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I left the shop, locking the door behind me. Out of season, the streets of the village were invariably empty. All the old people were inside, staring at walls, at televisions, chewing, all Windsor knots and pearls. Waiting for the sun, or the end.
    I bit down on that thought, trying to gnaw it off, spit it away. I made my way up to The Fluke and ordered a pint of Broadside. The barman told me to sit down; he'd bring me my drink. I thanked him, to divert the mouthful of abuse I wanted to spill his way. I was no invalid. I could carry my own pint. But then I caught the ghost of myself in the glass of the door as I turned. I was an old man. The skin of my face was tired; it couldn't just be the scars that were doing that. The metal in my back held me upright, but the rest of my body seemed to be railing against it, failing. I was thin and weak. I was wasted.
    I sat in the corner of the pub, in shade. There was nobody else, apart from a black Labrador sleeping by the slot machine. The barman put my drink in front of me and I nodded. If Tamara had not left me, what did that mean? My mind wouldn't hold hands with that thought.
    I drank half the bitter quickly and asked the barman to change a five-pound note for the phone. I pulled out my address book and flicked through it. I had tried Tamara's mobile phone number a dozen times in the past three weeks. It had not been answered once. I hadn't panicked about this; she didn't like mobiles and rarely used hers. I certainly hadn't seen her receive any calls and she had chosen not to activate an answering service. When I asked her what I would do if I needed to get in touch with her, she had told me she wouldn't be away from me long enough for me to need to call her. I had to assume it was switched off, or shut away in a drawer. It could have run out of juice. She might have lost it.
    Nothing of help in the address book. Both her parents were dead. She had no siblings. She had a few friends in the airline business, including one, Catriona, who had been closer than most. They had worked together on a series of flights over the course of a year, shortly before I met her. I called Air France and asked to speak to their personnel department. I was put on hold and then a female voice, in French, asked me how she could be of assistance.
    'I'm trying to track down a member of your cabin crew. She might still be working for you, but she was definitely employed by Air France throughout 2010.'
    'And you are?'
    'Paul Roan. I was a first officer with Lufthansa until last year.'
    'Was?'
    'I retired.'
    'You don't sound so old.'
    I laughed. 'I retired for personal reasons.'
    'And the person you're looking for?'
    'Catriona Beck. She was part of a cabin crew that included my girlfriend, Tamara Dziuba.'
    'Ah, yes. I know both of them.'
    I felt my heart pitch. 'You do?'
    'Yes, Catriona and I are friends. I met Tamara on a number of occasions. Work functions. That sort of thing.'
    'Do you know where I can find Tamara?'
    There was a hesitation. 'You said she was your girlfriend?'
    'That's right. She... We decided on a trial separation. But I haven't seen her for a while.'
    'How long is a while?'
    'Look, it isn't important,' I snapped. I caught the barman looking up at me in my periphery. I thumbed some more coins into the phone. 'Sorry. It's been six months.'
    'I can't help you,' she said, her manner more clipped now. 'If you give me your contact details, I'll pass on your message to Catriona and - '
    'Can't you put me through to Catriona now?'
    'She's away. Working. She won't be back until Thursday evening.'
    I sighed and the sound lingered in the receiver. 'Okay,' I said. 'If you could ask her to call me, as a matter of great urgency, on... '
    I gave Ruth's phone number and email address, wishing I had sorted out my own contact details since my recovery rather than plodding around in a daze, owlishly ranging to see if Tamara was anywhere close, carrying a bunch of flowers and a box of chocolates. I imagined