Porter ignored him, and kept on walking. He stepped out of the foyer of the Travel Inn into a murky, overcast street. There was a McDonald’s round the corner, and he glanced towards the bins, but so far as he could see they’d been emptied recently. No chance of getting a bite to eat there then, he reflected.

He walked slowly across the river. There was a hole in one of the old canvas shoes he was wearing, and it was letting in the dirt, but his left leg was already in such terrible condition, it probably didn’t make any difference. There were plenty of people around him as he walked across the bridge, and up the busy road that led towards the prosperous houses, shops and bars of Chelsea and Fulham.

‘Could you spare me some money?’ he mumbled to a man who was walking past him towards the tube station.

The man looked away, not saying anything.

‘Just a couple of quid to help me out,’ Porter muttered to another guy who standing right next to him.

He snapped something in what sounded like Polish, then headed past him.

‘A quid for a cup of tea, love,’ he said, trying to meet the brown eyes of a girl who was rummaging around in her handbag for a ringing mobile phone.

She said nothing, glanced at him once, then started smiling as she answered the phone.

‘Jesus,’ Porter muttered. ‘Doesn’t anyone …’

A woman brushed passed him, ignoring him as he wobbled on his feet. His head was spinning and he was having trouble concentrating. ‘Watch where you’re fucking going,’ he shouted.

She turned round and looked at him. She was forty or so, with dark brown hair, a well-cut black trouser suit, and a briefcase under her arm. ‘Piss off,’ she snapped sharply. ‘Some of us have got jobs to get to.’

Porter walked towards her menacingly. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do. He couldn’t even think straight. The splitting, beating noise in his head was getting worse. There were stars flashing in front of his eyes, and he was finding it hard to balance. He was swaying as he walked, unsure how much longer his feet would support him. ‘Watch your fucking mouth,’ he shouted, surprising himself with the strength and anger he put into the words. ‘You know nothing about me. Fucking nothing.’

He knelt down. She had already turned and fled, but as she’d moved swiftly away she’d dropped her purse from her handbag. Quickly, making sure nobody could see him, Porter slipped the wallet into his ragged, filthy jumper and started to walk away. He’d moved on a hundred yards towards the New King’s Road before he paused to check what was inside. Fifty pounds, he noted with pleasure. In crisp ten-pound notes. That and a couple of credit cards.

Enough money for a man to get plenty drunk.

Enough money to get through another miserable day.

TWO

Porter held the bottle of Asda own-label vodka in his right fist, twisted the screw cap with his teeth, then poured it slowly into his mouth. His throat felt like sandpaper, and the alcohol tasted rough and raw, but he could feel it taking him closer and closer to oblivion.