From Harbourside Honor wanders along the city’s watery arteries past the dark glamour of Narrow Quay to Pero’s Bridge and heads towards Broadmead. It is past the commuter hour now and the streets are relatively quiet, the shops shut or shutting, the office buildings empty and still lit, the pavements swept, rubbish collecting in the bins. But there is something feral about the city too, some dark and buried rot, as if beneath all the respectability, the grandeur even, lurks something sinister. In a narrow street just shy of Broadmead she spots a charity shop sign. A young man with a kind face appears at the door to signal they are about to close. Honor opens her coat and points to her pyjamas, mouthing, ‘I haven’t got a stitch to wear,’ and the young man, amused, lets her in.

‘Forget to get dressed this morning, did we?’

‘I’ll be quick, I promise.’

From among the bric-a-brac and musty assortments she picks out a pair of harems, some jeans and a purple fleece, then, bearing in mind her scheduled meeting with Dr Lea Keane, scouts the racks for something more business-like. It has been years and years since she had any cause to wear anything smart or even look presentable. Nevis always says she looks like a New Age traveller on her way to a rave in a field. The young man watches her struggling to choose and pulls out a trouser suit, saying, ‘Try that one on. About your size and no visible body fluids, which is always a plus.’

In the privacy of the changing room she slides off her pyjamas, pulls on the suit and glances at herself briefly in the mirror with one eye. What happened to her youth? The years fill up your heart and break down your body. Nothing fits quite right but it’ll all do. She bundles up the pyjamas she was wearing when she left London, and hanging the jeans, tops and trouser suit over an arm, pulls open the curtains and heads across the stale-smelling shop to the till.

‘Purple is so this season,’ the young man says, folding the fleece into a carrier bag and, pointing to the pyjamas hanging over Honor’s arm, ‘I could put those in the recycling bin? They can process the fabric and turn it into something new.’

‘Wouldn’t it be great if that worked on people,’ she says.

Back outside in a light ashy rain she texts Nevis and tries to recall where she left Gerry the van.

Chapter 12

Cullen