But not here. At home. He may have to work late.

He closes down his laptop, disconnects it from the docking bay and slips it into his shoulder bag.

He catches the bus home to his one-bedroom flat in Hackney, which has the convenience and class of being situated above a kebab shop called AbraKEBABra.

AbraKE – fucking – BABra.

Give me strength!

As if that isn’t bad enough, the hot stench of processed lamb and fried onions is forever present. He can never leave the windows open. He made that mistake once before only to come back and find the entire place reeked like the foetid sweat of a Bedouin’s bollocks. He had to buy several cans of Febreze spray to ‘gypsy-wash’ his curtains, duvet and the clean washing he had left hanging on the clotheshorse. It almost put him off kebabs for life, but he managed to get over that phase.

All that said, the flat is only temporary, or at least has been for the last four years.

He can afford nothing better. With two failed marriages, crippling alimony and debts to make your hair stand on end, there is no way he will be upgrading anytime soon. Not until he gets round to finishing his magnum opus and commands a six-figure deal from one of the big publishers. That day will come. He is sure of it. In the meantime, he has other fish to fry.

Next door to AbraKEBABra is a grocery store, where he picks up a six-pack of Foster’s, reduced in price because it’s slightly past its sell-by date. It might be kangaroo piss of the worst kind, but at that price he will willingly drink from the marsupial’s cock.

He stands at the white uPVC front door between the grocery store and the kebab shop and fishes for his keys.

‘Hello, Mr Hamilton. How are you?’ says Mr Bahadir aka Mr AbraKEBABra.

Hamilton remembers he is behind on his rent.

Fucking hell!

He grimaces as he frantically searches for his keys. ‘Hello, Mr Bahadir. I’m fine. How are you?’ A cold sweat covers his body but he is relieved to find the keys, and shoves one into the keyhole. ‘Nice to see you. Goodnight, Mr Bahadir. Goodnight!’ Hamilton turns the lock and pushes the door open.

‘One moment, Mr Hamilton.’

‘Fuck,’ mutters Hamilton. He pulls out his phone and points to it with a faux apologetic expression. ‘Must take this call.’ He hurries inside shouting hello down the phone at no one and closes the door shut behind him. The last thing he wants is another of Bahadir’s passive-aggressive confrontations on why his rent is late again.

He pushes the timer light.