Jamie sat down on the bed and looked around at his new room. The walls were plain white, except for a couple of posters: an aerial view of London and a picture of an urban fox, the kind that had caused a tabloid panic recently when a baby was dragged from its bed. The posters had belonged to the previous occupant of the room, and he had been told he could take them down if he wanted to, but he quite liked them. He wasn’t scared of foxes.

The furniture in the room was basic: a single wardrobe, a bedside cabinet, a small chest of drawers. The mattress creaked beneath him. The room smelled stale, of dust and disinfectant, but he had opened the little window to let in some air. The room was fine, he told himself. It was a good place to get his life back on track.

He had been waiting a while for this room, slowly inching his way towards the top of the allocation list after a long time moving between B&Bs and a spell on the streets. There were dark holes in his memory, holes burnt into his brain by alcohol. But now he was on the wagon. That was part of the deal when they offered him a room in this hostel. He would stop drinking. He was even going to quit smoking.

He looked around again. Yes, it was fine. This would be a good base for his relaunch into society.

He went downstairs and saw Carol, one of the women who ran the hostel.

‘Hi Jamie. What do you think?’

‘Of the room? I like it.’

‘Good, good.’ She smiled. ‘We’ve got another couple of people moving in today. One will be moving in to the room next to yours.’

He nodded. ‘I’m going to go out for a walk. Check out my surroundings.’

‘Sure.’

He went out and walked into the wind. It was cold and he was relieved that he wasn’t still out on the streets. He saw a man sitting in the doorway of an abandoned shop. The man nodded at him, recognising a fellow spirit; another person who had fallen on hard times. But Jamie was on his way up. He felt a stab of guilt, knowing that soon he would again be part of the world that walked past the homeless without a glance. He told himself he would never forget what it was like to have nothing, but secretly hoped he would forget.

He walked down to the river and found an empty bench, then sat looking at the choppy water. He didn’t want to cross the river; he didn’t like crossing to the north of the Thames any more. That way lay the past, and a flat that had been gutted by fire. Two flats. The Newtons’, and his and Kirsty’s.