A bottle a day keeps the memories away, he reflected to himself. Hum it, and you could even turn it into a pleasant enough tune.

Some light rain was starting to fall. Porter wasn’t quite sure what time it was. He’d been sitting here for a few hours already, he felt sure of that. After taking the money from the purse, he walked slowly back in the direction of his familiar arch, stopping at the supermarket to pick up a couple of bottles of his favourite liquid. Even with fifty quid in his pocket, he stuck to the own-label stuff. No point in wasting the money. There was no way of knowing when he might see some more.

A half-eaten kebab was lying at his side. It was getting slight damp from the drizzle, but that made little difference to the quality of the grub. He’d collected it from the shop round the corner, the same one where the guys tipped the day’s refuse into the bins in the middle of the night. He couldn’t say there was much difference between the stuff they sold over the counter and the stuff they put in the garbage. But maybe my taste buds have just been shot to pieces, he thought. It was so long since he’d had a decent meal he wasn’t sure he’d know what one tasted like any more.

He took a slice of the stringy meat, unsure whether it was lamb or chicken, and chewed on it slowly before taking another hit on the vodka. There was still about thirty quid in his pocket, he realised. Enough to stay drunk for a week.

‘Hey, Jimmy,’ shouted a voice.

Porter glanced up. He could see two figures swaying towards him, but whether they were swaying because they couldn’t walk straight, or because his vision was gone, Porter couldn’t tell. Maybe a bit of both. I’m drunk, they’re drunk, everyone who kips down in this alley is drunk. Why the hell else would you be here?

‘What you got, Jimmy?’

They were getting closer now. Porter was sure he’d seen them before. A pair of Scottish blokes, he couldn’t remember their names. They used to kip down up by Waterloo station, but their old spot was being dug up while some new cabling was put down in the street, and they’d moved down to Vauxhall. They’d been builders by trade, or so they said, but from the look of them it was years since either of them had done a decent day’s work. What were the names again? Porter wondered. Bill or Bob or Bert. Something like that. Down here nobody really needed a name, he reflected. It wasn’t as if you were fending off calls all day.

‘Have you nae got a wee dram for yer mates?’ said the first man.

He was leaning into Porter’s face, and there was a nasty snarl on his face.

‘Just a wee dram,’ he repeated, revealing a set of rotting teeth, and a tongue the colour and texture of tarmac.