He had decided not to use the waiting room, so he couldn’t see any screens. All he knew was that he had failed in his objective, first at Bromsgrove, and now at Crewe. Gloucester didn’t count, because he’d never seriously contemplated leaping from a bridge. Crewe, however, was an abject failure and he wasn’t sure what to do next.

The boys had been a distraction, as had the steam-train enthusiast. Every day was unpredictable, it seemed – but in such worryingly small ways. You never knew whom you would meet, and internally you never quite knew how the brain would deal with the wash of stimuli that came at it the moment you woke up. One smile could change everything, just as a sharp or impatient word could send you spinning off your own fragile axis. If the steam-train man hadn’t been there, would he be dead? The steam-train man had been there because of the steam train, so his being alive still was the responsibility of those who had organised its journey to Milton Keynes – and as for the three boys, why had they chosen that particular bench?

Things came together for no reason.

He lost his thread, and looked for a tangerine. There were three left in the little net but one had escaped – it was lurking in the corner of his shoulder bag, as if it didn’t want to be eaten. Another train was leaving as another arrived. There were twelve platforms in all, and how many trains per hour? They seemed to have been coming and going almost constantly, most of them stopping, of course – but some in too much of a hurry. Some shrieked through as if their drivers had lost control. Somebody, somewhere was in charge, and yet it seemed such a jostling free-for-all – a race! A three-coach train revved its engines and departed: Michael raised a hand to it, and knew he was properly drunk at last. Young Michael must be on his way by now, heading for home with chocolate round his mouth as he tried to account for his incredible luck.

He smiled, and sipped from the carton.

Drinkaware told him that he should have a maximum of fourteen units a week. Fourteen units was a bottle and a half of wine, or thereabouts, and he had learned to love wine with Elizabeth. That was over twenty-five years ago, and the love had blossomed time and time again – most recently in a privately run off-licence he’d found, called Vines. It was quite a walk from his home, but worth the journey because the two lesbians who owned it were so friendly. They were knowledgeable, too, and shared their knowledge joyfully. They indulged Michael, talking about vineyards and soils but cutting it short, because they were sensitive to his ignorance and knew when to stop.