‘I was looking at the guidebook earlier,’ I say. ‘Apparently there are two Irish pubs and a British pub here. Maybe we can head there for a bit.’ I really want her to say yes. As much as I love discovering new things, I’m feeling quite tired after the train journey, the effort of it all. I’d love to go somewhere that feels like home. Just for a bit. The culture will still be there tomorrow.

‘Oh, definitely,’ she says. ‘I saw those too. I fancy a walkabout, then a proper night out.’ She leans over and takes a strand of my hair between her fingers. Twirls it around. ‘We can get dressed up.’

‘Have you looked outside,’ I say. ‘Not sure it’s a very “dress up” sort of place.’ The taxi driver looks into his rear-view mirror, and I catch his eye for a moment. He’s smiling. Maybe he knows something we don’t. Assuming he understands what we’re saying.

‘Good shop,’ he says, pointing out to the right.

We follow his line of sight to a monolithic building. It looks like a communist prison, but I try to be optimistic. A department store, maybe? From what I’ve seen so far, this place is such a mishmash.

‘Brilliant,’ Carrie says. ‘Can you recommend a good restaurant?’

The taxi driver laughs. ‘No Mongolian barbecue here.’

Carrie opens her mouth to question him further, but then the car swings around a bend and comes to a stop next to a cut-through to a small square lined with terraced houses. They’ve been painted various colours, but the paint is faded and peeling. One of them has a sign nailed on the wall next to the front door, but I can’t make out what it says.

The driver points. ‘Sunrise Guesthouse,’ he says.

I turn to Carrie, trying to work out if there’s been a mistake. It looks like we’re in the middle of a housing estate, and not a particularly nice one at that. But she’s already out of the car, handing over notes. Picking up her rucksack from where the driver has dropped both of them onto the rough, cracked concrete. Oh well. Beggars can’t be choosers.

7

The front door opens before we get all the way across the square.

‘Welcome, welcome,’ says the woman standing on the doorstep. She is tall and slim, long dark hair in one braid over her shoulder. She has high cheekbones and shining almond eyes, and she is wearing faded blue jeans and a cream smock-top with multi-coloured tassels hanging from the neck. She looks fresh and welcoming, and I feel shabby in front of her. Even Carrie doesn’t look so fresh after nearly thirty hours on a train without a shower.