There would be another train, and he would still make a connection of some kind – he would get to Crewe for the 15.41, just one hour later. He would be on time for that one, and if he arrived later he’d avoid having half an hour to spare. Yes, he had to cross to platform seven, but there was a subway and a bridge. He had once used the lifts, in fact, but he couldn’t recall where they were. Not that crossing the station posed any kind of problem: the real problem was the realisation that he was so obstinately, harrowingly sober.

He put the carton and glass away, and when the doors opened he was the first one out, stumbling onto the platform. His knees were shaking, but there was a bench in the perfect spot. He sat, with his bag on his lap, breathing in as slowly as he could. He stared at his shoes, and found that like an idiot he was crying again. The clouds had amassed in his head, it seemed: now, rain was falling.

He smiled, because someone was coming towards him, and the last thing he wanted was to embarrass that person. He really did have just a few hours left – and it would be nice to get through them without causing pain.

‘Excuse me, sir. Why are you crying?’

He waited as the woman walked by.

‘Excuse me, sir. I’m a Samaritan and I couldn’t help but notice the fact that you have tears in your eyes, and… I don’t want to be presumptuous, but I can’t walk by someone who appears to be in distress. Lay down your burden.’

The passengers were gone, and the tears stopped as suddenly as they started: the sun came out again.

He gathered himself up, and walked to the waiting room.

It was a clean, efficient station, and he’d never explored it before: Bromsgrove, home of Terry and his lovely, loyal, nervous wife. Had Terry got down here, too? Michael hadn’t seen him. But he’d been on his way to Bristol, so he said – even though they were heading north, so was that possible? No. Had he not started his journey from home? Had he moved south, or was he staying with friends? Terry had definitely lived in Bromsgrove once, so perhaps he was lying about his journey to the marina? Perhaps it was all fiction, and Terry was off to blow his brains out in the Midlands, or to pick up a Birmingham prostitute – he’d been covering his tracks, the dog, and Michael had swallowed every word.

He should have fixed Terry with a cheery grin.

‘You’re a sly one,’ he should have said. ‘Where are you off to, really?’

‘That would be telling!’

Terry would have grinned back and winked.

‘I don’t tell the truth, Michael,’ he would have whispered. ‘Why should I?’

‘Why should anyone?’