I can smell the money from her, and she is across the street. I don’t even need to look at her to know she is wearing clothes worth more than a month’s worth of food and drink for me.

“Hey, mister!”

This street — this whole part of the city — doesn’t suit her, she is conspicuous. Not a victim-in-waiting, but someone you wouldn’t be surprised has become a victim — and she is wary, keeping her handbag close to her chest. Of all the places in this city, she is least likely to be mugged here.

She is waving at me, and I ignore her. My feet won’t work more than a shuffle today, so I can’t run or even stride away from her. It has been days since I’ve eaten more than a few discarded chips, and the weakness feels like dozens of concrete and iron blocks chained to my ankles. I ram my hands into my pockets and find there isn’t even an empty booze bottle to fling at her. Keeping my head down, I carry on, pretending I didn’t look right at her.

The buildings surrounding us are hollow, dark facsimiles of dwellings. The windows are empty or blocked off by plywood. Even the graffiti is sparse, a few tags belonging to kids passing through. Junkies don’t even use the derelict buildings. There used to be some squatters, but they didn’t stay for long.

“Mister! I’d really like to talk to you,” she says. Her smell surrounds me, makes me flinch now that she is a few feet away.

“Fuck off,” I say.

Undaunted, she continues to follow. I want to lash out. That would stop her pursuit, only to bring a whole load more problems. The police and I have not been good friends for many years, as far as I can remember. They don’t come here at all from what I have been able to see, so I am safe, but they would come in huge swarms if a pretty, young rich person were attacked by a man bundled in layers of threadbare clothes.

“Will you talk to me for money?” she says.

Dammit. My stomach rumbles in answer, betraying me. Money for food, money for booze. I want to forego the food and go straight to numbing myself into oblivion. Yet I can’t; if I want to drink, I have to eat. My desire for destruction isn’t strong enough to overcome the urge to live. So, at least some of any money I get will go to buying food.

I look over her head, to one of the empty windows along the street. Something pale moves against the darkness, catching the grey autumn light. Its curiosity is distracting; the glimpse of avid grey eyes pulls my attention from the earnest face of this young woman, smiling at me. She doesn’t notice my split attention. Or she doesn’t care.

“How much?” I say. The less I engage, the shorter this encounter will be. The thing in the window has moved on, but I still can’t tear my attention away. It will not be alone.

She blinks at me, as though confused. I roll my eyes, even though it’s obvious the people she knows would have danced around the subject with euphemisms or simple evasion. You don’t get anything around here by being coy.

I stare at her, watching her process the question.

“How much?” I say again when it has dawned on her.

“Fifty pounds,” she says with remarkable conviction.

Her conviction wavers a little when I thrust my hand at her, palm up. My fingers poke from the open fingers of a tattered glove. The folds of my skin show up as traceries of black, dirt I don’t have the ability to get rid of, the same goes for my uneven nails. To her credit, she doesn’t back up, but the easy smile has curdled, verging on a grimace of disgust. With the kind of care an archaeologist treats the wrappings of a mummy, she reaches into her handbag and retrieves her purse. She hands me three uncreased notes, two twenty pounds and a ten. More stupid than I thought. Before she snaps it shut and puts it away, I see more money nestling within the purse.

“Whatchoo want to know, girlie?” I say and cram the money into my trouser pocket.

“Before we start, I’d like to introduce myself, I am Beatrice—” I drift off, the double-barrelled surname and working for a newspaper mean nothing to me. “I would like to know more about the homeless, how your life is.”

“You think I’m homeless?”

“Well, you ...”

I’m amused by her stammering. I don’t laugh. I stare through her, my expression unmoving. Now she has my full attention, she is squirming, the confidence has evaporated.

“I look like a fuckin’ drunk who’s slept on the streets? Cos I am. It’s fucking horrible. Cold and wet all the time. Hoping the fucker lying down near you isn’t going to arsefuck you in the night,” I say. Despite the horrible details I’m giving her, she looks relieved.

“So other homeless people are a problem?”

“Mostly not. As long as you don’t fuck around with them. If you’re good to them, they’re good to you, or you just stay out of their way. People who look like you or the fucking coppers are much worse.’

“Do the police harass you a lot?”

She thinks I haven’t noticed her skim over the dig at her. This conversation is more diverting than I expected. Her youth and intelligence make her arrogant. She has a certain canniness that arouses my interest; being straight and quick with the money was a master stroke. There was a good chance she would have made an excuse about having no money on her or needing to go to a cash machine and then jumped in a car and disappeared to her expensive flat. Defying my expectations was a good move, not that I’m sure it was a conscious one.

