They were in bed together – the lamps turned off.

‘What?’

‘Michael MacMillan.’

‘What about him?’

‘Why would he buy Tomatin malt whisky? He’s never done that before.’

‘Some celebration?’

‘I wish I’d asked. I wish I’d said, “What’s the occasion?” I’m not going to sleep now, am I?’

‘You can ask him next time. Or I will.’

‘Tomatin malt – he knows his whisky.’

‘He’s a good man.’

‘Sensitive.’

‘Deep.’

‘Let’s hope he’s enjoying it with the one he loves, eh? Where’s he drinking it, the old soak? Mystery man!’

They would giggle, and then they would hug. They would get on with whatever they did in bed, which was beyond Michael’s imagination, and he hated himself for both failing to imagine it and trying to – what did it say about him? What would a judge say, if he was ever on trial for being so stupidly sordid? What would a jury think? Twelve men and women shaking their heads, astonished that people such as Michael still existed.

‘You have displayed in this courtroom only self-pity.’

The judge was pitiless, and his voice would have to be loud and fierce.

‘For those you have hurt, wounded and insulted you show nothing but contempt – and for that you will pay. You poke your nose into other people’s private lives, wallowing in your sad, primitive adolescence – how have you failed to develop, man? Take him down…’

Michael smiled, for there would be no trial, and he would never know what his friends at Vines had thought, said or done. What he did know was that the whisky he’d chosen was fabulous. He took the glass out of his bag again, and set it on the arm of the bench. He allowed himself another measure, so as to stay happily, wistfully drunk – it was a kind of topping-up.

Anyone watching would assume he was sipping healthy juice, so he sat back and the bench seemed ever more comfortable. The station roof was remarkable, and Crewe itself seemed the right place to be. The drunkenness was gorgeous and warm – it was like the central heating coming on.

He poured again, but kept the measure small.

It was like stepping out of the wind into shelter. It was like turning to find the one you love has waited for you after all. It was like being allowed into your mother’s bed, when something had frightened you as a child, or you’d simply felt the ache of being alone and awake in a house where everyone else was asleep. It was like getting home when you’d missed the last train, and had to walk through the rain – the whisky was his home.

He looked at his ticket.

It was invalid now, of course, for he had accomplished that journey whilst avoiding its climax. Obviously, he could go anywhere – if he didn’t want to stay where he was.