He’s hard to forget, the man with the cheroot. It’s not just the cheroot, it’s the patterned sweater and sweatpants that seal the deal. He’s a young man – fit, athletic – standing on the corner at 6 o’clock at night, smoking a cheroot in the rain in front of the chip shop, unaffected by the world. Like a discount Clint Eastwood.

I’m in a decommissioned taxi, heading north. Always north. North until it turns south. North of here, wherever here is. He flags me down, oblivious to the fact that the taxi sign is unlit; hasn’t even been lightable in ages. I pull over.

He smiles at me and hops in. I ask where he’s going and he says nothing; just smokes his cheroot, smiling.

We pull away. We head north.