I’m still not comfortable with talking to her. I want my money. I want to find somewhere that doesn’t care how I look or smell to take my money. My stomach feels like it’s flattened out and is pushing under my lungs. The shape of it is moulding itself to my insides, all the better to squeeze more misery from me.

“I’m better at hiding than most,” I say. “I try to stay away from the city centre, but sometimes you just have to be there, and you find yourself short a few pence for something. The coppers get twitchy about us being too close to people with money.”

Most of my time is spent here, though. I slink through the empty buildings without much incident. I try not to be here at night. There’s still no one who comes here, but I don’t like being here when it’s dark.

“Are you saying you don’t beg often?” she says.

“I’ll ask for some money when I can. No sense in missing an opportunity. Somebody’s bound to have some change they’re not using. I don’t often get the chance to.”

“How long have you been homeless? If you don’t mind me asking?”

I smile. Her deference is strange and doesn’t fit her; she was much better when she was asking direct questions. It’s not a bad question and I have no reason to hide.

My confidence wavers. There’s a blank spot that I did not notice until I went looking for it. I don’t recall when I became homeless. I don’t recall what my life was like before this. Not just a simple hole, a huge void, impenetrable and without answers.

I know I’ve been on these streets for years, but there had to be something before that. There is no way I could have appeared fully-formed in this part of the city. My knowledge and my level of education tell me there was a life before I found myself shuffling the streets, avoiding the police and fights with other homeless people. I’ve formed many alliances too, after I have performed favours big and small. The history, my previous existence is nowhere to be found in my memory, and it is an unsettling absence. Why can’t I reach it?

It’s my turn to stammer and her earnest expression evaporates. It is a slow process—her knitted brows relax, her wide brown eyes narrow, and a smile extends over her mouth. She parts her lips, letting me see the results of expensive dental work.

The place from which my confidence fled is now filled by fear. I have learned to recognise dangerous situations and to avoid them. This woman has trapped me, and I need to get away. She grabs my arm, her grip stronger than I can break free from. The hunger, still squeezing my insides, extends itself out, entering my arms and my hands, leaving me feebly attempting to squirm free of her fingers.

Something small and pale appears in an empty doorway, attracted to my struggles. The thing is behind the woman, so she isn’t aware of it. Although I don’t think she would have seen it if our positions were reversed. Even if she did, she would probably think it was a stray child, wandered into this place from a neglectful family home. In passing it might look like a ten-year-old girl, but I know it isn’t. The flat eyes are a grey colour no human has ever had. Its hair, the colour of ash, is utterly unnatural. Other details are obvious after a few moments: deformations and growths.

When this thing smiles at me, the teeth are crooked and jammed into grey gums as though by an entity that doesn’t understand how human mouths function. The overcrowded mouth should be wet and overflowing with drool, but it is dry as parchment, and the gums have a sanded matte look because no moisture has ever touched them. More have arrived, all grinning. I made the mistake of staring too long.

I flick my eyes from each smile, the implications of each expression churning my guts. I want to get away, but even in my panic and fear, I don’t have the strength.

“I thought so. I’ve been looking for you for months,” she says. “Do you know the number of smelly vagrants I’ve had to talk to? It’s built up a strange, interesting story, but I’ll be showering for years to get the stench off my skin. I need to burn most of the clothes I’ve worn in the last month alone.”

Another small figure appears in another window and stares at us. I don’t know how many others have appeared and are watching from windows and doors behind me. They must be there because that’s how they work.

“I’m sorry about that shit, but I don’t know what you’re talking about, love,” I say, and I’m shocked at how high-pitched my voice is.

“You’re the subject of a lot of stories. Most of it sounds like superstitious nonsense, but I think you’re someone who is worth having around.”

“What are you talking about? I have to go.”

“Yes, you do, but we can’t have someone as special as you disappearing back into the city. Now I’ve found you, there’s an opportunity. A huge opportunity.”

“Here. Have your money back,” I say and shove the folds of cash back at her.

She laughs and shakes her head.

“You can keep that and there’s more to come. Proving that the Lizard Man is real and that I found him. You’re my evidence. I’m taking you with me.”

I look around the doorways and unglazed windows. There are clusters of grey creatures, watching us, pitiless eyes avid with a hunger I don’t comprehend. From what I’ve seen of them, I don’t want to understand their motivations.

“You’re talking shit. The Lizard Man doesn’t exist,” I say, desperately lying, hoping she will believe me and go away.

“A lot of us thought you were an urban myth. The man without a past, who appeared one day on the streets.”

“There’s no such thing as magic,” I say, still all too aware of the crowding things in the building openings. Some of them spill out of first- and second-story windows, to crawl along the outside walls, heads tilted and turned at angles I find it hard to look at.

“I don’t think there’s anything magical about you.” Her smile is sly, hiding something without truly hiding it. “There are some things, though. Come with me. We need to talk more in-depth about this.”

