going forwards.

Why had the boy wheeled his bicycle to the end of the platform?

He had boarded, and Michael watched as the train blurred and left the station. Nobody was watching him. If someone was staring at the CCTV images what would they think? He remains behind because he is waiting to meet someone. He is not a man who needs our attention, so we will not lead him gently to the exit, and urge him to sit down quietly on a different bench, with a cup of tea. No, he is a man to be respected, and left alone.

Michael took two deep breaths and smiled.

His objective was to be in Crewe for lunchtime, and there would be another train soon – at 10.23 in fact. He stood up, and the 10.13 gathered speed. He waved to the passengers as they slid away up the line, hoping people would think he’d just seen someone off. He was smiling more brightly than ever now, wondering if he should take his first nip of whisky – which he didn’t feel like drinking. He had seventy-five centilitres, decanted into a fruit-juice carton, and he even had a glass because he couldn’t abide plastic cups. He needed to be drunk, he was sure of that.