All the residents in the street looked in the direction of the loud strident voice. Kerry felt her heart sinking. The woman was old, her huge pendulous breasts hanging down to her waist beneath an old wrapover apron. On her feet were an old pair of men’s issue army boots, minus the laces, and her stockings hung around the tops in wrinkles. Arms like meat cleavers were crossed before her and her face was screwed up in disgust.

‘He left here in the night, love, they all did, owing me a bleeding week’s rent! Someone must have tumbled your game, darling, because he was dripping blood. All down the stairs it was this morning! Up me bleeding walls, everywhere! My God, you’ve got a Christing nerve coming here to a respectable woman and looking for your darkie! Your black man!’

A few men emerged from doorways in their vests, obviously just woken by the harridan’s voice and coming out to see the uppity bitch in the red coat get her comeuppance.

Kerry turned away and started to walk down the street, her heels clattering on the pavements, her head hanging down on to her chest.

‘Gerroutofit, you whore of hell! Before I stick me boot up your arse! Black man’s darling, are you? Go on, piss off!’ The man disappeared into his doorway after shouting at her and Kerry began to walk faster.

A woman with a young child on her arm walked across the road. Hawking deep in the back of her throat, she spat in Kerry’s face, the spittle running down her cheek and on to her fur collar.

‘You filthy bitch, coming here for your darkie! Don’t think we never saw you.’

Kerry was waiting for the woman to move when the man who had shouted at her came out of his house carrying a chamber pot. He threw the contents towards Kerry. A small amount hit the bottom of her coat and her shoes. Looking into the man’s face, seeing the hatred there and all around her, she began to run, dropping her bag on to the pavement as she went. Never before had she felt such malevolence. Never before had she experienced anything so utterly shaming and humiliating. She ran until she was in the High Street, staring around her like an animal being chased by a pack of hounds, her eyes wild. She carried on running until she came to Victoria Park.

Sitting on a bench, she cried, bitter tears that seemed to wrench her whole frame in two. Wrapping her arms around herself, she caressed her belly underneath her ruined coat.

She had had such good news for him, such a secret. Now she could tell him nothing because he was gone.

Bleeding and beaten he had left, but if he was bleeding he was still alive. This thought, amongst so many other bad ones, comforted her.

If he could bleed, he was still alive.