Joe Blanco was in Morden too. It wasn’t entirely clear, even to him, how he had got there, but he had been there for a day or two at least. From Phipps Bridge tram stop he had wandered, cricket stump in hand, across Morden Hall Park, all the way through to the Rose Garden, the strengthening sun warming him from behind. He stopped, sat a while and considered his surroundings. He had been doing a lot of that recently. Never mind considering the flowers themselves, all several thousand of them crouching around him like coiled unknown armies, but consider the depth of sensitivity and the height of existential discernment of a race that cultivates such displays purely for its own pleasure, knowing full well that it will be ignored, littered and pissed on by the vast majority. Not Joe, though. He respected every aspect of the flowershow. He knew that the cultural refinement required to give rein to such a show of beauty was mind-bending, so he sat awhile and allowed his mind to be bent back and forth.

Equally so the snuff mill, hunched in the middle distance. To take tobacco, in whatever form, for one’s own gratification and for no other reason; indeed to make an enormous industry supporting vast swathes of population the world over, signifies a level of sophistication not even conceivable to other Earth-dwellers and ought to be acknowledged and celebrated. This was the greatest achievement of the race, he decided.

Joe opened a new packet of cigarettes in celebration, discarded the wrapping in the nearest rosebed, extracted one and lit it, not with the detachment you would expect from such a mechanical process, but with a deep sense of human satisfaction. Until a day or two ago he was an ex-smoker: he’d knocked it on the head a few years earlier amongst all the bad press, all the breathlessness, the disturbed nights, the inability to move beyond a trot for the length of his street, the nagging fear of serious disease, the Nanny State’s victimisation. Then, earlier in the week, once he’d decided he safely could, he went into an ordinary corner shop, picked up a newspaper, found with relief that cigarettes were still on display and available over the counter, bought a packet and a cheap lighter and picked up where he’d left off. That was how come he had cigarettes now and could light one, just like that. Nobody could stop him.

He gazed at the beds as he smoked, all coloured and not-quite-perfect and just sitting there. He couldn’t discern the nectarine scent any more but he wasn’t there to smell them, just to consider them. In Provence they produce lavender honey – that’s honey made with nectar from lavender alone. Monofloral, they call it. Just so that it tastes like lavender. Incredible, that beekeepers, and bees, for that matter, could go to that amount of trouble to produce something so fantastically specialised. He mused that it must be worth it for them, otherwise they wouldn’t do it. But, wait a minute, he caught himself, maybe the bees didn’t? Maybe they buzzed around all sorts of flowers and just told the beekeeper that they hadn’t strayed from the lavender. How the hell is he going to know? He couldn’t possibly know where his bees have been. You can’t track bees once they’re out, can you? How far do they go? How far do bees stray from their hive? It could be miles, couldn’t it? He wondered if there was rose honey too. Even specifically Morden rose honey, maybe. He had never seen it, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t any. They might sell it in the shop over there, although there didn’t seem to be many bees about. Maybe it was too early for them – what time do bees start working? It was certainly too early for the National Trust types, who wouldn’t start for another half an hour or so. That explained why he’d had to climb over the fence by the tram stop just to get into the park, although he didn’t mind – he’d had plenty of wear from this suit and it didn’t have to last much longer.

He dropped his cigarette on the floor and ground it out with the sole of his shoe. He lit another. Taking deeply and appreciatively of the bewitching fumes, he pulled from his inside pocket a large sheet of thick white paper, almost card, folded in four and pierced twice, just either side of the centre, a length of string and a blue felt-tipped pen. He sat for some time; inhaling, surveying, considering, then stubbed out the cigarette alongside its predecessor and wrote on the paper in large, friendly letters:

Do as you will here
Inhale, wonder, marvel
Destroy, ravage or despoil

But never leave without having considered
The very nature of this place’s creation
And its situation within our realm.

Threading the string through the two holes and around the stump, he secured his message and planted it firmly in the ground next to an attractive bed of red and orange specimens. He hoped it would be read by at least a few passers-by before being excised by a jobsworth.

Out of the park onto Morden Hall Road, Joe broke into a trot, which became almost a sprint down Aberconway Road. Even the approaching imposing visage of the station couldn’t dampen his euphoria. His short stay in Morden was over: the confusion and desolation that had prompted his wanderings had been eradicated and he was ready to put things into their proper order.

Nearing the baleful station, he slowed to a brisk walk and composed himself as best he could, although he was feeling light-headed and vaguely detached as his heart still felt the exertion of the flight along Aberconway. Maybe last night’s unaccompanied claret was having its revenge. Whatever, he kept moving toward the goal, through the thronging crowd, the sort that gave London its own hammering heart, a little more unsteadily than he might normally at this time of the day. He brushed past an inexplicably stationary but equally inexplicably attractive blonde at the threshold of the steps – she probably genuinely believed that her looks excused her from the rules of in-crowd behaviour – and shambled down the metal staircase to Platform 4. On the platform he sensed some urgency behind, heard fast-moving heels and picked up the swift return of a latterly familiar scent. Something was up. His heart might have been racing and he might still have felt a little washed out, but Joe was aware enough to identify the empty end seat in the carriage ahead of him and, on the blurred edge of his peripheral vision, over his right shoulder, the inexplicable girl of recent passing acquaintance. There was no question about it; the cheeky cow had spotted that seat and was making a run for it whilst trying to look like that was the last thing she’d consider doing. If he could just move to the right a touch he could stop her passing without her looking ridiculous, and he figured she wouldn’t fancy that much. Just imperceptibly right, right a touch more, send her wide. This must be maddening for her. But he can’t go any further without opening up the left channel and he couldn’t discount her jumping down that side, despite the spectators. Got to make the final move before it’s too late and while she’s still weighing up her options. Skip, jump, pirouette and he’s in.

Oh, that was reasonably undignified, but it just might signify that there is still hope in the world for those who put in the effort. Or did it just confirm that there really wasn’t any hope at all? He wasn’t looking, of course, but he could feel her unrighteous rage from where he sat. She had remained motionless in the carriage foyer for just too long and betrayed her feelings to all present as clearly as if she had screamed them at the top of her lungs. She even stamped her feet a little bit – the tantrum can’t ever be very far beneath the surface with this one – before regaining herself and sitting down diagonally opposite, tantalisingly between two empty seats. A tactical error such as this proved that she hadn’t regained her senses entirely – there was still time for more to board this train and she’d placed herself in the one position that guaranteed her an as yet unknown neighbour.

And what a neighbour. Here came a veritable shithouse of a man; jet-black hair larded back around the flanks of his bald sheeny pate, half a roll-up behind his left ear, yesterday’s shirt, last week’s chinos and a lost generation’s shoes. The latent leer on his wheezing countenance gave Joe high hopes that he’d only have eyes for one of two ideal destinations. Barrelling through the doors just as they were beeping, the predator in him turned his head to the left almost involuntarily, as though under the guidance of a giant collusive hand. “There’s a touch, very tidy,” he muttered to himself. “This might be my lucky day after all.” He splayed incorrigibly, with a scraunch of lightly-charged viscose, into the empty seat to the right of the young lady in question.

The beast sank into his billet. Joe watched, a small smirk flirting with his eyes and mouth, but this was no time to get complacent. He took out the two small plastic grommets, pressed them carefully one into each ear and pressed play.