“There’s nothing you can offer me.”

“That’s not true. We both know that’s not true. You have almost nothing. If it weren’t for your clothes, you would have nothing. I don’t care what you do with the money I give you. You can destroy your liver, go on a fucking cruise, start a family. As long as I get you.”

I don’t know which I’m more afraid of, this woman, wielding money like a net, or the gradually encroaching grey things oozing from the buildings in greater numbers, eager to be close. If the woman knew about the things she would use them as a bargaining chip, or more effectively use them as a bargaining chip; the longer I resist her, the greater the danger.

Attacking the woman is still out of the question. I can’t outrun her. The heavy, sapping hunger hanging in my torso has devoured most of my strength. Even the consideration of running is making me feel faint. The smell of her perfume, expensive as it is, is annoying me, making it hard to think.

“Okay,” I say.

“Great!” The slyness and the threat melt away from her expression, replaced by the façade of guileless enthusiasm. She loops her arm around my elbow and wrinkles her nose. “My car is parked a few streets away. What’s wrong?”

I’m looking at the things, some of them close enough to reach out and grab us. They have all stopped moving, shocked into inaction by the woman pulling me along the street. Some of those further away have already started to retreat into dark windows. Behind us empty doorways gape dumbly. The closest creatures blink just as dumbly at us as we pass.

“Nothing. I’m not used to being kidnapped,” I say.

She gives me a mock-hurt pout. “That’s not very nice. Kidnappers don’t pay their captives, after all.”

“Pulling me off the street when I don’t want to sounds like kidnapping to me. Money or not.”

“Well, you probably think a half bottle of whisky constitutes a nutritious lunch. I severely doubt your situation assessment is terribly reliable.”

“It’s probably better than yours. I’ve lived on these streets for a long time.”

“Yet you can’t remember how long you’ve been here or how you got here. I’m willing to admit I could be wrong about who you are, and you could have found yourself here a week ago. Although looking at you, and given the smell, you’ve been wandering the streets for much longer than that.”

Before we turn the corner off the street, I turn back. It is deserted again. Once we walk away, there will be no one there. I still want to go back, get away from this woman, but I’m committed. I’ve been outmanoeuvred and I’m already tired.

The buildings around us already have more life, fewer windows are empty or boarded up. Doors, still with cracked paint, are in use. Parked cars, rare as they are, sit close to some curbs. There are no people to be seen yet — they either avoid this place or stay indoors.

Soon we join with other people, all walking confidently, not staring at the street and the buildings as though they are going to ambush them. I don’t feel as comfortable. I don’t feel comfortable as a rule. Despite my reluctance to stay back in the derelict street, I hated being there as much as I detest being here, around all these people, surrounded by properties in use.

This is the kind of place I could escape the woman. It would be a simple matter of slipping away and using the busier road as a way of slowing or stopping her pursuit. Even the idea of it makes me tired, however, and I plod along behind her like an abused dog, desperate to get away, but tied to her. She doesn’t look at me, certain, and correct, that I will stay with her.

I can tell it’s her car even before she pulls out her fob and unlocks it. When I reach for the passenger’s side door handle, she holds up her hand to stop me. I wait while she runs to the boot and fishes out a tatty old cover. She carries this bundle past me, opens the door, and drapes the cover over the seat.

“There,” she says and indicates I should get in.

The sense of expensive luxury I get from the gleaming exterior stays with me as I settle into the plush seat. The dashboard catches the light as much as the bodywork. The air carries the scents of good leather and even better perfume. It is not a new car; there are some indicators, scuffs on the polished dashboard, smears on the windshield, and tiny cracks on the driver’s side seat leather, that tell me she has had it for a while.

“Remember your seatbelt,” she says as she settles at the wheel.

I struggle a bit with the seatbelt. I can’t remember the last time I was in a car. That frustrating blank in my memory again. I know I have been in a car, many, in fact, I just can’t remember when or for what reason. All I can recall is the endless walking of streets.

Once I negotiate with the seatbelt, she puts the car into gear and pulls away.

“Where do you live?” I say, after a few minutes. I want to distract myself from the feeling that we’re moving too fast through the city.

“That’s not important,” she says.

“Aren’t I going to your place?”

She laughs, dismissive, derisive; the façade of pleasantness falls away again. She recovers her mask quickly and smiles.

“As important as you are, my fiancé would be very unhappy to find you in our house. And, really, no offence, I wouldn’t feel safe having a strange old vagrant there, either. I have something else in mind for you.”

I know the hotel. They have chased me away many times. It’s not the most expensive establishment, but it isn’t a cheap chain either.

