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like a blind date, he reflected as he sat opposite the starchy woman at the employment agency. He’d finally had enough of being cold, and had paid a visit to a charity shop. Now he was bundled into a long black overcoat and paisley scarf, both with that charity-shop smell.
    The starchy woman was fiftyish, greyish and bored. ‘Snowing again out there?’ she asked absently as they both took seats.
    ‘Thinking about it.’
    She was reading through the form he’d just filled in. ‘Now, Mr Scott . . .’ Her brow furrowed in mild surprise. ‘Degree in history, MA in European history, PGCE, secondary school teacher for um, eleven years. Oh.’ She blinked. ‘You were head of department at Tetlow High? I know people who’ve moved house to get their children in there. That’s impressive.’
    ‘Also irrelevant.’
    ‘I’m sorry, but . . . why are you here? Surely you have better channels? Education sector magazines, websites, specialist agencies—the broadsheets have employment sections. Really, this isn’t the right agency for you at all.’
    ‘Keep reading.’
    She obeyed, her eyes skimming down the page. ‘Then a gap, I see. Three years. No employment at all during that time?’
    ‘Not really.’
    ‘Any reason?’
    ‘Keep going.’
    She turned the sheet, hunching over as she read. It was several seconds before she looked up and met his gaze.
    ‘I don’t think I’m going to be top candidate for a teaching post, do you?’ Joseph’s voice was even. ‘School boards might run a little shy of people with convictions for manslaughter. Makes the parents jumpy.’
    He saw her eyes flicker towards the door, as though measuring how fast she could get to it. Then she seemed to pull herself together, grabbing her computer mouse and squinting at the screen.
    ‘Um . . .’ She cleared her throat. ‘Yes, I think we can assume that positions involving work with children are definitely closed to you.’
    ‘Forever,’ said Joseph.
    ‘Probably. And I don’t think you’ll get far applying for bartending work, anything involving alcohol or vulnerable people—people at all, in fact. So caring for the elderly is out . . . ditto security . . . Um, let’s see what we’ve got.’
    Joseph waited as she clicked, sighed, and clicked again. Eventually she wrote a couple of notes on her pad. ‘Your qualifications don’t count for much in this economic climate, especially not with that particular blot on your copybook. All I’ve got at the moment is a window-cleaning firm. They have a high turnover so they might give you a go.’
    ‘Offices?’
    ‘And schools. Including . . .’ She checked her screen. ‘Oh. Perhaps not, after all.’
    ‘Including Tetlow High.’
    She nodded, watching him. She seemed fascinated.
    ‘I really appreciate your help,’ said Joseph, pressing both hands on the table as he got to his feet, ‘but I think that gazing through the window at my old swivel chair would probably finish me off.’
    She saw him to the street door. ‘Good luck,’ she said as she opened it. ‘Really, I mean that. Good luck.’
    Joseph paused on the threshold. ‘I never thought I’d miss the place.’
    ‘Tetlow High?’
    ‘Armley Jail. Three days ago, I knew who I was. I knew what was going to happen every second of every day. They had me teaching literacy. I was useful. I was even respected. I actually had a positive impact on men’s lives.’
    A chill seeped into the office, laden with exhaust fumes. The girl on the front desk answered the phone.
    Joseph smiled ruefully. ‘Not useful out here, am I?’
    •
    He bought coffee and found a quiet seat in the window of a proper greasy caff—one of many institutions he’d been surprised to find himself missing over the past three years, with its moulded plastic seats and air permeated by the fug of fat frying. The place was heaving with people in woollen hats and anoraks; a haven from the cheerlessness of the street. Outside, snow had turned to sleet and then to