‘Three Galaxies and an iPhone 5,’ Larry said, trying not to sound smug. He quashed the mental image of the phones’ former owners, the terror on the face of the middle-aged woman on the top deck of the bus at the sight of his blade, the expression of pain on the schoolboy, the bemused businessman on the Tube, the young girl pushing a pushchair, startled and afraid as he’d simply plucked the phone from under her chin where she’d wedged it as she walked along chatting. His mum would be so upset with him if she knew. But they were only phones.

He felt a flare of anger at his mum. Why couldn’t she get a job? She wasn’t some useless chav; she was a nice lower middle-class woman who’d been a housekeeper for the same family for fourteen years. Since they made her redundant a year ago – the kids were all grown up now and they didn’t need her anymore – she hadn’t been able to find anything else. The pile of red bills on the windowsill behind the telly was getting so high that it would start blocking out the fucking light soon.

None of his mates knew how tight cash was for him and his mum. The two of them lived in a terraced cottage in a nice area of Teddington, decent enough that he sometimes had people over, when his mum went out. He’d never had Alice round, though. He felt too intimidated by her poshness and the size of her folks’ place, and he wanted to impress her. The relationship was still new enough that he feared she might drop him for someone richer if she saw where he lived.

Jerome’s chin jerked briefly upwards in a nod.

‘Three of them have SIMs in,’ Larry gabbled. ‘That one don’t.’ He pointed at the schoolboy’s phone.

‘Whatever,’ Jerome said, bored. ‘I’ll give you forty pounds for the lot.’

Larry forced himself not to look disappointed. This was less per phone than the last time, but he was too scared of Jerome to point it out.

‘Sweet,’ he said wearily.

Jerome took an enormous bundle of notes out of the side pocket of his combats and peeled two twenties off the top. Larry held out his hand to take them, and at the last minute Jerome snatched his own hand back again. Suddenly he was looming right up into Larry’s face, his terrifying greenish pallor giving off some sort of rancid scent – or was that his breath? His teeth were disgusting, crumbling and bright yellow, and his eyes dead and flat. Larry had always assumed that Jerome was in his late twenties, maybe early thirties, but up close he could see that he was probably younger – maybe only a few years older than himself. Larry’s legs wobbled but he forced himself to stand his ground.

‘What?’