He examined the item carefully. He didn’t know much about them, but it looked like a SIM card from a mobile phone. He took it off the keyring and turned it over in his fingers. There was nothing more he could glean from it from external examination. What was it? What did it represent to him? Could it be a lifeline to a new future? He’d never considered himself a believer but right now he’d believe pretty much anything. The more he thought about it, the more he thought he had to know. Maybe the person whose card it was would give him a reward. Maybe he should throw it away – it did say it should be destroyed. Maybe it hadn’t been used yet. Too many maybes. He had to find a phone to try it in – only that way might he know if this mysterious object was more than just discarded rubbish. He thought for a minute. What friends did he still have? Since leaving his last job, he’d lost contact with almost all the people he’d worked with. There was only Jane, she might still talk to him. Yes, he’d ask her if he could borrow her phone. He got to his feet, glad for some sense of purpose, however futile it may have seemed.

He went home to clean himself up, try to make himself look a bit more presentable. Looking at himself in the mirror, he flinched – the sunken eyes, the ashen skin. He splashed some water on his face and cleaned his teeth. No paste – he’d run out days ago. Still, the brush on its own had to be reasonably effective. Better than nothing, anyway. He found the cleanest-looking shirt he had and put it on. He found a sliver of soap in the bathroom and rubbed it under his arms to mask the smell that had begun to develop, rinsed his hands and looked again in the mirror. It would have to do.

There were still two hours before Jane would finish work. He thought through what he was going to say. What would be his first line? Would she still remember him? It was getting on for a year now since he’d seen her. She had been the secretary at a building firm he’d worked for, and he’d always thought they’d got on well. She was pretty in an old-fashioned way, simple make up, always wearing a dress to work. She stood out against the background of tough, grimy and often quite nasty men who seemed to dominate the company. The abuse she’d had to endure. He thought this was the reason they got on – he couldn’t fit in with other men’s constant bluff and swagger, she seemed completely at odds with it. So why hadn’t he kept in touch? He mulled this over for a while, walking slowly out of his front door and along the route he used to take every day…

It was a small town, hardly any bigger than a village really. The high street was wide like a boulevard but with no trees. The houses were painted white but most were in need of improvement. A few cars were parked outside a small row of shops. Really an unremarkable town apart from having a name that didn’t fit. “Diva”, it said on the sign, “population: 4,305”.

The dog was still following at a distance as the man made his way along the street. He’d opened the book he was carrying and was trying to find a particular page. The writing inside appeared to be in code of some description, a western script but no obvious language. The man appeared to find what he was looking for in the book and stopped for a second, scanning some of the inscriptions. He closed his eyes and mouthed something slowly, deep in concentration. The dog took the opportunity to catch up, and sat next to him, looking expectant. The man looked along the street until he saw a number on one of the shops. 35. He walked further, stopping outside the house between a bungalow numbered 41 and a long-closed bookshop, 45. It was an unremarkable house of two storeys with a green door of peeling paint but otherwise just the same as the other houses, grimy white and slowly deteriorating. The remaining numeral on the door was a 3 but had slipped around to look more like an E. The gate squealed as he opened it. No movement could be seen inside the house as the man walked up the path to the front door. Glancing down to double check the writing in the book, he knocked loudly at the green door. After waiting some time, he tried the handle. It wasn’t locked.

Jacob Giles had tried many jobs since leaving school but none had managed to maintain his interest. He had worked in a kitchen but couldn’t get on with the ego of the chef. Gardening he’d had no aptitude for, all those Latin names and constant weeding. He’d laboured on building sites and on houses but the work had dried up and he now struggled to make ends meet. Over a period of months, life had become increasingly difficult. Among the crimson bills in the post was a more significant missive. Having no parents and no capital to fall back on, the eviction notice filled him with dread. What was he going to do? Right – need to be practical. He put the contents of his wallet on the table. Enough for a couple more meals maybe at a fast food place. Where was he going to live? He needed more money. There was always his dad’s watch. That was worth a few thousand, and was the only thing of value he still had. Still, it was a depressing prospect. Without that he really had nothing. Nothing to show for thirty years of life. He needed to stop these thoughts – they weren’t helping. He decided to take a walk, get some air.

Outside the atmosphere was heavy with humidity. The heat was stifling. He walked slowly, trying to get his brain to function in the hothouse of the street. Cars seemed to move slowly, like they were struggling to push away the air as they moved. He ducked into a side doorway to shade himself from the sun. His mind was racing, thoughts clamouring for attention like a swarm of flies. Got to get some clarity. Leaning his back against the door, he let his legs collapse and he slid to a despairing heap in the doorway. Was this his future? Is this how people end up homeless and destitute? Someone walked past, half-glanced at him. Was that pity or disgust? What would he think if he could see himself like that woman just did? He sat huddled for a while, paralysed in thought and action. More people passed, seemingly not even seeing him. Was this worse or better? He didn’t know. Some paper fluttered past, advertising a circus in a nearby town.

He must have dozed off, because he was aware that some time had passed. The air was less suffocating and it had cooled slightly. Right. Need to start some serious thinking. What do I need? A place to stay, regular money coming in. How to get one without the other? He started to think through scenarios in his mind. In fact, he was so lost in thought that he nearly missed it. Something, nothing, something? A small piece of plastic, discarded as part of the constant tidal wave of progress. But there was something strange about it. What was it? It was on a keyring. Not that unusual in of itself, but it wasn’t a key. And there was a tag on the ring. It said ‘Destroy After Use’.