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in Brentford, she crossed a deserted Hammersmith Broadway and headed for the office.
    Shattered from the day but exulted at the prospect of working, Stella paid little attention to headlights that stayed behind her all the way to Shepherd’s Bush Green.

3
    Monday, 10 January 2011
    ‘Now the day is over,
    Night is drawing nigh,
    Shadows of the evening
    Steal across the sky.’
    Jack sang softly while he strolled through the subway and up the ramp. At the statue he paused under cover of the hedge and the bells pealed again, this time counting the hour. The church clock was a minute fast – not that when he was walking he cared about measuring time. On his journeys he noted only slipshod work, wanton neglect and deliberate damage; he counted dented cars, skirting scatterings of windscreen glass glittering on kerbstones and squashed smouldering cigarette butts tossed in gutters. Jack took trouble on behalf of those who did not bother.
    The sound of the bells reverberated in his ear. Sundays were the worst, Jack confided to the statue of the Leaning Woman; the chimes and changes upset him more than horns, or roadside drilling, which at least had purpose. Blood had trickled down his neck, warm at first, drying to a crust. He had been instructed not to tell and, good at keeping secrets, told no one. He cupped a hand over his ear – the cold made it worse – but the ache was too deep.
    In the lamplight breaking through the tree branches, the statue stretched her arms out to him.
    Today’s journey had been simple; the route on the page was like two circles attached by a straight line and Jack ended up where he had started: on Church Road in Northolt in the London Borough of Ealing. From there it was no distance across Western Avenue to the Underground station, a building dating from 1948. After clicking through the route on Google Street Viewhe scribbled the year on page fifty-three in his street atlas. On Street View, he plotted anything of potential interest in the A–Z before embarking on the actual journey. The five and three of fifty-three added together equalled eight and the numbers 1948 added up to twenty-two which in turn equalled four. Four and eight made twelve which made three. If this was a sign, Jack did not know what it signified.
    He had chosen the middle carriage in the train. Northolt was on the Central line so he was unlikely to know anyone, and if he did, he was ready with a plausible excuse.
    He made the journeys in strict page order during the day. At night, his favoured time was reserved for walking the city without a map, when he was reliant on a future Host to lead the way. As he passed each house, he saw which blinds were drawn, which curtains pulled or shutters swung across. People were careless, and left gaps. He slowed down when a possible Host stopped at his gate, dawdling to get out his door key. Most did not have the forethought to have it ready as Jack always did; if they did this he would know they did not after all have a mind like his own. However, they might offer him a warm and friendly home while he looked for the True Host.
    If the man entertained suspicions – those with minds like his own were men – Jack walked on head-down, his efficient step intended to allay their suspicions; he was just a man going about his business.
    He marvelled that people set store by burglar alarms or a steel-plated doors with double mortice locks and then left doors on the latch to pop out to dump newspapers and cans in the recycling bin or to whisk a dog around the block for a last walk. He tut-tutted at the welcome of keys beneath doormats, secreted under ivy or tucked inside plant pots. Those who made him truly at home left him a key dangling from a string on the inside of the front door.
    He would wait beneath a sill out of sight of the street or in the recess of a bay window while lights went on and later were extinguished. He was soothed by the muffled jumble of music and voices within, confident