‘Piss off,’ muttered Porter, gripping on to the neck of his bottle of vodka.

The second, shorter man knelt down. He smelt of stewed meat and his eyes were like tiny black pebbles swimming around in pools of scabby flesh. ‘Piss off, yer say, Jimmy?’ he croaked, his voice harsh. ‘That’s not very friendly, is it, Jimmy?’

‘It looks like you’ve been doing all right for yerself, Jimmy,’ said the taller of the two men. ‘A nice drinky, and some food as well. All very lush, Jimmy. You’ve probably got a pair of lasses tucked underneath that pile of cardboard boxes as well.’

‘And you’ll be wanting to share with your mates, won’t you, Jimmy?’ chipped in the shorter man.

The rain was starting to come down heavier now. It was dripping into Porter’s hair, and he could see a small puddle starting to form inside his half-eaten kebab. He edged backwards into the archway, but the two men moved forwards, so they were both kneeling just a few inches from his face.

‘Because that’s how it works here on the streets, doesn’t it, Jimmy?’ persisted the shorter man. ‘One bloke has a bit of lucky, and he shares with his mates.’

‘And we’re yer mates, Jimmy,’ said the taller man.

‘Then get your fucking hands off my booze,’ Porter snapped.

‘But nobody’s taking your stuff, Jimmy,’ said the shorter man. His hand was reaching out for the vodka bottle. ‘Sharing, that’s all –’

Porter snatched the bottle away. He put its neck to his lips, and took a hit of the alcohol, relaxing as the vodka mixed with his bloodstream, dulling his senses, and easing the terrible aching in his left leg.

‘If we all shared, maybe the world would be a better place, Jimmy,’ said the taller man. ‘Maybe men like us wouldn’t have to live out on the streets.’

Porter suddenly snapped to attention. The rain was coming down harder now, lashing into his face. ‘The world is full of thieving, useless scum like you two. That’s why there’s blokes like me on the street. That’s why –’

The sentence wasn’t finished, but Porter knew he would never get to complete it. The first blow had landed straight in his stomach, knocking the little wind he had left out of him. The second collided roughly with his jaw, snapping his head backwards. The vodka bottle had loosened from his hand, and as his balance wobbled, the taller man had jumped up and taken it. He put it straight to his lips, drinking three or four shots in one go. The effect on him was as instant as it was ugly: his face folded up into a snarl, and his boot crashed hard into Porter’s side, breaking into his ribcage. ‘Fuck off, you Scottish bastards,’ yelled Porter.

The scream rose up through the alleyway, but he could tell no one was listening. You could run through the streets with an axe through your head in this part of town and no one would pay a blind bit of attention. Even the police didn’t bother to venture down these alleyways: they couldn’t stand the smell. I can scream all I want to. Nobody’s going to come and help me. Not now. Not ever.