He had told so many people that he’d resigned, or taken voluntary redundancy, that he had come to believe both things – it came as a shock when he remembered the complicated truth, and how he’d been cornered by colleagues in an organisation determined to get rid of him. He was on a train, at last, having boarded the 10.23 and taken a seat facing backwards, which he didn’t like to do – he much preferred to face the direction of travel. The memory of almost being fired had come from nowhere, as memories often did. An elderly lady sat opposite him, and he nodded at her. She didn’t look at all like the council’s human-resources manager, but his sacking had resurfaced and the carriage was suddenly full of council employees and the members of the public who were forever downstairs, seeking consultations and explanations. The train might have been chartered specially, for they were all gathered together, pondering his uselessness.

‘There’s no option, really,’ she’d said – the HR woman. ‘You can contest it but I don’t think you’ll find anyone who’d… you know, take the case, Michael. Try, by all means, please. You have twenty-eight days, but…’

But what?

This was years ago, of course – before he met Amy. And people always looked so sad when they did horrible things – or adults did. It wasn’t true at school, of course: they had looked gleeful at school, like the boys who’d pushed him into the pond because he had new shoes. Even kind old Mr Trace had a special smile when he so playfully punished you. Michael blinked him away, and remembered when he’d tried to retrieve a parcel from the post office some time ago, without ID. The postal worker had stood behind the unbreakable glass, refusing to hand it over.

‘Sorry,’ he’d said, without being sorry. ‘Sorry, sir – it says on the card. You need ID.’

It had given the man such pleasure.

‘I don’t have my wallet with me, but—’

‘Sorry.’

‘I have the ticket, look. I can tell you what the parcel is – it’s just a cream.’

The man had shaken his head, weighed down with the responsibility of preventing fraud and theft – a responsibility people like Michael would never understand, especially if they were foolish enough to ignore simple, clearly written instructions.

‘Sorry,’ he said again.

‘Ignorance is no plea, MacMillan. I think we need a little chat, once you’ve had your lunch.’

‘Did Tracey give you lunch? Did it fit?’

Michael was nodding his head again.

He stared at the landscape, trying to remember the name – not of the post-office man, but of the human-resources manager. It might have been Jill, or Jean or Joan. Certainly a ‘J’. She was heavy in her chair, like Monica, but whilst she appeared to be sympathetic, there was a toughness under the sympathy before which Michael wilted. His energy left him.