They bought a whole lemon and herb chicken and double large fries to share, taking it to the shopping centre where they found a place to sit huddled by closed Holland & Barrett doors. Around them, the swish and clatter of roller skates and skateboards, white noise beneath drill pumped by youngers outside Costa watching their mates with grim, negligent pride. Others with their backs pressed against JD Sports glass, or sat on benches lacing up, speeching fresh-faced teenage girls or staring into space meditating on their next move, carnal or athletic. Afropunks mostly, hair mixtures of blues, reds, oranges and a rainbow of chemically enhanced colours, shaved close or flowering in full bloom, beaded, loxxed, weaved. Straight-haired blondes and brunettes styled much the same, long hair tied thin to avoid accidents. A trio of girls in khimars, skates rattling trains, rolling west, all laughter and shouts and streaming dark material until they went unseen, trailing ghosts of echoes. Ripped and rolled-up jeans, exposing bare knees and glistening ankles, polished Doc Martens and fresh Tims. A reflected haze of bodies on floor tiles, coloured wheels pulsing like distant landing lights. Some spun on the spot, ballerina-slow, trapped in worlds belonging to them alone. Others leapt for harsh ceiling lights, wheels erupting noisy landings, wobbling but upright, expressions betraying they expected no different.

In their midst, pedestrians crossed from one side of Stratford to the other. Late-night students, red-eyed workers, young lovers, families pushing bully buggies, their walking children finding a grip wherever they could. Silver-screen aficionados, shambling drug addicts and their alcoholic cousins, pensioners bored to blindness by dull four walls. Skaters wheeling through everybody, unseeing, perhaps uncaring. A handful of high-vis security guards stood to one side, serene as though dreaming white light and ambience. Homeless men and women set up for the night, laying sleeping bags flat, clutching steaming teas. The cinema-sized flat screen above the West Mall showed boy bands and London Met ads on continuous rotation.

Christie motioned at the Nando’s bag. He tipped it towards her and she burrowed for fries, stuffing a handful into her mouth. Raised voices barked loud. People stiffened, looking. There, just beside the lime-green lettering of Osbon Pharmacy, they saw him.

‘Christie …’

They got to their feet.

‘It’s him, right?’

Craning to see, one hand on his arm. ‘Yep.’

‘We better go over, in case.’