The man behind the desk frowns in recognition as we enter the reception. I am tempted to give him the finger, but I control myself. Beatrice smiles at him, pulling his attention away from me.

“Good afternoon. I’d like a room for my friend here,” she says.

The man’s eyes flick in my direction, his frown now clouded with uncertainty. I understand his confusion. I’m still not sure what’s going on.

“You know this man’s a vagrant,” the man says.

“That’s why I want to get him a room. I’m afraid he is going to die on the streets. This is a humanitarian mission.”

“I’m sure there are hostels and homeless shelters that will be more suitable.”

“You’re refusing service? Let me talk to your manager.” She leans over and peers at his nametag. “You see, Greg, I’m a reporter and I’d hate for some bad publicity to cause him, you, or the hotel any inconvenience.”

Greg stares at her. He’s trying to work out if she is joking or not.

“I have plenty of money for any damages incurred, but I doubt my friend will be interested in doing any damage.” She looks at me. “Will you?”

I consider telling her I’ll piss on the carpet and take a shit on the bed. To anyone further away, it would look like her face is relaxed and mostly it is, but I can see tiny hard lines around her mouth and eyes. I’ve been trying to avoid her eyes, as they have all the pity of a starving bear. I have no idea what she would do to me if I went against her; not tear me limb from limb, but she strikes me as someone imaginative enough to make me suffer in innumerable ways.

“I just want a warm room and a soft bed,” I say, tapping into some honesty.

“See?” she says to the man at the desk. “I’ll take him to his room and then I’ll go and get him some clean clothes while he eats.”

The man works quickly, asking relevant questions and taking her payment. I don’t look at him as we walk away, but I know he is scowling at me. The satisfaction at being able to stick it to someone who has threatened to phone the police on me is tempered by the knowledge that I’m at the mercy of someone who could destroy me more effectively than any copper.

Clean walls and carpets remind me of my dishevelled state. The air has the faint tang of bleach underneath the potpourri scent. Our footfalls are muted in the corridor leading to the room.

She opens the door with a card and ushers me into the room.

I feel uncomfortable in the large clean space, brightly lit from the large window allowing in the afternoon sunlight. She is looking me up and down, her lips pursed in appraisal.

“A braver person would try to measure you, but despite missing a few meals, I’d say you were pretty average size,” she says.

She goes into the bathroom and looks around. She makes a small noise of satisfaction.

“You should treat yourself to a shower. There’s a cosy-looking dressing gown in there. I’ll be back in an hour. Remember, someone will be along with your food.”

Without waiting for an answer, she leaves. I stand in the middle of the room and wait for movement.

*     *     *
In the hour-and-a-half I waited for her to come back, I ate a bland sandwich, showered, and watched television that was gibberish to me. I can’t bring myself to sit down, I’ve paced the room the whole time. Travelling without travelling. I don’t know if it is helping, I don’t know if I’m safe here, I’m not willing to test it.

“What are you doing?” Beatrice says when she walks in.

“You got all that stuff for me?” I say, and point at what she is holding.

She is carrying an unwieldy bunch of bags from a variety of shops. She dumps them on the floor at the foot of the bed and gives me a hard stare. I weather it by peering into the array of bags.

“I realised I’ll have to go with you to get shoes. Not so easy to work out shoe sizes by sight,” she says.

“You should’ve asked,” I say and tell her my shoe size.

“That’s a random thing to know considering what you don’t know about yourself.”

I shrug. I don’t have an explanation, and until a few moments ago I hadn’t considered it a strange thing to know about myself.

There are more questions coming and I grab up the bags and scurry into the bathroom, back tense as though she is going to plunge a knife into my neck. I lock the door, but don’t feel any relief. I drown out what she asks by loudly rustling the bags. At best it’s a slight delay. Any delay is desirable.

Her eye was good, and I pull on comfortable underwear and trousers. One of the shirts is too big, a t-shirt is too small. I’m drawn to a heavy Aran jumper that sparks something like a memory, or a shadow of a memory. An impression of recognition. Even as it scares me, I am drawn to the garment. The weight and warmth sooth my worries, a feeling akin to confidence fills me.

It is a shame I have to put on the multiple pairs of socks and the taped-together shoes.

For the second time today, I look at myself in the mirror. I still don’t recognise the face or the eyes. My eyes have changed, though. Earlier, when I caught sight of myself before I went into the shower, the filthy, tangle-bearded creature staring back at me was feral, the eyes sharp with the fear engendered by living on the streets.

My face, now, is clean, but the unruly beard is still there, the streaks of grey amongst the brown more prominent. There is still fear in my eyes, they are still bloodshot, but I can see the intelligence, a shrewdness beyond mere animal cunning, reflected at me. An idea is forming, sparked by nothing I can name, yet familiar all the same.

