She hesitated, but it didn’t take her long to see how poor her alternatives were. She probably believed I’d fit her up on a theft charge if she opted to come the puritan. She nodded, looking down, and mumbled ‘Okay.’

The rest was simple. Taxi back to my place. Sappho. Dry clothing Tomato soup. Eternal oblivion.

They look so sweet, the two of them side by side, that I keep going down for another look. I must be getting soft.

I trudged along Pentonville Road, peering into doorways and the entrances to office blocks. My left wrist felt naked without the watch and I added the scouser to my hit list. Rat-face and the scouser. I was going to turn into a serial killer if I went on at this rate.

After a bit I came to a doorway which was both deep and unoccupied. I dodged into it and stood there, wondering whether I dare doss down. What if this was somebody’s bedroom too? Somebody big, like the scouser? Suppose he showed up and took a fancy to my pack, my bed-roll, and demanded them? Or he might just knife me and take them. On the other hand it was now pretty late, though of course I didn’t know what time exactly. Surely, I told myself, if somebody dossed here regularly he’d be here by now? Anyway, I was dead tired. I had to get my head down somewhere, and wherever I went there was going to be this same doubt. So.

I’d just wriggled into my sleeping-bag and dropped my head on my pack when he arrived. I heard these footsteps and thought, keep going. Go past. Please go past, but he didn’t. The footsteps stopped and I knew he was looking down at me. I opened my eyes. He was just a shadow framed in the doorway. ‘This your place?’ I croaked. Stupid question. He was going to say yes even if it wasn’t, right? What I should have said was piss off. I wondered how big he was.

‘No, you’re right, mate.’ He sounded laid back, amiable. ‘Just shove up a bit so I can spread my roll.’ I obliged and he settled himself beside me, so close we were almost touching. It felt good to be with someone. Now, if anybody else turned up it wouldn’t matter. There were two of us. I felt I ought to say something so I said, ‘Been doing this long?’ hoping he wouldn’t be offended.

‘Six, seven months,’ he said. ‘You?’

‘First night.’

He chuckled. ‘I can tell. Where you from?’

‘Up north.’

‘Brum, me.’

‘I can tell.’ It was a risk, this crack about his accent, but he only chuckled again. ‘Name’s Ginger,’ he said, and waited.

I didn’t want to give my name. Not to anybody. Clean break, right? Fresh start. And anyway, he hadn’t told me his. Ginger’s only a nickname.