Where am I? There’s a couple there just ahead, leaning into one another for cover under a blue and yellow golf umbrella, I mouth words at them as they walk by but they hustle past, heads down. There was a definite look from the man. He wrinkled his face away from me and I think even this rain can’t rinse the stench from my body.

I need a sign.

I trudge through puddles that I don’t see at first and curse, because these boots sponge up water. Reaching into my coat sleeves I pull out the balls of paper that are now sodden and pulpy and slop them on to the ground. I can stop racing now, I think. Whatever was pursuing me isn’t any longer. He won’t have come all the way here. Over my shoulder I see that the road is clear. The sirens have died away to a whisper, catching or saving someone else. The first street I see is South Street. The sign says W1 Westminster – I’m in Mayfair. Green Zone. That’s right, I remember now. I had been in Hyde Park. I think.

The road is quiet. I know these roads from before. In a previous life, these roads were soft to the touch. I know that if I walk along here the road will adopt another identity and become something else. South Street and its high-faced mansions recede behind me. And yes, now here is Farm Street emerging under my feet. I think there’s a church here, or at least there is in my memory. Perhaps a library – something established and permanent.

As I lumber on through the rain, I see with a sinking feeling a flash of light, blazing blue in the pavement. Then, seconds later, a deep roar of thunder before the heavy rain turns, just like that, into a deluge.

I duck under the great stone steps of one of the houses and wait in the shelter of the cavity. Despite the cold there’s nothing for it but to take my coat off and wring it out. Rainwater runs through my fists as I squeeze first the sleeves, now the flanks. When I put it back on, it’s a pound or two lighter and my hands are raw.

I reach into the lining then and find my dry pocket. I shut my eyes as my fingers fumble for my cigarettes. I pull them out and open the box. Thank God, they are dry. Fighting frozen fingers, I tap the box against my palm until a cigarette magically rises. I mouth it, light it and take in a lungful of smoke. A spike of pain comes driving into my brain, causing me to clutch my head.