She is sitting on the edge of the bed, idly flicking through the channels on the television, when I leave the bathroom. I stride over to her. Her surprise is obvious, though fleeting, and she gives me another appraising gaze.

“You did a good job on the old duds, there, Beatrice,” I say. “It’ll be spot-on when I’ve got a good pair of shoes on my feet.”

“I think we can wait—” she says.

“That’s where I think you’re wrong. I’ll be much more comfortable with shoes and socks on. You have to admit, this looks weird.”

“Yeah ...”

“And they still smell. All this nice stuff on and my feet are still manky enough that it’s filling the fucking room.”

“I’d rather—”

“We can get to whatever you want to do once I’ve got some good loafers on, and I’ve shaved.”

Her confusion is satisfying. More satisfying than I had expected. I don’t know what her agenda is, but now I have one of my own and it supersedes whatever she has planned.

She looks far younger now; the confidence of money and knowledge made her look more mature. Her mouth works in silent dithering. Does she feel quite as safe being alone with me anymore? I hope not; I don’t want her to feel unsafe, I want her off-balance enough to do what I want. There’s nothing to be gained if she bolts.

“And some good grub,” I say.

“Haven’t you already eaten?”

“I said good. That sandwich was okay, but it’s put me in the mood for something better. Something big.”

I walk towards the door and pull on the jacket she bought. I’m going to walk out of the room no matter what.

“Hang on,” she says. “I need to tell my fiancé I’ll be a bit late.”

She pulls her mobile phone out and dials. I tune out the conversation; I don’t care what she says to him. What interests me is how tense the exchange is. Her annoyance is evident before she even starts talking, and she taps her foot and frowns in a rhythmic fashion. There is straining hostility in her voice from her greeting, which bursts free as they carry on. The tone is calcified, formed like a callus over a long time. I can’t hear the person on the other end, but I know he resents her job.

Her rage changes her again. She has the look of a soldier who is involved in a long campaign that has no prospect of ending. I can smell the change in her; the fury has made her sweat, washed away the coating of fancy perfume. Every visible muscle is tense, and the scrape of her teeth is the soundtrack to the vortex of negativity at her core.

The only thing stopping me from smirking is the thing clinging to the outside of the window. Its cracked, grey skin presses against the glass, ugly lumps and warts crushed into even more unsightly forms. I can’t read its expression the way I can Beatrice’s; the grey eyes rove, scanning for something.

I look away, eager to get out of the room. She might notice the change in my body language, but I’m sure I can bluff a response.

“Fine,” she says, shoving the phone back into her handbag. “Let’s go.”

I leave the room as a second thing crawls into view, this one more hideously deformed than the first.

She is too caught up in her own frustration to notice my unease. I relax more the further we get from the room. I am striding by the time we are walking to her car.

*     *     *
The restaurant is in a different class to the hotel. I feel hesitant about walking in, the residual distrust of these places hard to slough off. My face is a bit hot and itchy from the shave, the lotion and shaving cream she bought allaying the discomfort.

We have already gone to the good shoe place. The shoes and socks feel good. It was cathartic to toss the old footwear in a bin, a ritual. I have occupied this world before.

The maître d’ pauses and squints at me when we enter the restaurant. At first, I think he is going to start an argument or object to my presence, but there is no hostility. He looks confused as though he is trying to remember something.

I understand his feeling, because even though I have never been around this particular establishment, I recognise him. I hide my surprise better than he does. Perhaps it helps that I don’t know how I could recognise him, or I am just better at hiding it.

All this takes place in the matter of a few seconds, and he smiles at us, professional, courteous, and ready to serve. He knows Beatrice and they talk easily. There is no need for her to reserve a table and he leads us to one at the window. He beckons one of the waiting staff, wishes us a good meal, and floats off back to his position at front of house.

Beatrice orders a small glass of wine, and she and the server look at me. I look at the wine list. It holds no mysteries to me, and I order a cabernet sauvignon from an excellent vintage.

I had expected her to be more surprised by that; instead, she nods, as though she expected it. She says nothing to me while we look over the menu.

She foregoes the starter while I have braised beef cheek in a fruity sauce accompanied by baby vegetables drizzled in a buttery and herby sauce. Even a few hours ago I would have scooped the discs of meat up in my hand and crammed them into my mouth. Instead, I cut them into morsels and nip them off the fork with my teeth. The meat is so soft that it is almost a paste.

I order a venison dish next. She requests something with monk fish, and she switches to sparkling water. I finish my wine and order another, but I drink a whole glass of water before it arrives.

“You’re very comfortable in this setting,” she says as we wait for the main course. There is a slight smirk on her face.

