I didn’t set out to write about Micky, or Carol come to that. The rain was falling steadily, running down the small, below ground-level window, which is the only source of natural light in the boiler-room where I write. For some obscure reason it reminded me of a rain-soaked street in Sydney, Australia; a street I’ve walked down many times, both wet and dry. As I held that image in the back of my eyelids, a man appeared. Yellow streetlights reflected from the wet tarmac; he walked in the shadow of the plane trees, pulling his hood up against the unrelenting rain. He stopped, leaned against a tree, and waited. Right at that moment, I knew what I had to do.