There was the distinct smell of vomit in the room. No, not just in the room, in the bed, in his hair and in his nostrils. Fragments of the evening returned to him. Being outside. A guy wielding a butter knife. A guy who seemed especially irate about something, but for the life of him, Abbott could not remember what.

The pressing on his bladder sent him downstairs, steeling himself to join the queue for the communal bathroom. Sure enough, when he got there, the door was closed and locked but at least he was next.

The door opened. The face of a little Somalian boy appeared, his eyes widening in fear at the sight of Abbott, who as he shuffled shamefully past the kid and into the bathroom caught sight of himself in the mirror and saw the left side of his face crusted with dried blood from last night’s wound. Beware men wielding butter knives, as Shakespeare never said.

He took a piss, grabbed a quick shower, and made it back to his room dripping wet but without being seen. He crawled back into bed, and although it still stank of sick, at least he was clean within his kingdom of puke, and for now that would have to do. He reached for the half-empty bottle of vodka that lay on the threadbare carpet beside his bed, thinking, This is it. This is your life now.

Time? The year of our Lord, 2004. Just a few months after . . . well . . . after.

Place? A B&B in Finchley used primarily for asylum seekers. Families who spoke in languages Abbott didn’t understand and regarded him with outright suspicion and fear.

He drank. A quick swig. One or two gallops of the Adam’s apple, needing just that one hit to straighten him out. An experienced all-day drinker, he knew better than to seek oblivion at such an early stage. The days were long, each was an endurance test for the soul. Oblivion? That would come later, ushering him into another nightmare-crowded sleep.

His room was mostly bare, just a few treasured possessions and a television that was quietly playing breakfast TV. He watched as the latest headlines scrolled across the bottom of the screen, one of which was the fact that the billionaire Sir Charles Norton had died after a short illness. A short report about Norton, detailing how he’d begun by opening a small chain of bookies in his hometown of Derby, and how his company, Norton Gaming, had grown exponentially until it was a multi-billion-pound international concern with major casinos in Vegas and Atlantic City and dozens of other smaller ones dotted around. They owned three theme parks worldwide. One in Dubai, another close to Paris, one in New York state. Again, other smaller parks dotted around, with plans to expand further into Eastern Europe.