I lean back in the seat, stare at her for a few moments, and turn my attention to the street. It is late enough in the day that there is a river of people out there, the dizzying assortment of humanity that bustles around in the mid-to-late afternoon, eager to get out of work or school, or they are journeying somewhere else neither work nor home. The motivations are as tangled and random as the skin and hair colours.

“There’s a woman somewhere in the crowd who is on her way to work,” I say.

“That could apply to a lot of those people.”

“But that’s the thing. She has already been to work. Since early this morning she has been working a hard job, but now, when people she is sharing a bus or a train with are going home, she is going to another demanding job. She will look at other women who are going to spend the evening with their children, while her kids won’t see her until perhaps the weekend. There may be a partner, there may be a relative, a friend who has to take care of her children. The children might already be self-sufficient, probably too young. A whole ecosystem of fatigue and longing and desperation.”

“Have you been watching people for all this time?”

“I don’t need to. It’s so obvious that it hurts. Yet there is a whole strata of society whose life is predicated on ignoring it, or actively lying about its existence.”

“There are costs to living in these times. Not everyone can be rich. That would be madness.”

“Would it? I don’t think you truly believe that. How many articles have you produced actively vilifying the poor, the struggling?”

“I write what my research tells me.”

“That research. How extensive is it? I could name the two or three sources you go to constantly.”

I wait. She says nothing, sips from her glass, frowns.

“A group of sources corroborating and feeding each other. There are lots of them, but you haven’t felt the need to go beyond the ones you’ve settled on. Yes, you read other books, but they are all coloured by your own prejudices. Those cosy conceptions built on your world of luxury. How much are your parents worth?”

“Do you know my parents?” She jumps on this with the desperation of an addict after going into withdrawal.

“How could I know your fucking parents? I’m just a smelly tramp. I’m the Lizard Man who is supposed to be able to appear from nowhere and can cling to the outside walls of buildings. The one who swallows rats whole.”

I lean forward, putting my elbows on the table. She wilts, pushes away from me, head bowed. Her gaze goes to the floor but doesn’t stay there, and she looks at me again for a moment. She flinches as though she has been burned.

The server comes into view, and I lean back, relaxed. I take a drink and roll it around in my mouth, while I swirl what is left in the glass. Beatrice takes several beats to realise I’m not looking at her anymore.

I give the server a warm smile and thank her. Beatrice looks at me in disbelief.

“You’re considering running out on me, aren’t you?” I say when I start eating, without looking up from the plate.

Nothing from her.

“You were so eager to have me and now here I am. It would be such a waste of time to abandon all that work. So many months combing the streets, talking to other homeless people. All while getting a precious column in each week. Is it more than one? How many outlets do you work for?” I say.

Her breathing is heavier. The smell of sour sweat has replaced the flowery perfume. When I look at her, she grimaces. She has not eaten.

“This isn’t how you thought this would go. Do you want to hear a confession? I didn’t expect this either.” I laugh. “But now we’re here and you still have all those big questions. You were going to ask me a few smaller things about how hard it is on the streets, what other people are like, who helps us, that kind of thing. Then you were going to try something big, shocking. Like, what happened to all the money?”

This is new information to me. It is correct, I used to be wealthy. I don’t know how much money I used to have, but it was a lot. I’m feeling too confident to let my surprise show. I have no idea what the answer is. I used to have vast amounts of money and now I only have the fifty pounds she gave me.

“You’re admitting you are—” the name she uses is alien to me, not unfamiliar, but it doesn’t belong to me.

“I’m not admitting anything. This is simply what you were looking for: a conversation. I might be able to offer some information, but not now. Not here.”

“But you said ...”

“We all say things in the light of one context only for that context to change. The context has changed, Beatrice.”

“I think this is over.”

“No. That’s not going to happen. We’re both committed, now, Beatrice. This is now a journey. There’s a destination in the distance, I can’t quite make out what it is, but I so want to get there. You’ve lost your nerve, as I would expect from someone of your background, but you are as locked in, perhaps even more so, than I am.”

“I don’t understand anything you’re saying.”

“You’re not a good liar when you’re under pressure, are you? That useful talent you’ve nurtured since you were a teenager deserts you when things get tough.”

She blinks at me, waits a fraction of a second too long.

“Seriously, you’re not making any sense. I have to go. Tristan is expecting me.”

I know who her fiancé is, his aristocratic background, and what business he was slotted into when his time came. The knowledge has been there before I met Beatrice. As was my knowledge of her, and the vast wealth her family has. Always there in my mind waiting to be found, just neglected.

“You are going,” I say.

She looks worried, afraid, and I laugh again.

“You think I’m going to harm you? I’m almost insulted at how much you’ve misjudged me. You don’t have any idea of my motivations, but, be assured, violence isn’t part of my task. And even if I were, how stupid do you think I am that I would do it in such a public place?” I say.

