The man wanted to know, it seemed, and now he was looking out at the tangle of rails in much the same attitude as Michael. Perhaps he felt desperate too? If that was the case, they could walk together, holding hands. They could even share the whisky, and steady each other.

‘I think we’re better off,’ said Michael.

‘In what way? You tell me, because I don’t think it’s progress, you see.’

‘Well, I’ll give you an example—’

‘I’m not sure we’re any happier,’ interrupted the man. ‘All these gadgets… because that’s what they are, in the end. Toys, really, and are we happier for them?’

‘We can stay in touch,’ said Michael quickly. ‘With the people who care about us – we can talk to them. If your… grandson, let’s say, misses the last bus, he won’t be stranded in the dark. You’ll know he’s safe.’

‘He’ll be on the phone for a lift, that’s why. In my day, you would have had to walk.’

‘Yes, but you’ll be able to keep him safe.’

‘Were we in so much danger? In the old days?’

‘I’m sure we were. Yes – definitely. I was.’

The man said nothing, and Michael swallowed.

‘We are so much better off,’ he said. ‘Your great-grandson has access to so much knowledge now. With one touch on his screen he can do just what you’re doing. He can call up recordings and information. He can listen to ideas, from people who think more deeply than he does. He can get advice, and find out about other people and what they might be going through. I think that’s progress – I do.’

‘Playing computer games. Is that good for you?’

‘Don’t you play games?’

‘No. Not for hours on end in a room all by myself, no. Not games where you… There was one he was playing the other day, it made me feel quite nauseous. He had a flamethrower. He was a soldier, with a flamethrower, squirting fire all over people. That was the game, and he was on it all afternoon – twelve years old. With some friend halfway across the country, so they don’t even have to see each other.’

Michael nodded.

The man would talk about sexual predators soon – and he would have to stand there listening. He glanced at the old man again, and wondered how many months of life he had left, because he wasn’t well. He would be getting home as the light faded: his wife would see how weary he was. She would set his supper before him, and what would it be? What did a man this old eat on a Thursday evening? Meatballs. Fish fingers. A lamb chop? Had they discovered the ready-meal, and the supermarkets’ money-saving deals? Chicken tikka masala with oven-ready naan bread and a free dessert.