Obviously, he could do exactly what he wanted, and the live rail was available if he didn’t want to walk up the tracks. He had a limit of six hundred and fifty pounds on the card, and had spent one hundred and ten. He could spend the rest however he chose, and they would have to write the debt off – because he had no guarantor.

Would they try his brother, or even Amy? They’d have no luck.

He had a vision of himself in a comfortable, first-class carriage, and now that he was drinking the fine old malt it seemed right. He would wait until he was truly, uncomplicatedly happy, and it would be easy then: he would step out onto whatever station it might be, and do the business there. He would put good old Crewe behind him, and keep going north. It would be easier not to know which train was going to kill him. It would be easier choosing a platform and line at random, and setting out between the rails.

He would wait for the dark. The darkness would be intense on the track, and he would plod on until whatever train it was kissed him goodnight and sliced him into however many pieces ninety-six wheels would cut you into – if it was a twelve-coach train, of course. Crewe had helped him make a better decision, so he opened his mints and put one in his mouth. Then he cleared away the little pile of orange peel, and set the carton and glass back in his bag. He walked through the barrier to where they sold tickets.

The schoolchildren were long gone, but they would talk about him tomorrow.

‘We should write that man a note,’ said his younger self. ‘We ought to thank him.’

‘Where would we send it, though?’

‘We could tape it to the vending machine. Or to one of the pillars – we could make a card…’

‘We should tell the police, Michael. They’d protect us.’

‘Do we need protection? From what?’

‘From Mr Trace!’

‘But he’s dead. We’ve been through this. He’s ash and dust – he’s gone…’

Michael found himself at the sales counter, frowning.

A man of his own age stood staring back, ready and willing to serve. The glass between them was thick, but there were microphones. He wouldn’t have to shout, and he was still completely alive: his legs were working and his spine was keeping him upright. His hands, too, were behaving exactly as hands should – resting rather neatly on the shelf whilst cradling a wallet, which they opened so efficiently without even a tremor. His fingertips would have no problem easing the card from its little pocket, and presenting it.

‘I’m going further north,’ he said carefully.

‘Very good. Which station?’

The man’s voice was made thinner by the tannoy, but he was friendly and he even looked interested.

‘Glasgow.’