“I have no idea what you’re capable of. You’ve been babbling nonsense for the past few minutes.”

“Holding on to that, are you? Fine. If you need that comfort, it’s of no consequence to me. Are we going to have dessert?”

She looks down at her plate, the sauce cooling and forming a cracked skin on her food; the fish looks gelid and unpalatable. She pushes it away, her face a twist of nausea. My plate is clear, a few streaks of dark sauce all that are left.

“No? That’s a pity. I understand the strawberry and pepper mille-feulle is a rapture on the plate,” I say with a shrug. “Come. I don’t think Tristan would like to be kept waiting any longer.”

I stand up and watch her. The server hurries over.

“Would you like the cheque?” she says.

“That would be wonderful,” I say. “My companion will pay.”

The server ducks away and is back a minute or so later. Beatrice pays by card, giving the minimum tip possible. She would not have given anything if she was with anyone else. Shame is a weapon I did not know I could wield.

When the server has gone, Beatrice gathers her belongings and we walk out into the street. I saunter next to her, while she walks as though her legs are made of unarticulated lengths of wood. She looks around as we walk, her gaze darting.

She still does not react to the occasional things I see, crouching close to the walls, away from the throng. They stare at me, their misshapen bodies huddled as though they can hide from me. I know them, I understand what they want, and I know the reason Beatrice is blind to them.

I lean in companionably and say, “The police would have helped you before I was dressed like this. If you say anything to them or anyone, I’ll just laugh and nothing else happens. You get a patronising pat on the head, and we have a small delay in getting to your car.”

She stares at me, unwavering. I can see the question forming in the frown, the way her lips become thin as she presses them together. In fairness, I don’t know if what I said was true. Things are appearing in my head without an apparent source. The person she sought out this morning is not the person accompanying her to her car.

At the car, she hesitates, hand in her bag.

“This is still what you want. I’m going to answer every question you have. I told you I wasn’t going to do it at the hotel or the restaurant. Now I we know where I will talk to you,” I say.

“You’ll tell me everything? Even what happened to all those children?”

“Everything. Nothing will be taboo. As long as we do it in your house.”

Another short hesitation, but she is tantalised by the prospect of every sordid thing I can tell her. Only the most noxious, festering bait will attract this scavenger.

*     *     *
The building she stops at is old and huge. The stonework has been repaired expertly over the decades and the modern windows are camouflaged to look antique. A lot of money can be used for subtle taste.

The building and the rest of the area are gravid with money. I could grab the air and find crumpled high-value notes in my fists. It has been a long time since I have been close to this kind of wealth. It is exhilarating.

I have to tamp down my excitement. Beatrice is already nervous and me vibrating with eagerness will only serve to unsettle her more. If she breaks down in the street it will be inconvenient. I want nothing to slow me down now. Dragging her into the building will be an annoyance.

She hasn’t talked to me since we got into the car and that is fine. There will be plenty to say soon. A young woman walking a dog passes us, nodding a greeting at Beatrice and looking at me in puzzlement. I smile at the woman. Beatrice’s face doesn’t move.

“That was very rude. Your neighbour was being sociable,” I say once the woman is out of hearing.

“She’s a nosy bitch and she’s let that animal shit on the street outside my building too many times.”

“Still, a bit much to completely ignore her.”

She ignores me too and opens the door to the building and we walk up to the first floor. There is one door on the landing. I am impressed. The stairway and the landing are clean and well-lit, the walls painted in a neutral colour. The landing is larger than some houses. The flat must be a huge U-shaped place that takes up the rest of the floor. Not the biggest place, but a decent urban space for the work these two do. It is the smallest property they both own and minute by the standards of their respective families.

The door is a simple dark wood affair. When she opens it, I put my hand on it and feel the pressure of her attempting to slam it in my face. Earlier in the day she would have been able to shut me out even if I were trying to stop her. There is new strength in my arms that she can no longer overcome.

“You’re getting ruder,” I say and walk past her.

The hall is high and wide. I had expected another set of stairs, but there are three doorways. The doors to the left and right are closed. Ahead is an arched opening double the width of the other two doors. This leads into a dark dining room, big enough to accommodate twenty people. Behind the long table is a high window, looking out onto the city.

“Where is your fiancé?” I say.

“Probably in his study.”

“I think we should meet him. Then we can all have a good chat.”

She hangs her jacket on the hook next to the front door. I consider leaving my jacket, too, but I don’t think it will be necessary.

She leads me through one of the doors, into a corridor, and to the last door on the end. They either have good taste or they paid someone a lot of money to have good taste for them. I can’t make any value judgments on their personal tastes or abilities, but I would be surprised if they put so much effort into making the flat look tasteful.

