They sit on a blue steel bench on the station concourse. The boy dives into his tuna melt eating greedily and noisily. After he finishes, he gulps down a milky coffee as Archer pecks at a bland, limp egg sandwich and sips at a bottle of still water.

‘How long have you been on the streets?’

‘Two years.’

‘That’s a long time.’

‘Not as long as some. I wasn’t always. Sometimes I was in care. But I hated it.’

‘It can be tough.’

‘I moved from foster home to foster home, never knowing what to expect. Some were nice; others not. I ran away in the end. Couldn’t take no more. I had it in my head that I needed to be free and that I could live on the streets. I was used to nicking stuff and living off my wits.’

He begins to cough uncontrollably. Archer takes his coffee and holds it. When he is calm, she gives it back, he takes a sip and clears his throat.

‘I expect I’ll die here too.’

‘Don’t say that, Stephen. You can turn this around. It’s possible.’

He scoffs and stiffens. ‘Course I can. It’s easy as anything.’

Archer scolds herself for sounding patronising.

‘I’m sorry, Stephen. I didn’t mean it like that . . . it’s just that I was like you at that age.’

‘Were you in care too?’

A dark memory flickers in Archer’s mind. She feels nauseous and the walls of the station seem to close in around her. She closes her legs and tightens her shoulders.

‘Are you OK?’ It’s the boy but his voice sounds like it’s far away.

Archer tries to steady her breathing, but the darkness engulfs her.

She feels a warm hand on hers and it jolts her out of the fugue. Blinking, she looks down at the grubby hand and then reaches for her water, taking a large swallow.

‘You didn’t look very well,’ says Stephen.

‘I’m OK, thanks.’

It has been months since she’s had a spell like that. She has lost her appetite and offers the remains of her sandwich to the boy, who gladly takes it off her hands.

‘How did you know Billy Perrin?’ she asks, changing the conversation.

The boy wraps his slender dirty hands around the cardboard coffee mug. ‘I didn’t know him. Not much really. He knew me is probably a better description.’

‘What do you mean?’

Stephen casts his gaze to the ground. ‘He wouldn’t leave me alone. I was someone he could push around. Someone he could use. He always wanted something, like I had anything to give. And now he’s dead. Not that I care.’

‘Did he hurt you?’

He nods his head. ‘The last time I saw him was at Waterloo, Alaska Street.’

‘When was that?’