There had been some movement around Albuquerque, so Poppy was reassured that he was still alive, but he didn’t appear to be in any hurry to get back on the road, which was great as far as she was concerned. Even though they had been gaining ground on him daily, he still remained that one elusive step ahead of them. Traffic permitting, Albuquerque was only a four-hour drive from Dalhart – if he’d only stay put, they could be with him by tomorrow lunchtime.

‘Oooh, he switched his phone on twenty-seven minutes ago, and he’s still there,’ Poppy said a minute or so later. ‘Yippee!’

‘Same bar?’ asked Bella.

‘Yup, looks like it – silly drunken sod.’

‘So he will not be going anywhere tonight. I do not blame him for staying in Albuquerque,’ said Lars. ‘It’s a helluva lot nicer than anywhere we’ve passed through the last few days …’

‘How on earth do you know these things? Is there anywhere you haven’t been?’ Bella laughed. ‘Whatever – I’m all for experiencing some nicer places!’

‘But first, my friend, there is Dalhart.’

The reason Damian hadn’t yet left Albuquerque was that he was having too much fun being drunk and maudlin every waking hour to want to hit the road again. He’d found a bar, imaginatively called La Hacienda, with a particularly chatty and accommodating barman, and had made several new friends in the other old soaks who frequented the place.

He had to admit that he had probably got it wrong, route-wise – the only two stretches of open road that had fired his imagination had been New York to Washington, DC, and Dalhart to Albuquerque – but he had drowned his sorrows pretty much every night in a new bar, in a new town, before hitting the road again the following morning, feeling like shit. It had then occurred to him that there was nothing stopping him from staying in Albuquerque for a few more days. It was a pleasant enough, New Agey kind of place, with a relaxed vibe and mild climate, even at the beginning of November. Apart from anything else, he was nearly at the end of his journey, and wasn’t sure what he was going to do once it had finished.

He was a stubborn bugger, as Poppy put it, and didn’t relish going back to New York with his tail between his legs, but he was starting to think that maybe he’d acted a little rashly, storming off the way he had. The hours of driving along monotonous Midwestern roads had given him rather more time for introspection than he’d have liked – which was ironic, considering the purpose of the journey had been to ‘find himself’.

Far more pleasant to hang out in this friendly, accommodating bar, with its friendly, accommodating barman, a little while longer.

La Hacienda was what might kindly be termed a dive. But as dives went it was pretty jolly, with a mixed Hispanic and Irish clientele, plastic cacti lined up on the windowsills, sawdust on the floor and a slightly unnerving combination of jaunty mariachi music and equally jaunty Irish jigs playing from an ancient CD player behind the bar. It also boasted an impressive array of bourbons and tequilas (through which Damian was steadily working his way). It was open twenty-four hours a day, but all the windows were blacked out, so unwelcome daylight never intruded.