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terrorist attack last year.
    The last he’d heard, the Spanish government was thinking of closing down the farm on grounds of inefficiency, and building nuclear reactors to supply the nation’s rapacious energy needs. Opposition voices pointed out the dangers of reactors prone to terrorism...
    An elderly man hobbled down the aisle towards him, smiled and inclined his head, and walked on past. Allen responded with a vague smile of his own, wondering if he’d met the man somewhere recently. His memory for faces, as well as names, was appalling, which was odd as he thought of himself as a visual person. He was endlessly fascinated by the appearance of things, of how reality presented itself visually – his degree had been in art history, and he’d been a photo-journalist for the past ten years – and yet he was forever unconsciously snubbing people because he failed to recognise their faces.
    A little later the old man paused in the aisle beside Allen, cleared his throat and, when he had his attention, murmured, “I hope you don’t think this impertinent of me, but I was wondering if you’re Geoffrey Allen?”
    The man had the diffident, old-school manners of a much earlier generation. Allen guessed he was in his eighties.
    He smiled, wondering if the man had recognised him from one of the ID mugshots that occasionally accompanied his pieces in British colour supplements. He felt at once obscurely pleased and embarrassed.
    He smiled. “That’s right.”
    The man extended a frail hand. “James Cleveland. I worked with your father many, many years ago, and I once met you when you were this high. I’ve followed your career over the years.” After they had shaken hands, Cleveland indicated the aisle seat. “You don’t mind...?”
    “Not at all.” Though, truth be told, the last thing he wanted was to be pinned in situ by someone reminiscing at length about the greatness of his father – a situation he’d suffered on more than one occasion over the years.
    “Your father was a wonderful politician, Geoffrey – I may call you Geoffrey, by the way?”
    Allen smiled his assent and groaned inwardly.
    “We were on the same back-bench committee many years ago, investigating police corruption. I have never worked with a finer mind...”
    Cleveland continued in this vein, and Allen responded with nods and the occasional monosyllabic agreement.
    The fact was that his father had been a great man, and that rare animal: a politician loved by the people, a reformer who worked tirelessly for his constituents. That he had rarely shown himself at home was a side-issue that few knew or cared about, outside of the immediate family, Allen himself and his younger sister Catherine. Perhaps it might not have been so bad if their mother had not also been a parliamentary politician, if not of his father’s eminence, then certainly as hard-working. Allen was raised by a series of European nannies with, in the background, two distant figures called mother and father who he knew he should feel something for – as he had read about in books – but for whom he felt almost nothing other than resentment.
    His parents worked hard for years, tirelessly for the people they represented... and where did it get them, he thought?
    Now Cleveland said, “And I was so sorry to read about...”
    “Yes,” Allen interrupted, fearing what the politician emeritus might say next, “yes, it was a... terrible shock for all of us.”
    Tactfully, Cleveland changed the subject. “Well, I’m visiting my grand-daughter in Durban. She’s just given birth.”
    “Congratulations.”
    “And you? Work, no doubt?”
    “Actually, a working holiday. I’m visiting my fiancée.”
    “In South Africa?”
    “Uganda. She’s a doctor working with the emergency services in Karamoja.”
    Cleveland’s rheumy eyes widened. “Not the most... stable, shall we say, area in the world. Your fiancée must be a remarkable person, Geoffrey.”
    Allen smiled. “She is,”