His room is not bad. He has the bay window, a single bed tucked against the opposite wall and a small television on a table in front of what would have been a fireplace – the only source of heating I can see is an oil-filled radiator. Against the opposite wall, there is an old, cheap wardrobe with one door ajar – I can tell just by looking at it that that door never closes completely. On the mantelpiece above the table is a small array of food: an unopened sliced loaf, a box of Crunchy Bran, three tins of tomatoes and a multipack of tuna tins with two tins missing. Next to the food is a lime-green kettle with a crust of rust around its base. I’m guessing there may be a communal kitchen with more cooking facilities in a back room but it’s probably tiny and not the kind of place where you want to leave your food unattended – maybe there isn’t even that. The landlord would want to maximise the number of rooms available for rent, after all. There’s probably a small bathroom upstairs somewhere but this looks like the kind of place where there’s every chance someone is sleeping in the bathtub.

Everything in the room is neat and tidy. The thin beige carpet shows stains but is clean enough. Whatever the privations his low income imposes, Dalmar has not sunk into despair. He goes over to the bed, sits on it – there is no room for an armchair – and lets his shoulders droop. The expression on his face is troubled.

After a minute or two, he reaches into his large coat pocket and pulls out a packet of Thai chicken-flavoured crisps. He opens the packet and begins eating the crisps slowly and methodically, posting them into his mouth with one hand, single crisp after single crisp, with no sign of relish. Eventually, his hand goes into the packet and comes up empty. He looks down, as if surprised to find he has finished them. Crisps seem an inadequate repast after a full night shift to me but perhaps they are his favourite. I hope there is something more solid going to go inside him before he goes to sleep for the day.

There is a light tap at the door. Dalmar closes his eyes.

There is another tap. Dalmar rises, folds the crisp packet neatly and drops it into the metal bin beneath the table, then picks up a tea towel lying next to the television and wipes his hands. He goes to the door.