‘I’m sorry,’ he said, glancing down at his wet, filthy clothes.

‘It’s OK,’ said Sandy. ‘Let’s find somewhere to talk.’

Porter nodded. He walked alongside her, away from Vauxhall, up towards Waterloo station. He wasn’t sure what time it was. Eleven, maybe, or twelve. Most of the pubs would be shutting but there was café he knew where the cabbies went to get a coffee and a bacon sandwich before heading out on to the nightclub shift. They didn’t mind what you looked like in there, and they never shut.

Porter paused outside the entrance. He could hear the sound of bacon frying, and smell the comforting fug of grease and cigarette smoke. They had walked in silence, neither of them sure of what to say. ‘I’ll pay,’ said Sandy as he hesitated by the door. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

Sitting down, Porter watched as she sauntered up to the counter, ordering them two coffees, and two bacon sandwiches. A few of the guys in the place were following her with their eyes, and one of them looked like he was about to say something to her but then he noticed Porter glaring at him and quickly went back to reading his newspaper. There was a TV in the corner, tuned to the latest in the Katie Dartmouth kidnap saga, with a few people glancing occasionally towards it. An ultimatum had been issued, according to the newsreader. She’d been captured by Hezbollah terrorists who were demanding that British troops be withdrawn from Iraq and Afghanistan by eight o’clock on Saturday night, or else Katie was going to be beheaded live on television. Porter looked away. Why’s everyone so interested? he wondered. It’s not like there is anything they can do to help her.

Sandy put the coffees and the bacon sandwiches down on the table. He could see her better now, with her coat off, and in the proper light. She was a strong, powerfully built young woman, with none of the playful puppy fat that he remembered from the little girl he’d left behind. She had pale green eyes, and a seriousness about her that Porter wouldn’t have expected. Still, as he watched her move through the café, he couldn’t help feel a pride in her simple existence. I may not have got much right – probably nothing at all when you try and calculate it – but at least she is something to be proud of.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he said.

Sandy looked straight at him, and Porter was taken aback by the affection in her eyes. It was so long since anyone looked at me with anything other than contempt I’d forgotten what it feels like, he reflected.

‘Mum won’t ever tell me about you,’ she said, stirring a sugar into her coffee. ‘It’s like you never existed. But of course I remember you from when I was a kid.’

Sandy pushed a lock of black hair away from her face. ‘Mum wouldn’t give me any clues about where you were but her brother – Uncle Ken – said he reckoned you were down in London. He’d heard you were on the streets, that you’d been having a bad time, and there was a hostel where you went sometimes. He put me in touch with the Soldiers and Airmen Forces Association, and after I spoke to them on the phone a few times, they pointed me in the right direction. Ken made me promise not to tell Mum. Or Auntie Sally.’ Sandy wrinkled up her nose in a way that made Porter fall in love with her all over again. ‘I don’t think Aunt Sally likes you very much either.’