‘For young people,’ I said. ‘The Townhouse Project. You might have heard of us.’ He wouldn’t because we didn’t exist. I’d made the whole thing up – name and everything. Part of my preparation.

He fell for it. Hook, line and sinker. ‘Any chance of a bed?’ he says. ‘Bite to eat?’ I shook my head – the rueful gesture I’d practised in the mirror. ‘Not tonight. I’m afraid. Full up. Might be something tomorrow if you get there early.’

‘Ah,’ he says, and the light goes out of his eyes. He’s thinking about the long cold hours ahead.

I let him ponder the prospect for a bit, then said, casual like, ‘There’s a comfy couch at my place if you don’t mind roughing it.’ Roughing it. Brilliant touch, that, and it worked.

‘You sure?’ he says. The light’s back, and I can see his little brain working. He’s thinking, this guy runs a hostel. Warm beds. Grub. It gets full, but if I’m with him I’m in, right? ‘You sure?’ he says. I gave him the smile again. ‘Sure. No prob. It’s just round the corner. Come on.’

And that’s all there was to it. I strode out and he trotted at my heels like a ruddy poodle. It was pissing it down and he was sodden by the time we reached the flat. I introduced Sappho, showed him the bathroom, told him to strip off, threw in some stuff I’d got for the purpose – thick sweaters, cord trousers – the sort of stuff do-gooders wear – and went off to heat some tomato soup, and while he was sitting on the sofa scoffing it I slipped up behind him and put him out of his misery.

Cruel? I don’t think so. He’s neither cold nor hungry now. Nobody wanted him, so nobody will miss him, and there’s one less dosser to clutter up the place.

Who loses?