He pushed the cardboard aside, and stood unsteadily. A thumping pain was ringing through his head, like having your skull drilled open. There was a pain in his left leg. The nerves were shot to pieces, he could tell, and there was some nasty bruising. He knelt down to take a look and noticed the state of his feet. It was more than a week since he’d taken off his shoes and socks, and although he didn’t much feel like taking a look, he sensed there was some blood starting to coagulate somewhere around his toes. Just ignore it, he told himself. What difference does it make anyway?

He started walking, trying to put as little weight on his left leg as possible. For a brief second, he thought about his daughter Sandy, and wondered what she might be doing. What day was it today? he wondered. The weekend? He glanced towards the tube station. No. Too many men in suits. Must be the week then. Maybe the start of a new one. Not that it makes any difference. One week is much like another down here.

The Travel Inn was a half-hour walk away, along the side of the river. Pleasant enough if you were in the mood for walking, but Porter found the pain in his left leg was increasing the more he used it. Something was definitely wrong there. He’d take himself to a hospital, but if there was anything seriously wrong with him, they’d make him stay in. And then how was he going to get a drink? No, he told himself. You’ll be OK in a day or two. And if not … well, who cares anyway.

Washing-up wasn’t a great job, but when you lived on the streets it was usually all that was available. The Travel Inn wasn’t a classy place, but they often needed someone to clean up the breakfast dishes. They didn’t pay even the minimum wage – not many hotels in London did any more – but the work wasn’t too hard, even though the two missing fingers on his left hand made it hard to keep a grip on the plates. And they didn’t mind too much if you finished off some of the grub left on the plates before you put it in the bin. All in all, there were worse ways to start the week.

Porter knocked on the back door. The kitchens were run by a guy called Dan, a rough Ulsterman who claimed to have spent a few years in the Territorials, although he could never tell you which regiment. In truth, Porter didn’t much care for the man. He had a sarcastic manner to him, and he ran his pitiful little empire like he was commanding the household cavalry. There were three chefs, and six waitresses, and he bullied the blokes and hit on the girls, but he still skimped on their wages, and everyone said he kept half the tips for himself. Often he’d ask for a kickback of twenty or thirty quid before he’d give anyone a job.