The door opens before she can reach for the handle. Tristan is tall, athletic, brown hair swept away from his face. His gaze is sharp and darts to me seconds after he opens the door. He has a lot of his father in him; those dark eyes are the most obvious. The luxurious hair is all his mother.

“Who the fuck is this?” he says, leaning aggressively towards Beatrice.

She pushes him back by the chest. The amount of muscle and its definition tells me he spends at least two hours in the gym every day, probably more, along with guzzling down steroids.

Beatrice introduces me and he frowns.

“That can’t be right. He disappeared years ago, after the trafficking thing came out,” Tristan says.

“I tried to avoid punishment. It didn’t work,” I say.

“There was a helicopter crash.”

“You don’t need to tell me. It was harder than you might think to stage that. Finding people who would keep their mouths shut is a tough task, especially in the timeframe I had.”

“It’s him, I’m sure of it,” Beatrice says. “He’s going to let me interview him.”

“Why are you talking to me, then? I have shit to do.”

“Because I want to talk to you. There’s something you need to hear,” I say.

He straightens up to his full height, crosses his arms, and smirks at me. There’s a toxic cloud of cynicism around him strong enough to catch in my throat.

I smile back, plain and guileless.

“What do you have to say to me that I could need to hear, old man?” he says.

“Check your computer,” I say.

He looks back at the dual screens glowing the large desk. Under the desk there is a huge box that emits a steady violet-blue light across the floor.

Even though he has turned his back on me, I can see the confidence drain from him. He sidles over to the desk and stares at the screens; I can now see his face, scrunched in confusion. A few jabs at the keyboard with his fingers change nothing on the screen. The stubborn box in the middle of the screen remains in place.

Beatrice jumps when he whirls around, fury contorting his formerly handsome features.

“What the fuck is this?” he screams. His voice has intimidating volume. “What have you done?”

“That’s what we’re going to talk about,” I say. “Beatrice, where can we do that?”

He moves with commendable speed and has me by the throat before Beatrice can scream. He slams my back into the wall, jarring my spine. His hands are strong enough to press my windpipe shut and cut off the blood supply to my brain. My skull feels like it is about to explode in short order. I feel the pressure on my eyeballs.

I laugh. A horrible gurgling sound under the circumstances. This is still too funny.

“Do you think injuring me or killing me will undo what’s been done to your computer? Or either of your finances?” I say, my voice rendered harsh and thin.

The pressure on my throat lessens a bit. I am still pinned against the wall, his weight pressed against my oesophagus. Doubt waters down the rage in his eyes.

In what remains of my peripheral vision, I see Beatrice messing around on her phone.

“We have no money,” she says.

“That can’t be right,” Tristan says and lets me go.

After his own frantic activity on his phone, he looks at me, a desperate question etched around his eyes and mouth.

“You were going to take us somewhere we could talk about this civilly,” I say to Beatrice.

She opens a door across from Tristan’s study and we walk into a cosy living room. Shell-shocked, Tristan wanders in and drops onto the middle of the sofa, muttering something I can’t make out. Beatrice has not stopped staring at me since her phone search, but she manages to sit down with practiced ease.

She might be starting to understand what is happening.

“You might as well throw those phones away. They won’t be of any use to you again,” I say. “There are some people on their way to strip this place.”

“That can’t be done. My father—” Tristan says.

“You parents have already forgotten about you. I would rather have done this to them, but there are limits. This will still hurt them, just not as much as some would have liked.”

I remember the shock and disbelief when this happened to me. I was already desperate to escape the consequences of the horrendous things I had done and took advice from someone I would have been better to ignore. They will not be reborn, not the way I am, and in many ways I envy them. The work will drag me from this place.

“Before that, there are some new friends you will become very familiar with,” I say.

I go to the window and open it wide, letting a blast of chilly night air in. Several of The Scorched tumble into the living room and scuttle around, sniffing and pawing. Tristan and Beatrice rear away from the deformed creatures. Tristan starts crying.

The process is well under way.

Someone knocks at the front door and I accompany Beatrice to answer it. Tristan slithers onto the floor, hands clamped to the sides of his face, loud sobs echoing off the walls.

Beatrice’s expression is stony, stoic. She has not looked at me since The Scorched first poured into the flat. The threads to her old life are severing; soon even her memories will feel like someone else’s.

The four things standing outside the door look like men at a cursory glance. The lack of nostrils, crooked wide mouths, and haphazardly placed eyes show they are not human. They push past us and into the flat, and I walk out. I look back as, head bowed, Beatrice closes the door again.

Out in the street I can feel the memories scabbing over. Something new is coming. I want to weep, but the feeling passes.