Dr Bonnermorgan had simply gazed at him, and the beard didn’t move because his lips didn’t open – and Michael struggled to explain a sadness he didn’t understand, for he had nothing to be sad about, since bereavement was a station everyone had to pass through – or a tunnel, or simply a long, horrible delay as you waited for the signal to change. It needn’t be a derailment.

‘I just can’t seem to get going,’ he said.

‘Are you depressed still?’

‘No.’

The doctor got straight to the point.

‘Are you worrying about something? Is there something else?’

‘No, not really. I just seem to be slowing down.’

‘What about counselling?’

‘Good Lord. I wouldn’t know where to start.’

‘You start by going online, or reading a few leaflets. I’ll send you some – there’s good people out there.’

‘It’s an idea. Thank you.’

He’d found himself back in the reception area, aware that compared to whole swathes of the ailing population he was absolutely fine and lucky to be so. From his toes to the crown of his balding head, and all the way out to his unbitten fingernails: he could stand like Jesus on the cross, and there was nothing wrong anywhere on his unblemished, slowly fattening body. Blood pressure? Absolutely fine. Alcohol intake? That was too personal a question, so he’d lied about that.

‘What about diet?’

‘Fine, doctor. Everything’s fine, actually. Please see the baby. Save the baby, and restore the sight of a truly wounded man. Help the sick for I am a survivor, totally – I have come through, bowed but unbroken.’

It was Steve, though, who confronted him first – and that was Steve from Building Control, in the same annexe as Monica, but on the floor above. He had no problem remembering Steve’s name, for Steve looked and sounded like a Steve. He was a man who seemed to know everything, and dealt in black and white. He had to know everything, in fact, because people came to him for guidance. ‘I want to convert my loft,’ they’d say. ‘I need to know whether I can do so or not.’