She smiled too, just like her colleague. She smiled right at him, and she was like the first girl but more beautiful. Her face fell naturally into a smile, just as Elizabeth’s had – just as so many people’s did… and her eyes glittered like Mr Trace’s but differently, for hers were merry and young and she might have been a Romanian Gypsy, born on a bank of wild flowers. She placed the crockery briskly, but precisely, her movements so economical – she didn’t know it was Michael’s last ever hot drink, but she was preparing it as if she’d somehow guessed. And if she had a boyfriend, did the fellow realise how lucky he was? If she lived with her parents, still – if she wasn’t from Europe, but lived in grey old Gloucester – did they realise what a privilege it was, having access still to this person they had created and reared? It wouldn’t be long before she spread her wings and left them. As a customer, did he really appreciate the kindness of her attention? Could he write to her manager, and get her promoted? Could he be responsible for her earning a substantial bonus?

Would she take twenty pounds, if he offered it?

She was too beautiful, and for a moment he imagined the horror of her being assaulted. A man could subdue her so dreadfully easily – whilst two men, working together… Michael’s imagination plunged, and he looked down at his hands, appalled at the pit that was opening around him. I’ll hold her for you, you hold her for me – he had read that phrase somewhere, and she wouldn’t stand a chance unless she practised martial arts, or unless he came by to rescue her. Perhaps she would be able to fight her own way out of their terrible grip, but she looked too delicate and he could see her thin arms twisted behind her back as the first man dragged her down to the railway tracks, her scream unheard for an express train was passing, screaming louder. There were her parents looking at the clock, just beginning to wonder where she was. And what if the men put her body on the rails? What if those poor parents had to wait at the mortuary to see what was left? He felt a sob rising in his throat.

She smiled, and Michael had to hold the counter more firmly, weak with self-loathing. She turned away. She put the milk jug under the steamer, and for some reason she looked at him again. She should have said, ‘Go on. Get out.’

‘I beg your pardon. Why?’

‘That train for Crewe. The one you said you’d be in front of, old man – it’s about to come hurtling through.’

‘There’ll be others,’ he would say. ‘I can wait for the later train—’

‘You’re not going to do it, are you?’

She would be whispering.